14. THE APPARITION

THE APPARITION

The Past

T HE apparition felt a tugging, then a yanking, and soon, something far more violent occurred; a force ripped the immaterial form from a once-rooted position and tossed it into what felt like a raging river of undeniable invisible power. It could do nothing but surrender to the flow and allow the chaotic flipping and spinning to claim it.

The apparition moved through The Void, that body of darkness as if in an artery composed of a thousand shards of light, wrapped in a membrane formed from bitter memories and dark purpose.

Eventually, like a mortal child emerging from its mother’s birth canal, the apparition was ejected into a space outside its prison. It was again in the material world—but still in its ghostly form, invisible to all, and quite disoriented.

The apparition focused on being present in the now and swiftly righted itself. It tried to move and act like it had a physical body—to see and hear—and discovered it could. What about speech? The apparition opened its mouth to speak, but nothing emerged. Perhaps it could not make sounds in this ghostly form—a puzzle for another time.

For now, it understood it was here for one purpose: to enact revenge.

The vengeful spirit took stock of its surroundings. It was in an exquisite antechamber filled with frescos and tapestries depicting gods, great battles, and virgin maidens. Fragrant florals were everywhere, and masterfully made imported Grecian rugs lay upon marble floors; this was a domus owned by a wealthy man, one of influence in mortal affairs.

None of these human trappings interested the apparition. This place had no meaning to it and held no memory. Why was it here?

The apparition, hearing a muffled cry of pain, turned toward the far end of the large room and saw a mortal man upon a bed, his arm and leg twisted at inhuman angles. A woman, regal looking, adorned with gold and jewels, tended to him, face stained with tears. There were no slave attendants or guards in sight.

The apparition could hear the sounds of war from all directions.

What has transpired here? The apparition was still confused as to its purpose in this place. And so, thinking like it was still a Titan, it endeavoured to read the minds of the mortals—and quickly found it could and with ease! So, The Fates have allowed access to godly abilities on this material plane—at least some.

Feeling inspired and moved to action, the apparition tore through the memories of Aufidius and Veturia without temperance or tenderness, like a beast clawing at its dinner. Having no defence against the invisible attack, the two mortals screamed in agony as something they could not comprehend savaged their fragile minds. And when it was done, satisfied with its yield, the apparition released its victims; it now understood why it was here, in this very room.

So he spared your traitorous lives, did he? I will use such folly to my advantage.

Now, the apparition would start to claim revenge on its progeny, the disobedient child who thought he could murder his Maker, steal their power, and escape without consequence. But The Fates were just, always ensuring balance. Cursed or not, the apparition desired retribution, deserved it, and desperately wanted to escape the loathsome emptiness that imprisoned its tortured consciousness.

Its mission was to destroy true love , that insufferable bond between Olympius and Coriolanus. That was its only way to claim both freedom and revenge .

Remembering what the Secundus goddess had said and its self-teaching, the apparition attempted to shape its form to be what it had never been successful at becoming before. It wanted more than merely playing with different intangible configurations.

For this realm, it desired solidity.

So with gargantuan effort, the apparition exerted its will over its spiritual form, demanding it to become flesh and blood—or a passable, usable facsimile.

Though not an immediate transformation, the apparition’s continuous efforts eventually paid off when the immaterial became substance—and powerful matter, too. It was not a god, definitely not a Titan, but more than mortal. Though naked as a newborn babe, it felt powerful, strong enough to inflict considerable damage, even death.

But could it push further to accomplish more?

In its mind, the apparition conjured an image of the betrayer as it remembered him: beautiful and cunning. It willed itself to become a doppelganger of Olympius. And not just with flesh but in material finery.

Be him, I say! Look as he does now in all ways and be so perfect in the deception to fool even his precious Coriolanus.

The Fates’ magic granted its desire. Spirit that had become flesh now morphed into the spitting image of Olympius in magnificent raiment; the attire conjured mimicked the one currently worn by the god, though the apparition had no knowledge of this .

Fueled by vindictiveness, intense hatred, and the information gained from its psychic probing, the apparition concocted a plan. And it would begin with the death of Coriolanus’ mother.

With stealth and agility reminiscent of the Hidden Ones—elite Egyptian assassins once fiercely loyal to the Titan of darkness—the apparition, in the guise of Olympius, pounced upon the unsuspecting, still-shaken woman. Striking like a cobra, it grabbed Veturia by the neck, effortlessly lifted her off the ground, and hurled her across the chamber, where she collided with a statue of Mars, the god of war.

Veturia slammed hard against the unyielding marble, which remained in place without a scratch, for frail mortal skin and bone were nothing to its structural formidableness.

A visibly panicked Aufidius attempted to rise, but whether to help Veturia or flee, the false Olympius did not know, but it was all for naught. The Volscian quickly fell back upon the linen sheets in agony, his broken limbs enacting a torturous punishment for his attempt to move them.

With new corporeal eyes ablaze with righteous anger, the false Olympius strode across the room toward a barely conscious Veturia, ignoring the mortal man writhing in pain, screaming for his guards. The Roman domina had collapsed on the floor at the statue’s base, bloody and bruised, her elegant robes torn.

Faster than the speed of a lynx, the false Olympius lunged at Veturia’s unmoving body; its razor-sharp claws dug into mortal flesh as it clutched her delicate throat and lifted her to meet its hateful gaze. Staring into terrified eyes filled with blood from broken vessels, it began to choke the life from the woman.

Veturia’s face quickly turned purple from lack of air. Her small hands were wholly incapable of breaking her attacker’s grip. In her agony, she managed to spit out three words with tremendous effort, though her constricted throat garbled her speech.

“Night—Lord—mmm—ercy.”

What! How does she know my child’s face? Olympius—Lord of the Night?! The audacity! To steal not just my power but my domain and create worshippers! Vile, impudent wretch!

Reeling from the unexpected, detestable revelation, a piece of the woman’s history not gleaned from her thoughts earlier, the false Olympius seethed with hate, desiring satisfaction.

Looking down upon its free left arm, it aimed to make the limb intangible. As the flesh became spirit again, the power seemed to flow more effortlessly, each use easier than the last. It moved the spectral limb into the mortal woman’s chest, placing a ghostly hand around Veturia’s heart, cradling the organ like a hungry beggar would to a delectable pomegranate.

Then, wanting it to be so, the false Olympius willed the limb to solidify; the body quickly obeyed. Once it could feel the beating heart in its grip, as this solidification manifested, it tore the organ from Veturia’s body, creating a gaping hole in her chest, killing her instantly. It then tossed the body away, discarded like a broken doll .

The once-Titan raised the juicy, still-beating human heart above its head, craned its neck back, and allowed the blood to ooze downward into an open, waiting mouth.

But even as its welcoming maw became blanketed in falling crimson gore, there was no flavour, no ecstasy in the consuming. The apparition’s new flesh could feel the moisture and texture of the blood, but that was all. It tasted nothing like delectable Ambrosia, nor was there any indescribable feeling of rejuvenation. The mortal’s blood was useless to it.

Yet another damnable element of The Fates’ curse to keep me from reclaiming godhood!

When the excruciating pain commenced, it remembered the warning it was given: to attempt to subvert the curse would result in agony and utter failure.

Incensed at being denied the food of the gods, the chance to feel like a Titan again, the apparition used its inhuman body and brute strength and crushed the bloody organ, flicking away the powdery remains. It spat out the blood that was no more than water; the scarlet Nectar no longer served a purpose, for it held no nourishment. And as the pain subsided, the apparition, still clinging to Olympius’ image, felt a new sensation.

The tugging, the pulling, had returned.

No, not yet! I need more time! Do not punish me for my transgression. You promised me revenge!

But all cries for clemency went unanswered; the force attempting to drag it back to its prison of emptiness remained. Involuntarily, the apparition’s newly created physical form slowly began to transform back into spirit. So, seeing that time was short, it focused its anger on Aufidius.

The Volcian General reached for a weapon upon seeing what he could only assume was a demon in man’s form. Black eyes stared at him from across the room, a sinister grin conveying murderous intent upon the inhuman, enraged face.

But no sword or dagger was within Aufidius’ reach.

You cannot escape me, mortal. Do you believe you can hurt me?

The false Olympius flew across the room toward Aufidius on legs that were quickly becoming translucent. Running out of time, it leapt atop the man and straddled him, keeping the mortal’s limbs, both broken and healthy, pinned down. It brought its face downward, practically close enough to kiss.

Aufidius, a man Coriolanus had once openly bragged about and admired for his bravery and virility, even though he was his enemy, now begged for his life.

Before I kill you, mortal, you will do one thing for me.

With teeth stained red with Veturia’s blood, the false Olympius smiled widely—and wickedly. Using all the willpower and determination it could muster, it opened its fading physical mouth and finally managed to speak.

“Coriolanus! Scream—his—name!”

As it heard the name roared aloud, the apparition tore Aufidius’ eyes out.