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It was dark inside the volcano.
Gradually he became aware of reality again, in the way that a person who loses sensation in a limb feels pins and needles until they regain it. With awareness came the pain. Pain everywhere, dull and ceaseless. He felt with certainty that a fair portion of his arm had been splattered over the far wall. And that was the least of his problems.
Well, far somewhere. Given that it was rather impossible to see. He tried growing eyes with photoreceptors more suited to the dark, and only succeeded in sprouting a single, measly eyespot on the back of his hand. Just enough to see that he was sitting in a cramped pocket of space, presumably buried deep within the greater caldera. Barely large enough for him to fit in. An attempt at manifesting a host of tendrils to find weaknesses in the stone came to the same result as before.
Were his powers still so depleted? Just how much time had passed, between...
Of course. All was lost. Akrotiri and its failures returned to him, sudden and heavy, like the swing of the executioner’s axe. Ion leaned back against the volcanic rock and wished that closing his eyes made the slightest difference.
***
In the absence of trying to see, he began to detect a faint, metallic sound from beyond the walls. But what could that be, so close to the magma chambers of a dormant volcano?
“Impressive. You were being literal about not letting me out.”
It was just a theory. But the noise stopped.
Ion continued. “And to think, you could have been the leader of your religion by now.” He smiled, though there was no one around to see it. “What was left of it, anyway. I wonder. How does that make you feel?”
Silence. He waited for a while longer, but it came to nothing, and so he drifted off into meditation.
***
After what could have been a minute, an hour, or a day—a voice broke through his meditations. It sounded faintly tinny.
”Or,” intoned the voice, which, despite the quality, bore an unmistakable resemblance to the one that had landed him here. “I might have been excommunicated for my heresy.” It gave the word excommunicated the same weight and inflection that most would give executed.
”Oh? Not for continuing conversations in a nonlinear fashion?” Ion opened his eyes a sliver, useless as it was. “Well, well. You Mekhanites really are more tolerant than I believed. In old Adí-üm you would be drawn and quartered for such a crime.”
(This was mostly facetious. For starters, no punishments so mundane would ever have been employed in the Deathless City.)
“Just the opposite, Sorcerer-King. You must forgive my inexperience. I don’t make a habit of conversing with monsters.”
“And yet, here we are.” He ran a hand over the rough stone underfoot. “Tell me, Mekhanite: how much time has passed since your glorious victory?”
“A substantial amount,” was the only response.
Ion sighed. With no useful answer forthcoming, he slipped back into meditation.
***
It was no respite. The events of that day replayed in his mind, circling the drain.
Nadox had been off on pilgrimage, and there was no telling what happened to Saarn. So hope remained, in a sense.
Within those who had taken his teachings to heart, Nälkä, too, would spring eternal. Body and soul. He had little doubt about that. So long as they willed it, whether it took a thousand years or ten, their triumph was inevitable. No setback could erase that eventuality.
But the fates of Orok and Lovataar, and all the rest present, had been clear enough. They had believed in him, from Klavigar to lowliest footsoldier of the Kalmaktama—and for what? To be undone by a simple ploy, knowing that their Ozi̮rmok was as fallible as any of the rulers winnowed in their wake? To see the culmination of their efforts blow away like so much ash in the wind?
Intolerable.
Which, in his world, was just another force to be borne.
Ion opened his eyes. (Just the two of them. He’d had no luck with a greater show of power.)
“What is your contingency?”
After a few moments, the priest’s voice rang back.
“Elaborate.”
“Your people pride yourselves on analysis. Just how long do you think this stone cage will hold me?”
“Immaterial. Your arrogance was your downfall, and it will be again.”
“If I were you, I would consider taking my own advice,” he replied, with venom. “I do believe you single-handedly caused the collapse of my empire and life's work, at the moment of our impending triumph. Have you ever faced the wrath of a widower?”
“Don’t play the martyr. Your consort was at least as monstrous as you are, and I haven’t the slightest sympathy for your matrimony.”
“I can describe, in great detail, all the ways I would turn your body inside-out.”
“With due respect, Sorcerer-King,” began the Mekhanite, in a grating monotone. “My mechanization is at ninety-six percent. I highly doubt you’ll be able to do much to this body, besides the most basic disassembly.”
Ion raised his eyebrows. The last time he laid eyes on the whelp, he looked a bit stiff, but still essentially fleshy. Even his taste buds could attest to that.
For the nth time now, he wondered how much time had passed between then and now.
***
The sound was back. From the wall behind him—a sort of clinking, like coins in a bag. Except more patterned, more regimented, with something deliberate to it.
“What are you doing?” he asked, on a whim.
The answer was surprisingly prompt. “Fine-tuning my hardware.”
“Don’t you have people for that?” Ion turned around with some difficulty, dislodging pebbles. “Others. Fellow-adherents. Comrades in arms. I assume you’ve heard of them.”
“The survivors are... wary, around me.” The priest paused. “I know the blueprints. This will be sufficient, as it has been.”
Ah. Weren’t as willing to come around to the necessity of your little heresy, were they? But in the crushing dark it was hard even to enjoy the viciousness of that thought.
“Such confidence. And you said you weren’t excommunicated.”
“I wasn’t. They commended me, and gave me over to my duty.” Was that a hint of bitterness? “But I was prepared. Did I not promise as much, before the droves of dead and dying?”
This time the silence stretched on for longer.
When he broke it, it was with a genuine question. “Did your people truly think to resist us?”
“Thought, belief.” The Mekhanite sounded dismissive. “I know better than to discuss theology with the likes of you. The fact of the matter, Sorcerer-King, is that we did.”
“Not forever,” Ion said simply, without regret or triumph. “We are all born of flesh, and to flesh we will return. Even you.”
“There is no ‘we,'" came the reply. “Only the word of MEKHANE, and the anathema, that which profanes it utterly.”
The conversation dropped abruptly.
***
After a time, his meditations began to yield visions of the outside world once more, and what lay beyond. They were confined to that which pertained directly to Nälkä, but that was enough for now.
In the grand scope of the cosmos he saw Yaldabaoth and its Archons, terrible as the day Ion had stood before them, but still metaphysical. They needed only to remain that way until the time of his escape.
Zooming in, he was mildly surprised to find new civilizations springing up in the aftermath of the Kalmaktama’s fall. More pleasing were those who had picked up the pieces and migrated, taking the word of Nälkä with them as they retreated into Europe, into the Caucasus, even into the everlasting winter of his homeland. Judging from their activities, it seemed likely that at least a century—possibly more—had passed since his demise.
But when he reached for his powers, they were still blunted beyond recognition. Only his immortality, and lack of need for food or water, functioned passively. Useless, in his current state. He could only hope that the visions were a sign of their slow return.
***
Upon his waking—for he had spent some time contemplating the efforts of his surviving followers—he spoke, half out of habit and half boredom.
“Mekhanite?”
There was no response.
After an unusually long pause, even for the nameless upstart, Ion began to wonder. Perhaps he had finally come to his senses and left.
It hardly meant anything to Ion. He surmised that with his newfound vista, even twoscore centuries of solitude could be bearable.
Still, without a distraction, his thoughts started to spiral. He found that he couldn’t gather the focus to return to his meditations. Was his self-control waning as well? That could not be borne. Powers were one thing, merely a manifestation. The will was another matter. Without the will to use it, all strength would be meaningless. Ion forced himself to concentrate...
...and found himself thinking of his father’s face. He’d never been able to picture it—had barely known the man, really, before being passed off to the slave market. But distantly he could recall strains of cradle-song in the vernacular, so different from the Daevite taught to them in the years to come, and the sound of a name other than the one the daeva had pressed on him.
Now he wondered whatever happened to the man who sired him. Had he been killed in their conquests? It was likely. The thought made him feel strangely raw.
And still his mind unspooled. He saw Lovataar, the sickle-moon curve of her smile, but with eyes sad as she beckoned to him. When she spoke the words came out soundless. Then there was Orok, silhouetted before the flames of his soul, sense of purpose repurposed for the cause that would lead him to his doom. Saarn, slipping away into the night, still the same girl that he had once called little sister. And Nadox, gazing back at Ion with a look of utter pity as he walked off into the desert.
No. He had not been touched by doubt while fleeing the authorities, not in the cascade of eternities that he had beheld during the Archons' trials, and certainly not now, in this miserable little hole—
“—or have you finally done the sensible thing and given up.”
Ion suddenly became aware of a familiar, droning voice from beyond the stone he leaned against. For some mad reason, he almost felt joy.
I suppose you would prefer for me to have renounced my existence in the time that you were gone. Or, failing that, just the religion that I founded.
“Given up what?”
“Attempting to converse."
His tone was so deadpan that Ion felt laughter bubble up. A little manic for his liking, but it felt good to laugh again. “Ah. I see. That’s your prerogative, isn’t it?” He composed himself quickly. “Speaking of which, I should ask where you went. Abandoning your duty so soon?”
“Nothing of the sort. I’m not so arrogant as to believe that I was the only thing keeping you here; more than the thousand tons of stone, and your own limitations.” The priest dipped into one of his odd silences. “No. I was… promoted.”
“For what?” Ion asked, amused. “Doing nothing?”
“Hardly. I was able to draft my own schematics, during your periods of dormancy. Progress on projects. It is the least I can do, to atone for my part in profaning the Goddess.”
For a moment, he wondered what it went on inside the Mekhanite’s mind. Neat and orderly, every part in its place, all of it ticking endlessly towards the ultimate goal and his cold, mechanical goddess, which were one and the same. It seemed like a wholly uninteresting place. And yet, he had shown himself capable of a surprising ruthlessness; a willingness to see things through to the end, no matter the cost. “Come to think of it… do you have a name? Unless you enjoy being thought of as indistinguishable from the others.”
The sound that followed was flat, drawn-out, with a metallic edge to it. A sigh?
“Take heed, Sorcerer-King. I have no intention of playing your games.”
Ion gasped in mock-offense. “You wound me. Perhaps this is beyond you, but a ruler must have some grasp of manners.”
“Of course. Which is why you chose to ask that now.” The voice took on a level, measured cadence. “But rest assured. Methods of corruption, conventional or otherwise, will have no effect on me.”
That raised an intriguing question. “...How sure of that are your fellow Mekhanites?”
“We know your limitations. And if I returned with the slightest sign of corruption, they have explicit instructions for my disassembly.”
Ion knew that he could go down this path, needle open the wound, say something like and how does that make you feel or that must be a terrible burden to bear. But all things considered, he decided he had no real reason to.
“In that case, they shouldn't worry. You’re quite hopeless. I’d wager I have as much chance of swaying you to our cause as you have of showing me the glory of your goddess.”
After a moment, the priest spoke again.
“It’s Basileios, for now. Likely until the turn of the century. The islanders get suspicious.”
Of course: they were still on Thera, after all. Ion supposed the populace was already well-infiltrated by the surviving Mekhanites, given who he was—though they couldn’t seriously believe that it would do any good once he managed to break free.
Which he would. All in good time.
***
And so the centuries spun on. Ion continued his meditations, which soon revealed new tidings. The diaspora and their settlements were coming along nicely, given the blow that had been dealt to them. As their husbandry of the flesh wound deep into the earth, so too did the word of Nälkä spread.
Slightly more concerning was the matter of Nadox. Instead of going to rally the diaspora, he seemed to have forged off on his own, having gathered a small following to mysterious ends. Ion’s vision was not so fine that he could glean the exact details of their philosophy, but he suspected that it did not run along Nälkän orthodoxy. The ragtag nature of the band made this clear enough. He even had a Mekhanite helping him with transcriptions. A Mekhanite.
Truthfully, it was just like Nadox to do something like this. Even when they traveled together, he was constantly questioning the meaning of it all—Yaldabaoth, the Archons, that unfathomable paradise of rose-colored skies to which they were offering up the world. It had been part of what made him indispensable as Klavigar. But to turn his back on all they had worked toward... it stung.
Yes, Ion had failed them first, had been the one to drop off the face of the Earth without warning—in large part, he could admit, because of his own hubris. That was something he now saw clearly. And yet, for Nadox, of all people, to lose faith in the future they were building together...
If it ever came to pass, he would not enjoy this reunion.
Nevertheless. When he first detected that Lovataar lived on in some form, he nearly dropped out of his meditative state in shock. Nadox was one thing. But Lovataar... he had seen her pulled into the earth. The hands sprouting from her midriff.
Evidently, the powers of the Demiurge had not been done with her. Even in sleep, she had swelled to an impressive size, and birthed a webwork of helpers to match.
None of that mattered. She lived on. Deep in slumber, and dependent on their children for sustenance—but still she lived.
In his excitement he was even on the verge of exclaiming about it to "Basileios," before restraining himself. Of course, that would have been a disastrous idea for a multitude of reasons, not the least because the Mekhanite seemed to disdain all forms of romance on principle, and Ion's in particular. On obvious grounds.
Instead, Ion asked what his name was this century.
"Why have I come to expect this? It's Eustathios."
***
It went on like that for a while.
He saw his people massacred, time and time again—in the Schwarzwald, in Prague, through all of Europe, whose bricks were mortared with the blood of unbelievers. "What is it this century, Mekhanite?"
"Diodoros."
"A tasteful choice for the ambiguously-religious."
He watched with mounting concern as the Solomonari made their way into the great courts of that land, and began the slow splintering of his ideals. "And this century?"
"Pyrrhus."
"How... fitting."
On a faraway continent, he glimpsed those who called themselves—of all things—Adytum's Wake, make mincemeat of his philosophy. And mourned, for it had once cut like a knife to the heart of reality. "Now?"
"Petros."
"I see."
Sometimes he was there and sometimes he wasn't. Sometimes Ion could hear the whistles and whirring of machinery, and sometimes the clanking noises of the priest's movement. Often, there was only silence.
All the while, his powers continued to trickle back at a snail's pace. Centuries turned into a millennium, and then very nearly another. Loathe as the Mekhanite was to give him any information on the outside world, he would make the occasional remark about aspects thereof.
"Technology is advancing at such a rate that it beggars belief. In these last few centuries especially. Even among the unconverted... if this is no sign that the Broken One lives in all of us, I shall gladly disassemble myself."
Ion only nodded along. "I can imagine."
Finally, there came a day when he asked the Mekhanite's name, and received no reply.
He asked again. The reply was slow, as though through rusted gears. "Bumaro. Robert Bumaro."
"Well. That is new."
"I've been promoted again." That metallic sigh again. "An unusual case. I'll have to depart from this place, possibly for good. But don't think of getting out. We have far greater... manpower, now, so to speak."
Ion considered this. For the last few decades, the faint humming that permeated the stone around him had been a reminder of the mysterious precautions set down by the Mekhanites. He imagined that, even with his powers returned to their height, if he were to crack open this caldera like an eggshell, there would be a few more barriers in his way.
Still. He remained the Grand Karcist of Adytum, and even the intolerable could be borne. Hadn't all this time been proof of that? Ion was certain that his powers were increasing, slowly but surely. He could now easily grow the body-full of eyes with enhanced photoreceptors he had wished for three millennia ago. In another decade, who knew what could be possible?
Alka and the Red Harvest continued their work, despite the interference of certain organizations; and if Lovataar lived, surely the same was not out of the question for Orok and Saarn. Even the Red Death could be brought back under control, if one knew how to pick one's allies.
"In that case," he said, doing his best to stand up in the crevice. "It's been..." An honor? A pleasure? He wasn't sure he could utter any of those with a straight face. "...an awful few millennia, Robert. I'll be sure to keep you in mind upon my inevitable return."
"Please, don't get familiar. It's Bumaro."
"As you like."
"So long," said Robert Bumaro, who would forever be that same priest in Ion’s mind. "Ion."
Although... his actual title must be far more elaborate now, come to think of it. Ion felt an absurd sense of pride. Whether by assassination, coup, or plain old bureaucracy—he had actually done it, the madman.
Ion smiled to himself. "Same to you, Your Holiness."
It might have been an illusion, but as the Mekhanite's clanking footsteps faded away, he could just barely detect the sound of rattling, mechanical laughter.