Immanentizing the Eschaton, in 4/4 Time
The ritual had begun.
The proper candles were lit. The virgin blood had been spilt, nearly black in the silver light of the moon through the windows. The final book he had needed, stolen from a monastery in France, lay open to the proper places. The translation, which he had painstakingly checked and double-checked for weeks, was written on a few pages of parchment, which were now on an elegant wrought-iron music stand in front of the man.
Weishaupt and his idiots thought it was in words, or mathematical formulas. As if the universe, the mystic power of the cosmos responded to mere numbers!
He stood tall, heavy silk robes hanging to the floor, and drew his bow across the strings. A long discordant note filled the air with an unearthly wail. He began to play.
The piece of music he had found hidden carefully inside the writings was not a pleasant one, but then it was never intended for human ears. He winced at some of the sounds he was yanking out of this noble instrument. Oddly, though, even in the midst of the cacophony he could detect the slightest melody lurking within, a haunting tune in a minor key that plucked at his soul.
The winds outside howled in response. Lightning flashed across the sky, blinding him as he played on. He sped up the tempo through Vivacissimo to Allegrissimo, playing nearly to the limits of his ability, and the violin seemed to shudder in his hands at the onslaught. A dark power gripped him and he played even faster.
He realized, with some growing fear, that he was no longer physically capable of stopping.
The end of the piece was coming up. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath…
And then, and then…
Only years of mastery allowed him to continue when two figures came crashing through the window, swords drawn, but he never missed a note.
“de Gramont!” he snarled, stepping back. “You’re too late!”
“I’m always late to a concert,” the newcomer laughed. “But I never miss a show!” de Gramont drew his sword and, just as the robed man desperately struggled to play the final screaming arpeggio, pierced him through the heart. As he fell de Gramont’s compatriot dove in and grabbed the violin away before the last note could be drawn.
Outside, the winds died down. A light rain began. The earth relaxed.
“That was far too close, Philibert, my friend,” de Gramont said, nudging the robed man’s body with his boot.
“It always is,” Philibert said. “How many times have you saved the world now?”
“Ah, you know how it is. You do something enough times, it becomes a habit.”
The men laughed.
Philibert held up the violin, which was still vibrating slightly, as de Gramont began to kick apart the ritual sacrements. “What do I do with this cursed thing?” he asked.
“Bury it with him. And bury it deep. That violin was one note away from ending the world. You don’t want to leave something like that lying around.”
“And what if it is discovered someday?” Philbert asked earnestly. “What if the spot is disturbed, and the violin is found, and it is studied as a historical oddity or given to some sort of second-hand store? What if, 197 years from now, someone searching for inexpensive clothing or used sporting equipment finds it and buys it along with three picture frames and a battered coffee pot and takes it home as a surprise for their out-of-work boyfriend who’s real musical and after making a sarcastic comment about it he admits that it’s kind of cool and hangs it on the wall as a decoration and someone at one of their weekly popup DJ parties picks it up so he can play the one song he thinks he knows how to play even though he really doesn’t and the very next note he plays on it is the final note to the spell? What then, de Gramont? What then?”
“Go bury it, quickly, lest you feel the flat of my blade!”
Philibert hurried to drag the body and the violin outside. de Gramont sighed.
“Boy just doesn’t understand. Got to leave something for future demonhunters to do.”
