Gwaith i Innas Lain: Quenta Ambarmetto 8/10
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Chapter 7
The White Rose
There were two problems with attempting to take over Middle-earth from the American Midwest, Morgoth quickly learned. One was Americans’ innate hatred of dictatorship, which was backed by their pesky military, police, and civilians with firearms; the other was their ability to innovate.
And then there was Mossad-but at least their tactics could be made useful.
Brady was high as a kite. As a jet. As a U2 spy plane.
He had no idea how much time had passed when the bliss of union with Delebfaer-pretty name, but he couldn’t get a translation-faded enough for him to become aware of the outside world again. And he didn’t even care. The sheer power throbbing through his veins had probably overloaded his dopamine circuits but good... even now, after days of feasting and frolicking with the other servants of the Giver of Gifts, he still felt like he was floating, like colors were sharper and sensations stronger but none strong enough to tie him down. He was above it all. He was chosen.
He was a god.
Oh, sure, he’d experienced all the highs and the drunks and the trips when his previous passenger had abused him with drugs back at Stanford. Some of them had even been fun, apart from the fact that he hadn’t chosen them and had to share the experience with a demon who kept taunting him about it later. And yeah, he’d felt the power that the demon exercised against its victims, particularly Jess Moore. But all those joys and all those terrors paled in comparison to what he felt as the vessel of Delebfaer. Even acid wasn’t this good. And the most delicious part of all was that brand on his arm that he’d never felt, the seal that meant Delebfaer could never be taken from him.
Man, he was high.
He probably did need to come down a little more when it came time to deliver the speech Delebfaer had written for him and was having him rehearse that afternoon on one of the terraces at Meadow Brook. His mind kept drifting, wondering if all this power meant he could manipulate reality, could walk through walls, could fly....
He wished briefly that Sam were there, that he could share this high that drugs just couldn’t touch. Sam wouldn’t do drugs, but he would like this. He might even be able to handle it better than Brady could. Brady just kept... drifting....
He found himself standing on a high point, wondering if he’d feel anything if he fell.
Turn around, Delebfaer suddenly whispered. I want to show you something.
Brady dutifully turned his back to the edge.
There was a pop... something hit his third eye chakra... he was falling... falling into a featherbed....
Just rest a bit, said Delebfaer, and Brady closed his eyes and let himself float until Delebfaer told him it was time to wake up again.
He opened his eyes to a familiar sort of ceiling-he was in a hospital. And someone screamed.
His forehead felt funny, so he reached up to touch... was there a hole there? No, it must have been a hallucination, because the sensation went away almost immediately, chased away by the thrumming in his veins. Same thing with the funny feeling in the back of his skull and some other places that he might have thought were broken bones if they’d actually hurt. But no, he was high, he was feeling no pain.
The screams grew louder, and louder still as he sat up. Why were they screaming? He wasn’t a demon anymore.
No, Delebfaer purred, you are a god. You are immortal.
Immortal... yes... no fear, no pain....
A white-faced doctor approached him cautiously, recoiling briefly when he looked at her. “Mr. ... Mr. Andover?”
“Why am I here?”
He thought he’d asked quietly, but she flinched as if he’d shouted. “Y-you were shot, sir. With a .308 sniper rifle. And then you fell a considerable distance. You’re only here because you were still breathing when the ambulance arrived. You should be dead.”
He snorted and heard himself-or rather Delebfaer-say, “Mossad cannot kill me. I wish to return to my master.”
The doctor and her nurses scattered, and Brady felt a surge of satisfaction from Delebfaer that made him blank out for a few moments-though not as long as it would have done even the day before, and he felt a tiny bit of pride that he was beginning to handle the power better.
Did I really get shot? he wondered.
We did, Delebfaer replied, but it will leave little more than a mark... perhaps others will see it as a mark of enlightenment, given its location. Your third eye is open now.
The doctor returned. “Your cab’s here, Mr. Andover.”
Brady stood and left, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the glass doors on the way out. A perfectly round red scar stood in the middle of his forehead...
... and his eyes were a brilliant white from corner to corner.
It was the face of a god.
When the media circus and subsequent carousing were over and Brady’s consciousness was back in an ecstatic stasis and the Mossad agents who’d shot him were no longer able to put “Survived the Apocalypse” on their résumés, the Antichrist went to Melkor with a complaint:
“This Man is substandard, my lord. When I return control of his hroa, he acts dazed and is easily distracted by both fantasy and real immediate pleasures. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to maintain the façade of his freedom.”
Melkor waved a hand dismissively. “Evict him, then, if the appearance cannot be maintained.”
“But I was meant to have-”
“Sam Winchester, I know. But even if he could be found, Brady is now our public face and voice. He must remain so until I have conquered Middle-earth and launched the assault on Aman. Either help him adjust or evict him.”
“Yes, my lord,” came the disgruntled reply, and Delebfaer teleported away to study recent political rhetoric.
The room that Ash had dubbed MTAC Avalon suddenly gained two more occupants, one of whom was in mid-sentence when they appeared:
“-dn’t do that, Cas!”
Cas huffed. “Dean, the only swift alternative would be travel by eagle, and I know how you feel about flying.”
“And it would still take a lot longer to get here from Taniquetil,” Sam added, walking over from the table where Ash was deep in conversation with Maglor and Maedhros.
“I still don’t like it,” Dean grumbled.
“What’s new?”
“Antichrist. Morgoth’s still holed up in Detroit, but he’s found some schmuck by the name of Brady Andover to take your place; shoulda been killed when he was shot by Mossad, but whatever’s ridin’ him not only kept him alive but healed him. Seriously, what is this, a Tim LaHaye novel?”
“Has he gotten much attention?”
“So far he’s only made newspapers and radio, but Manwë thinks it won’t take too long for somebody to get at least analog TV up and running again.”
“Brady...” It took Sam a moment to place the name. “Did Manwë show you a picture?”
“Yeah, ’bout my height, blond, tan. And now he’s got white eyes and a showy scar.”
Sam cursed under his breath and clenched his fists. “He introduced me to Jess.”
All activity in the room paused for a good ten seconds.
Then Dean put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You make the first broadcast. Strike the first blow. And if he lands here? He’s all yours.”
Sam blew out a breath and nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Dean.”
Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder and let his hand drop. “Ash, how’s it coming?”
“Almost there,” Ash replied. “Got a good emergency frequency picked out for this first one, should get some attention from the ham operators. They’ll get things going. Looks like one of you will have to actually touch the master stone to make the connection, but we should have it rigged up and ready to go by next week.”
“Awesome.”
“We settled on a name yet? I still kinda like that ‘Eyes Only’ bit from Dark Angel.”
“I Meril Gloss,” Maglor suggested. “Was there not a Resistance movement in Germany by that name, at the end of the Sixth Age?”
Dean looked at Sam, who thought for a moment and translated, “The White Rose-Die Weiße Rose. Anti-Nazi student group.”
Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that could work.”
“We’ll need code names, I guess.”
“I can help you there, too,” said Maglor. “Morgoth will understand, but human authorities will not.”
Dean shrugged. “Shoot.”
“Dean, you are Mormegil, the Black Sword. And Sam, you are Agarwaen, the Blood-stained.”
Maedhros frowned. “Those names belonged to Túrin.”
“Precisely.”
The Winchesters looked at each other, considering. “... That works,” they finally chorused.
“Presidents’ Day,” said each of the people who turned up at the house that stood behind a tiny rural nursery in Texas one frosty February night, as they had done at varying intervals since mid-December.
The owner of both the nursery and the house opened the door each time, and the arrivals made their way across salt lines and devil’s traps and down into the basement, where by some miracle the owner had found and hidden an analog TV that the local electronics wizard had rigged to receive satellite signals on a very peculiar band. Once everyone had arrived, the owner locked up, came downstairs, and switched on the TV. And at precisely 10:00, the color bars were replaced by a letterbox close-up of two pairs of green-hazel eyes.
“Hey, this is Agarwaen.”
“This is Mormegil.”
“And you’re watching, or listening to, Meril Gloss. So, this weekend. Guys, even if you do get to Jerusalem, don’t try to shoot Brady again. This spirit that’s riding him, Delebfaer, it’s too strong to be killed that way. It’s the Antichrist.”
“He’s already got the... ‘fatal wound that was healed’ or whatever, and it looks like he’s got some kind of binding sigil burned on his arm, so an exorcism’s not gonna do much. And besides, he’s not the real threat anyway.”
“What’s going to help the most is your reminding people of the truth: Morgoth is a false god; he is not benevolent; he’s setting up as a worse dictator than any in recorded history; he hates humans, etc.”
“Godwin’s Law, people. Don’t bring up Hitler unless you have to.”
“Right. Same thing with calling Brady the Antichrist-I mean, he is, but the term’s been misapplied so many times that you’ll come off as a reactionary. Find some other way to say it-Messiah complex, something like that.”
“Now, don’t be surprised if people don’t listen to you, even if your argument’s perfect. Win over the ones you can, but don’t get discouraged over losing friends and stuff.”
“If-really, more like when-the world’s governments capitulate to Brady as Morgoth’s representative, you’ll probably have to fight off all kinds of bad stuff. And you do need to keep fighting, if only to keep Morgoth’s forces tied up. But it’s gonna take a few months for him to get everything lined up to come after us... and when he does, there won’t be much left for you to do.”
“So here’s the plan-and with the economy being what it is, y’all are gonna have to help each other out, probably start preparing now. Off the west coast of Iceland, there is a new island that’s being formed as a result of all this seismic activity.” Mormegil rattled off a set of coordinates, and almost everyone dutifully wrote down the information. “May 1, you need to be there. All of you, families included-no child left behind. We’ve arranged for everyone to be evacuated at the same time to our secure, undisclosed location; we’re gonna need you here to help us fight this battle. But if you’re not on that island, nobody’s comin’ to get you. This ain’t the Rapture, folks; we don’t know where you are.”
“It’s also not like those movies where people wait around on the top of a mountain for the spaceship to beam ’em up.”
“Right. Nobody’s flyin’ around lookin’ for you.”
“You’ve probably got questions, and we’re sorry this broadcast goes only one way and you can’t ask ’em now. But we’ll try to anticipate what your concerns might be by the next broadcast-which is?”
“March 2. The password is ‘Brazos.’”
“Yeah. Drink some Dr Pepper if you can, celebrate Texas independence.”
The people in the room laughed quietly.
“I think that’s it for this week,” Mormegil said, looking at Agarwaen.
Agarwaen nodded. “Yep. I’m Agarwaen.”
“I’m Mormegil.”
“And this has been Meril Gloss. Y’all take care.”
And the feed ended.
“Why do we gotta go to Iceland?” asked Deke, the local skeptic, as the nursery owner switched off the TV. “Why can’t they evacuate us from Houston?”
“We ain’t the only ones in this fight, Deke,” the nursery owner replied, pointing to his shortwave radio set. “I got Resistance contacts all over the world. None of ’em know where the boys are. Could be they got a few ships from somewhere, need a central point to collect everybody. Kinda hard luck on the folks in East Asia, but... hell, as unstable as the Ring of Fire is lately, they’re probably glad to head west.”
“No, they’re probably ticked they have to leave their homes, just like I am.”
An older woman shook her head. “Deke, honey, the world is endin’. Like as not, we’ll get killed if we stay. I’d rather go down fightin’-and if that means goin’ to Iceland, then that’s what I’ll do.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the room. Disgusted, Deke stormed out of the house and headed toward his car... only to have someone with putrid breath grab him from behind and press a knife against his throat.
“You call out,” growled the creepiest voice he’d ever heard, “and you’re a dead man.”
Deke swallowed hard; he was being held in such a way that he couldn’t go for his gun. “Look, if it’s money you want-”
His captor chuckled. “No. Her Ladyship just wants to ask you a few questions.”
Someone else dropped a bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back. Then they marched Deke away-he couldn’t tell how far they walked, but it felt like several miles-and finally dumped him in a cave somewhere. He let exhaustion claim him and slept until he felt a prick on his arm and the burning sensation of something being injected. That was when he realized that he’d been placed in a chair while he was out.
“Oh, please, my lady,” his captor’s voice pleaded. “He’d make such sport....”
“Wait your turn,” came the feminine sing-song reply from behind him. “Everybody gets a chance, but Father must have answers.”
The injection must have been caffeine; Deke was suddenly awake, buzzed. Then came another prick, and he screamed as liquid fire flared through his veins. Evil laughter rang through the cave.
“Stay back, boys,” the woman warned, talking low and fast. “After he talks, he’ll be all yours.” Then she leaned in and purred into his ear, “And you will talk to me.”
Deke wasn’t sure if that feeling in the pit of his stomach was fear or lust.
She pulled the hood off and strolled around him, trailing her hand along his shoulders. There wasn’t much light, but from what he could see when she stood in front of him, she had pale skin, curly dark hair, and a face that might have been more attractive were it not for the smirk.
“What’s your name, cutie?” she asked, cocking her head coquettishly.
Deke tried to lie, but the real answer forced its way out. “G-D-Deke Harris.”
“You got a family, Deke?”
“N-Ngy-Yes.”
“Well, then, I don’t have to explain why you’ll tell me what I want to know.” She giggled. “Oh, you’d tell me anyway; that truth serum’s working pretty fast. I’m not sure I really needed it, but Father said speed was essential. But maybe I won’t ask you where you live.”
Deke swallowed hard.
“Depends on whether you fight me on these first questions.”
“What... what do you want to know?”
“Why were you at that house tonight?”
“Uhhhh-underground broadcast.”
“Radio?”
“No. TV.”
She smiled and sat on his lap, straddling him. “You’re doing well, Deke. What channel?”
“I don’t know. TV’s... always on when we get there.”
“Ah. What’s the plan for the next attack?”
“Isn’t one. At least, not from them. I left early.”
“Where does the broadcast come from?”
“Dunno. Nobody knows. ‘Secure, undisclosed location,’ ’s all they ever say.”
She leaned forward. “Who’s ‘they’?”
Deke clamped his mouth shut.
She leaned closer, close enough to kiss, her hips pressing against his as her voice got lower and more seductive. “Who’s ‘they’?”
Deke closed his eyes and made himself breathe through his nose. But she slid her hand down his pants and pressed in awkward places until his mouth wouldn’t stay closed any longer. “Mormegil,” he finally groaned. “Agarwaen... and Mormegil. They got... hazel eyes. That’s... that’s all I know... I swear... please... ssstooo-”
She cut him off with a long kiss that left his stomach roiling in revulsion, much to the amusement of the figures lurking in the shadows, and when she pulled back, her eyes turned a fearsome, oily black from corner to corner. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Deke,” she said with a bigger smirk than before. “Normally I’d have some more fun with you myself, but Father’s waiting, and I did promise the boys a turn. I’m sure you won’t disappoint them.” Then she kissed him again and vanished.
‘The boys’ came out of the shadows then, and Deke nearly went into cardiac arrest at the sight of things he thought existed only in the movies.
Orcs.
If Melkor had succeeded in his ages-long attempt to regrow his feet, he would have shot out of his throne and begun pacing, so badly did Meg’s news agitate him. As it was, he settled for killing a few hapless demons who were standing too close, raining fire on Dubai, and setting off a volcano in Saipan.
“Agarwaen and Mormegil,” he finally snarled. “My brother taunts me with their names, the names of that accursed Túrin son of Húrin. Sam Winchester should be mine.”
“All Arda is yours, Father,” drawled Brady, whose permanent high had finally dropped below the Detroit skyline. “He’ll join us sooner or later. Heck, he’s probably jealous, you bein’ so good to me when he couldn’t even get me to stop drinkin’.”
Melkor resisted the urge to smite Brady and instead set off another Pacific volcano. “Kill everyone of value to him, Megora. Everyone. Force him to appear, to treat with me.”
Meg sighed. “Father, the only person whose existence Sam values enough to join us is Dean. And if Dean is in Aman, he’s beyond our reach for now. All their hunting friends have vanished, and Sam hasn’t contacted his college friends or his mother’s family in years.”
The Aleutians edged closer to the International Date Line.
“I... could... give the order to begin capturing the Resistance groups.”
“No, not yet. We must ensure that the Jerusalem speech succeeds. Americans do not look kindly on mass arrests and summary executions, and I must control American opinion if I am to control all of Middle-earth. Once my political power is consolidated and I have taken my rightful place as god of this world, then we will deal with the White Roses.”
“What should I do, then?”
Melkor thought for a moment. “Hunters are not popular, and we must soon eliminate those that remain in any case. Are there any hunters left in Middle-earth?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Kill them all. The Campbells especially.”
Meg grinned. “Gladly.”
Fighting the temptation to take out his frustrations on the main screen at MTAC Avalon, Dean put down one gun and picked up another to clean. “Lotta words to say absolutely nothing,” he grumbled, “and the dude’s got a stadium full of fangirls... Ash, are you sure this isn’t a rerun of Triumph of the Will?”
“Well, it ain’t on DVD,” Ash drawled and took another swig of mead. “What I’m wonderin’ is whether Fred Phelps even realizes he missed the Rapture,” he added, pointing to an inset feed that showed a protest by the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, complete with their standard “God Hates [insert group]” signs and conspicuously lacking in any slogans even remotely relating to the fact that the world was ending.
“So did we,” Sam said quietly, taking a particularly vicious swipe with the whetstone along the blade he was sharpening.
“Only ’cause we’re needed here,” Dean noted. “You okay, dude?”
“Peachy.” Another vicious swipe.
“Sam.”
Sam sighed. “We’re listening to the abomination that causes desolation, Dean. No, I’m not okay.”
“Is it just that or because Brady’s a friend of yours?”
“Both.” Sam paused. “And because but for the grace of God....”
“Sammy.”
“Brady wasn’t even one of Azazel’s kids, Dean. He was a good guy until something happened around the middle of our sophomore year. Delebfaer was supposed to be riding me, and... Azazel spent my entire life trying to prepare me for that.”
Dean put a hand on Sam’s arm. “You wouldn’t have gone that way, dude. I know you.”
“Dean....”
“And I woulda done whatever it took to stop you from going darkside. It’s like I told you after Dad died; I woulda saved you if it was the last thing I did. But it didn’t come to that.”
Sam managed a small smile. “No. It didn’t. And I’m glad.”
Brady pulled some kind of fake miracle hat trick, and the crowd went wild. But Dean held Sam’s gaze and squeezed his arm, willing him to recognize the love that went too deep for Dean to ever put it into words.
Sam’s smile grew, and he squeezed Dean’s hand. Message received and returned.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (or I’m-a-dinner-jacket, as Dean took to calling him) was the first world leader to hail Brady as the Mahdi returned. Pakistan capitulated shortly thereafter, which meant that Morgoth had nukes. But they were a threat he didn’t need right away. The more counterfeit miracles Delebfaer performed and the more order he brought to the countries that gave him the reins, the more popular opinion swung to his side. And with the Internet and wireless platforms still offline and the still-recovering mainstream news media, under Crowley’s expert manipulation, willing to hail Brady as the greatest thing since sliced bread, it was easy enough to keep the public in the dark about the monsters being sent to destroy anyone who resisted. Disappearances that were too high-profile to go unnoticed were written off by painting the victims as dangerous reactionaries who wanted the world to remain in chaos.
By the time Delebfaer got around to delivering public smackdowns, such as wiping out the Phelps family with a wave of his hand, nobody much cared. And the same went for giving Beijing the choice between submission, famine, or all of Pakistan’s arsenal being detonated in the middle of the Forbidden City. Nobody was quite sure which threat swayed the Chinese government more, the potential loss of life or the potential loss of historic buildings. And the more dominoes fell, the more heavy-handed Morgoth became against the hold-outs. Suitcase nukes turned up in Sydney and Dublin, and one actually went off in London. The message was clear: submit or die.
By Easter, only Israel and the US had not fallen. And with the American government bungling the disaster management badly at every turn, everyone knew it would not take much longer for Morgoth to have the opening he was waiting for and seize power there as well.
The Icelandic Resistance workers had begun preparing the new island immediately after the February broadcast, and a slow trickle of evacuees had started arriving not long after that-always small groups, never enough to attract official attention. One of the first to arrive was Missouri Mosely, an African-American psychic who made a point of warding every part of the island safe enough for human habitation. Some guessed that she knew who Mormegil and Agarwaen were, but no one asked; the secret seemed too dangerous to reveal. There was also some speculation that there were things other than humans on the island, but if it was true, Missouri wouldn’t say.
As May 1 drew near, though, more people began making their way to the island, by then known as White Rose, and started running into roadblocks. Flights and cruises to Iceland were cancelled and banned. There were battles, some quite intense and deadly. The broadcasts assured people that “the boys” knew about and grieved over every sacrifice, but they urged as many people to get out as could possibly do so. A final burst of evacuees arrived on April 29.
And Washington fell on April 30.
Just hours after the news reached White Rose, a grey ship landed at the western shore just long enough for two men and two women to get off. Missouri was there to greet them.
“Mercy, Bobby,” she said, walking up to one of the men, “ain’t you a sight for sore eyes! The boys sent you.”
“They did,” Bobby nodded. “First time I’ve felt useful in months.”
“Well, come on, Mister Hopafoot. Let’s get those new legs of yours a good stretch.” Then she nodded to the others. “Rufus. Ellen, Jo-we ain’t met, but it’s sure good to see you. Come help me get these folks ready for what’s comin’.”
The women nodded in acknowledgment, and the five of them made their way through White Rose. The tour took well into the night, since Mormegil had sent specific messages for some people.
At daybreak, though, one of the lookouts called Missouri through a handheld radio. Orcs had been sighted off the eastern shore.
Bobby nodded. “Guess it’s time. Y’all hold tight.” And he lifted a conch horn to his mouth and blew a single long note.
And the island shook and began to move as if it were being dragged.
The guards on the eastern shore did have to fire on the Orcs for a short time, but their boats soon foundered in the island’s turbulent wake. No sooner did Morgoth order bomber jets scrambled than a mighty typhoon developed with White Rose at its eye. High winds and high seas kept attackers by sea and air at bay, and not long after the storm finally died down enough to show the evacuees that their path was clear, another Meril Gloss broadcast began-but one without the bars that hid the boys’ faces. There were a few cries of surprise from people who evidently knew them by sight.
“Hey, y’all,” said Agarwaen cheerfully. “If he’s visible, give Ossë our thanks-you are now leaving the planet known as Earth....”
Nightmares were largely a thing of the past for the hunters within a month of their arriving in Aman; Estë and Irmo had apparently made a point of ensuring that the scars of their past began to heal and that their sleep was uninterrupted most nights. Nor had Sam had many visions lately, especially none since Ossë anchored White Rose a few miles northwest of Tol Eressëa, where Team Free Will and friends were living in Elrond’s spacious house. So it took Dean totally by surprise when, in late May, Sam woke up screaming.
“Sammy?!” Dean was at his side instantly, supporting and comforting as Sam’s screams gave way to gasps for air and he emerged fully from the dream.
Lisa and Ben, who also shared the same room (having accepted that Dean and Lisa were married under Elven law), were right behind Dean. The rest of the team, along with Elrond and Maedhros, came running as well, but none approached the bed until Sam grew calmer.
“Vision?” Dean finally asked.
Sam nodded.
“What’d you see?”
Sam caught his breath and looked him in the eye. “Zombies.”
Glossary | Next
Chapter 7
The White Rose
There were two problems with attempting to take over Middle-earth from the American Midwest, Morgoth quickly learned. One was Americans’ innate hatred of dictatorship, which was backed by their pesky military, police, and civilians with firearms; the other was their ability to innovate.
And then there was Mossad-but at least their tactics could be made useful.
Brady was high as a kite. As a jet. As a U2 spy plane.
He had no idea how much time had passed when the bliss of union with Delebfaer-pretty name, but he couldn’t get a translation-faded enough for him to become aware of the outside world again. And he didn’t even care. The sheer power throbbing through his veins had probably overloaded his dopamine circuits but good... even now, after days of feasting and frolicking with the other servants of the Giver of Gifts, he still felt like he was floating, like colors were sharper and sensations stronger but none strong enough to tie him down. He was above it all. He was chosen.
He was a god.
Oh, sure, he’d experienced all the highs and the drunks and the trips when his previous passenger had abused him with drugs back at Stanford. Some of them had even been fun, apart from the fact that he hadn’t chosen them and had to share the experience with a demon who kept taunting him about it later. And yeah, he’d felt the power that the demon exercised against its victims, particularly Jess Moore. But all those joys and all those terrors paled in comparison to what he felt as the vessel of Delebfaer. Even acid wasn’t this good. And the most delicious part of all was that brand on his arm that he’d never felt, the seal that meant Delebfaer could never be taken from him.
Man, he was high.
He probably did need to come down a little more when it came time to deliver the speech Delebfaer had written for him and was having him rehearse that afternoon on one of the terraces at Meadow Brook. His mind kept drifting, wondering if all this power meant he could manipulate reality, could walk through walls, could fly....
He wished briefly that Sam were there, that he could share this high that drugs just couldn’t touch. Sam wouldn’t do drugs, but he would like this. He might even be able to handle it better than Brady could. Brady just kept... drifting....
He found himself standing on a high point, wondering if he’d feel anything if he fell.
Turn around, Delebfaer suddenly whispered. I want to show you something.
Brady dutifully turned his back to the edge.
There was a pop... something hit his third eye chakra... he was falling... falling into a featherbed....
Just rest a bit, said Delebfaer, and Brady closed his eyes and let himself float until Delebfaer told him it was time to wake up again.
He opened his eyes to a familiar sort of ceiling-he was in a hospital. And someone screamed.
His forehead felt funny, so he reached up to touch... was there a hole there? No, it must have been a hallucination, because the sensation went away almost immediately, chased away by the thrumming in his veins. Same thing with the funny feeling in the back of his skull and some other places that he might have thought were broken bones if they’d actually hurt. But no, he was high, he was feeling no pain.
The screams grew louder, and louder still as he sat up. Why were they screaming? He wasn’t a demon anymore.
No, Delebfaer purred, you are a god. You are immortal.
Immortal... yes... no fear, no pain....
A white-faced doctor approached him cautiously, recoiling briefly when he looked at her. “Mr. ... Mr. Andover?”
“Why am I here?”
He thought he’d asked quietly, but she flinched as if he’d shouted. “Y-you were shot, sir. With a .308 sniper rifle. And then you fell a considerable distance. You’re only here because you were still breathing when the ambulance arrived. You should be dead.”
He snorted and heard himself-or rather Delebfaer-say, “Mossad cannot kill me. I wish to return to my master.”
The doctor and her nurses scattered, and Brady felt a surge of satisfaction from Delebfaer that made him blank out for a few moments-though not as long as it would have done even the day before, and he felt a tiny bit of pride that he was beginning to handle the power better.
Did I really get shot? he wondered.
We did, Delebfaer replied, but it will leave little more than a mark... perhaps others will see it as a mark of enlightenment, given its location. Your third eye is open now.
The doctor returned. “Your cab’s here, Mr. Andover.”
Brady stood and left, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the glass doors on the way out. A perfectly round red scar stood in the middle of his forehead...
... and his eyes were a brilliant white from corner to corner.
It was the face of a god.
When the media circus and subsequent carousing were over and Brady’s consciousness was back in an ecstatic stasis and the Mossad agents who’d shot him were no longer able to put “Survived the Apocalypse” on their résumés, the Antichrist went to Melkor with a complaint:
“This Man is substandard, my lord. When I return control of his hroa, he acts dazed and is easily distracted by both fantasy and real immediate pleasures. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to maintain the façade of his freedom.”
Melkor waved a hand dismissively. “Evict him, then, if the appearance cannot be maintained.”
“But I was meant to have-”
“Sam Winchester, I know. But even if he could be found, Brady is now our public face and voice. He must remain so until I have conquered Middle-earth and launched the assault on Aman. Either help him adjust or evict him.”
“Yes, my lord,” came the disgruntled reply, and Delebfaer teleported away to study recent political rhetoric.
The room that Ash had dubbed MTAC Avalon suddenly gained two more occupants, one of whom was in mid-sentence when they appeared:
“-dn’t do that, Cas!”
Cas huffed. “Dean, the only swift alternative would be travel by eagle, and I know how you feel about flying.”
“And it would still take a lot longer to get here from Taniquetil,” Sam added, walking over from the table where Ash was deep in conversation with Maglor and Maedhros.
“I still don’t like it,” Dean grumbled.
“What’s new?”
“Antichrist. Morgoth’s still holed up in Detroit, but he’s found some schmuck by the name of Brady Andover to take your place; shoulda been killed when he was shot by Mossad, but whatever’s ridin’ him not only kept him alive but healed him. Seriously, what is this, a Tim LaHaye novel?”
“Has he gotten much attention?”
“So far he’s only made newspapers and radio, but Manwë thinks it won’t take too long for somebody to get at least analog TV up and running again.”
“Brady...” It took Sam a moment to place the name. “Did Manwë show you a picture?”
“Yeah, ’bout my height, blond, tan. And now he’s got white eyes and a showy scar.”
Sam cursed under his breath and clenched his fists. “He introduced me to Jess.”
All activity in the room paused for a good ten seconds.
Then Dean put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You make the first broadcast. Strike the first blow. And if he lands here? He’s all yours.”
Sam blew out a breath and nodded. “Okay. Thanks, Dean.”
Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder and let his hand drop. “Ash, how’s it coming?”
“Almost there,” Ash replied. “Got a good emergency frequency picked out for this first one, should get some attention from the ham operators. They’ll get things going. Looks like one of you will have to actually touch the master stone to make the connection, but we should have it rigged up and ready to go by next week.”
“Awesome.”
“We settled on a name yet? I still kinda like that ‘Eyes Only’ bit from Dark Angel.”
“I Meril Gloss,” Maglor suggested. “Was there not a Resistance movement in Germany by that name, at the end of the Sixth Age?”
Dean looked at Sam, who thought for a moment and translated, “The White Rose-Die Weiße Rose. Anti-Nazi student group.”
Dean nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, that could work.”
“We’ll need code names, I guess.”
“I can help you there, too,” said Maglor. “Morgoth will understand, but human authorities will not.”
Dean shrugged. “Shoot.”
“Dean, you are Mormegil, the Black Sword. And Sam, you are Agarwaen, the Blood-stained.”
Maedhros frowned. “Those names belonged to Túrin.”
“Precisely.”
The Winchesters looked at each other, considering. “... That works,” they finally chorused.
“Presidents’ Day,” said each of the people who turned up at the house that stood behind a tiny rural nursery in Texas one frosty February night, as they had done at varying intervals since mid-December.
The owner of both the nursery and the house opened the door each time, and the arrivals made their way across salt lines and devil’s traps and down into the basement, where by some miracle the owner had found and hidden an analog TV that the local electronics wizard had rigged to receive satellite signals on a very peculiar band. Once everyone had arrived, the owner locked up, came downstairs, and switched on the TV. And at precisely 10:00, the color bars were replaced by a letterbox close-up of two pairs of green-hazel eyes.
“Hey, this is Agarwaen.”
“This is Mormegil.”
“And you’re watching, or listening to, Meril Gloss. So, this weekend. Guys, even if you do get to Jerusalem, don’t try to shoot Brady again. This spirit that’s riding him, Delebfaer, it’s too strong to be killed that way. It’s the Antichrist.”
“He’s already got the... ‘fatal wound that was healed’ or whatever, and it looks like he’s got some kind of binding sigil burned on his arm, so an exorcism’s not gonna do much. And besides, he’s not the real threat anyway.”
“What’s going to help the most is your reminding people of the truth: Morgoth is a false god; he is not benevolent; he’s setting up as a worse dictator than any in recorded history; he hates humans, etc.”
“Godwin’s Law, people. Don’t bring up Hitler unless you have to.”
“Right. Same thing with calling Brady the Antichrist-I mean, he is, but the term’s been misapplied so many times that you’ll come off as a reactionary. Find some other way to say it-Messiah complex, something like that.”
“Now, don’t be surprised if people don’t listen to you, even if your argument’s perfect. Win over the ones you can, but don’t get discouraged over losing friends and stuff.”
“If-really, more like when-the world’s governments capitulate to Brady as Morgoth’s representative, you’ll probably have to fight off all kinds of bad stuff. And you do need to keep fighting, if only to keep Morgoth’s forces tied up. But it’s gonna take a few months for him to get everything lined up to come after us... and when he does, there won’t be much left for you to do.”
“So here’s the plan-and with the economy being what it is, y’all are gonna have to help each other out, probably start preparing now. Off the west coast of Iceland, there is a new island that’s being formed as a result of all this seismic activity.” Mormegil rattled off a set of coordinates, and almost everyone dutifully wrote down the information. “May 1, you need to be there. All of you, families included-no child left behind. We’ve arranged for everyone to be evacuated at the same time to our secure, undisclosed location; we’re gonna need you here to help us fight this battle. But if you’re not on that island, nobody’s comin’ to get you. This ain’t the Rapture, folks; we don’t know where you are.”
“It’s also not like those movies where people wait around on the top of a mountain for the spaceship to beam ’em up.”
“Right. Nobody’s flyin’ around lookin’ for you.”
“You’ve probably got questions, and we’re sorry this broadcast goes only one way and you can’t ask ’em now. But we’ll try to anticipate what your concerns might be by the next broadcast-which is?”
“March 2. The password is ‘Brazos.’”
“Yeah. Drink some Dr Pepper if you can, celebrate Texas independence.”
The people in the room laughed quietly.
“I think that’s it for this week,” Mormegil said, looking at Agarwaen.
Agarwaen nodded. “Yep. I’m Agarwaen.”
“I’m Mormegil.”
“And this has been Meril Gloss. Y’all take care.”
And the feed ended.
“Why do we gotta go to Iceland?” asked Deke, the local skeptic, as the nursery owner switched off the TV. “Why can’t they evacuate us from Houston?”
“We ain’t the only ones in this fight, Deke,” the nursery owner replied, pointing to his shortwave radio set. “I got Resistance contacts all over the world. None of ’em know where the boys are. Could be they got a few ships from somewhere, need a central point to collect everybody. Kinda hard luck on the folks in East Asia, but... hell, as unstable as the Ring of Fire is lately, they’re probably glad to head west.”
“No, they’re probably ticked they have to leave their homes, just like I am.”
An older woman shook her head. “Deke, honey, the world is endin’. Like as not, we’ll get killed if we stay. I’d rather go down fightin’-and if that means goin’ to Iceland, then that’s what I’ll do.”
A murmur of agreement ran through the room. Disgusted, Deke stormed out of the house and headed toward his car... only to have someone with putrid breath grab him from behind and press a knife against his throat.
“You call out,” growled the creepiest voice he’d ever heard, “and you’re a dead man.”
Deke swallowed hard; he was being held in such a way that he couldn’t go for his gun. “Look, if it’s money you want-”
His captor chuckled. “No. Her Ladyship just wants to ask you a few questions.”
Someone else dropped a bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back. Then they marched Deke away-he couldn’t tell how far they walked, but it felt like several miles-and finally dumped him in a cave somewhere. He let exhaustion claim him and slept until he felt a prick on his arm and the burning sensation of something being injected. That was when he realized that he’d been placed in a chair while he was out.
“Oh, please, my lady,” his captor’s voice pleaded. “He’d make such sport....”
“Wait your turn,” came the feminine sing-song reply from behind him. “Everybody gets a chance, but Father must have answers.”
The injection must have been caffeine; Deke was suddenly awake, buzzed. Then came another prick, and he screamed as liquid fire flared through his veins. Evil laughter rang through the cave.
“Stay back, boys,” the woman warned, talking low and fast. “After he talks, he’ll be all yours.” Then she leaned in and purred into his ear, “And you will talk to me.”
Deke wasn’t sure if that feeling in the pit of his stomach was fear or lust.
She pulled the hood off and strolled around him, trailing her hand along his shoulders. There wasn’t much light, but from what he could see when she stood in front of him, she had pale skin, curly dark hair, and a face that might have been more attractive were it not for the smirk.
“What’s your name, cutie?” she asked, cocking her head coquettishly.
Deke tried to lie, but the real answer forced its way out. “G-D-Deke Harris.”
“You got a family, Deke?”
“N-Ngy-Yes.”
“Well, then, I don’t have to explain why you’ll tell me what I want to know.” She giggled. “Oh, you’d tell me anyway; that truth serum’s working pretty fast. I’m not sure I really needed it, but Father said speed was essential. But maybe I won’t ask you where you live.”
Deke swallowed hard.
“Depends on whether you fight me on these first questions.”
“What... what do you want to know?”
“Why were you at that house tonight?”
“Uhhhh-underground broadcast.”
“Radio?”
“No. TV.”
She smiled and sat on his lap, straddling him. “You’re doing well, Deke. What channel?”
“I don’t know. TV’s... always on when we get there.”
“Ah. What’s the plan for the next attack?”
“Isn’t one. At least, not from them. I left early.”
“Where does the broadcast come from?”
“Dunno. Nobody knows. ‘Secure, undisclosed location,’ ’s all they ever say.”
She leaned forward. “Who’s ‘they’?”
Deke clamped his mouth shut.
She leaned closer, close enough to kiss, her hips pressing against his as her voice got lower and more seductive. “Who’s ‘they’?”
Deke closed his eyes and made himself breathe through his nose. But she slid her hand down his pants and pressed in awkward places until his mouth wouldn’t stay closed any longer. “Mormegil,” he finally groaned. “Agarwaen... and Mormegil. They got... hazel eyes. That’s... that’s all I know... I swear... please... ssstooo-”
She cut him off with a long kiss that left his stomach roiling in revulsion, much to the amusement of the figures lurking in the shadows, and when she pulled back, her eyes turned a fearsome, oily black from corner to corner. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Deke,” she said with a bigger smirk than before. “Normally I’d have some more fun with you myself, but Father’s waiting, and I did promise the boys a turn. I’m sure you won’t disappoint them.” Then she kissed him again and vanished.
‘The boys’ came out of the shadows then, and Deke nearly went into cardiac arrest at the sight of things he thought existed only in the movies.
Orcs.
If Melkor had succeeded in his ages-long attempt to regrow his feet, he would have shot out of his throne and begun pacing, so badly did Meg’s news agitate him. As it was, he settled for killing a few hapless demons who were standing too close, raining fire on Dubai, and setting off a volcano in Saipan.
“Agarwaen and Mormegil,” he finally snarled. “My brother taunts me with their names, the names of that accursed Túrin son of Húrin. Sam Winchester should be mine.”
“All Arda is yours, Father,” drawled Brady, whose permanent high had finally dropped below the Detroit skyline. “He’ll join us sooner or later. Heck, he’s probably jealous, you bein’ so good to me when he couldn’t even get me to stop drinkin’.”
Melkor resisted the urge to smite Brady and instead set off another Pacific volcano. “Kill everyone of value to him, Megora. Everyone. Force him to appear, to treat with me.”
Meg sighed. “Father, the only person whose existence Sam values enough to join us is Dean. And if Dean is in Aman, he’s beyond our reach for now. All their hunting friends have vanished, and Sam hasn’t contacted his college friends or his mother’s family in years.”
The Aleutians edged closer to the International Date Line.
“I... could... give the order to begin capturing the Resistance groups.”
“No, not yet. We must ensure that the Jerusalem speech succeeds. Americans do not look kindly on mass arrests and summary executions, and I must control American opinion if I am to control all of Middle-earth. Once my political power is consolidated and I have taken my rightful place as god of this world, then we will deal with the White Roses.”
“What should I do, then?”
Melkor thought for a moment. “Hunters are not popular, and we must soon eliminate those that remain in any case. Are there any hunters left in Middle-earth?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Kill them all. The Campbells especially.”
Meg grinned. “Gladly.”
Fighting the temptation to take out his frustrations on the main screen at MTAC Avalon, Dean put down one gun and picked up another to clean. “Lotta words to say absolutely nothing,” he grumbled, “and the dude’s got a stadium full of fangirls... Ash, are you sure this isn’t a rerun of Triumph of the Will?”
“Well, it ain’t on DVD,” Ash drawled and took another swig of mead. “What I’m wonderin’ is whether Fred Phelps even realizes he missed the Rapture,” he added, pointing to an inset feed that showed a protest by the infamous Westboro Baptist Church, complete with their standard “God Hates [insert group]” signs and conspicuously lacking in any slogans even remotely relating to the fact that the world was ending.
“So did we,” Sam said quietly, taking a particularly vicious swipe with the whetstone along the blade he was sharpening.
“Only ’cause we’re needed here,” Dean noted. “You okay, dude?”
“Peachy.” Another vicious swipe.
“Sam.”
Sam sighed. “We’re listening to the abomination that causes desolation, Dean. No, I’m not okay.”
“Is it just that or because Brady’s a friend of yours?”
“Both.” Sam paused. “And because but for the grace of God....”
“Sammy.”
“Brady wasn’t even one of Azazel’s kids, Dean. He was a good guy until something happened around the middle of our sophomore year. Delebfaer was supposed to be riding me, and... Azazel spent my entire life trying to prepare me for that.”
Dean put a hand on Sam’s arm. “You wouldn’t have gone that way, dude. I know you.”
“Dean....”
“And I woulda done whatever it took to stop you from going darkside. It’s like I told you after Dad died; I woulda saved you if it was the last thing I did. But it didn’t come to that.”
Sam managed a small smile. “No. It didn’t. And I’m glad.”
Brady pulled some kind of fake miracle hat trick, and the crowd went wild. But Dean held Sam’s gaze and squeezed his arm, willing him to recognize the love that went too deep for Dean to ever put it into words.
Sam’s smile grew, and he squeezed Dean’s hand. Message received and returned.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad (or I’m-a-dinner-jacket, as Dean took to calling him) was the first world leader to hail Brady as the Mahdi returned. Pakistan capitulated shortly thereafter, which meant that Morgoth had nukes. But they were a threat he didn’t need right away. The more counterfeit miracles Delebfaer performed and the more order he brought to the countries that gave him the reins, the more popular opinion swung to his side. And with the Internet and wireless platforms still offline and the still-recovering mainstream news media, under Crowley’s expert manipulation, willing to hail Brady as the greatest thing since sliced bread, it was easy enough to keep the public in the dark about the monsters being sent to destroy anyone who resisted. Disappearances that were too high-profile to go unnoticed were written off by painting the victims as dangerous reactionaries who wanted the world to remain in chaos.
By the time Delebfaer got around to delivering public smackdowns, such as wiping out the Phelps family with a wave of his hand, nobody much cared. And the same went for giving Beijing the choice between submission, famine, or all of Pakistan’s arsenal being detonated in the middle of the Forbidden City. Nobody was quite sure which threat swayed the Chinese government more, the potential loss of life or the potential loss of historic buildings. And the more dominoes fell, the more heavy-handed Morgoth became against the hold-outs. Suitcase nukes turned up in Sydney and Dublin, and one actually went off in London. The message was clear: submit or die.
By Easter, only Israel and the US had not fallen. And with the American government bungling the disaster management badly at every turn, everyone knew it would not take much longer for Morgoth to have the opening he was waiting for and seize power there as well.
The Icelandic Resistance workers had begun preparing the new island immediately after the February broadcast, and a slow trickle of evacuees had started arriving not long after that-always small groups, never enough to attract official attention. One of the first to arrive was Missouri Mosely, an African-American psychic who made a point of warding every part of the island safe enough for human habitation. Some guessed that she knew who Mormegil and Agarwaen were, but no one asked; the secret seemed too dangerous to reveal. There was also some speculation that there were things other than humans on the island, but if it was true, Missouri wouldn’t say.
As May 1 drew near, though, more people began making their way to the island, by then known as White Rose, and started running into roadblocks. Flights and cruises to Iceland were cancelled and banned. There were battles, some quite intense and deadly. The broadcasts assured people that “the boys” knew about and grieved over every sacrifice, but they urged as many people to get out as could possibly do so. A final burst of evacuees arrived on April 29.
And Washington fell on April 30.
Just hours after the news reached White Rose, a grey ship landed at the western shore just long enough for two men and two women to get off. Missouri was there to greet them.
“Mercy, Bobby,” she said, walking up to one of the men, “ain’t you a sight for sore eyes! The boys sent you.”
“They did,” Bobby nodded. “First time I’ve felt useful in months.”
“Well, come on, Mister Hopafoot. Let’s get those new legs of yours a good stretch.” Then she nodded to the others. “Rufus. Ellen, Jo-we ain’t met, but it’s sure good to see you. Come help me get these folks ready for what’s comin’.”
The women nodded in acknowledgment, and the five of them made their way through White Rose. The tour took well into the night, since Mormegil had sent specific messages for some people.
At daybreak, though, one of the lookouts called Missouri through a handheld radio. Orcs had been sighted off the eastern shore.
Bobby nodded. “Guess it’s time. Y’all hold tight.” And he lifted a conch horn to his mouth and blew a single long note.
And the island shook and began to move as if it were being dragged.
The guards on the eastern shore did have to fire on the Orcs for a short time, but their boats soon foundered in the island’s turbulent wake. No sooner did Morgoth order bomber jets scrambled than a mighty typhoon developed with White Rose at its eye. High winds and high seas kept attackers by sea and air at bay, and not long after the storm finally died down enough to show the evacuees that their path was clear, another Meril Gloss broadcast began-but one without the bars that hid the boys’ faces. There were a few cries of surprise from people who evidently knew them by sight.
“Hey, y’all,” said Agarwaen cheerfully. “If he’s visible, give Ossë our thanks-you are now leaving the planet known as Earth....”
Nightmares were largely a thing of the past for the hunters within a month of their arriving in Aman; Estë and Irmo had apparently made a point of ensuring that the scars of their past began to heal and that their sleep was uninterrupted most nights. Nor had Sam had many visions lately, especially none since Ossë anchored White Rose a few miles northwest of Tol Eressëa, where Team Free Will and friends were living in Elrond’s spacious house. So it took Dean totally by surprise when, in late May, Sam woke up screaming.
“Sammy?!” Dean was at his side instantly, supporting and comforting as Sam’s screams gave way to gasps for air and he emerged fully from the dream.
Lisa and Ben, who also shared the same room (having accepted that Dean and Lisa were married under Elven law), were right behind Dean. The rest of the team, along with Elrond and Maedhros, came running as well, but none approached the bed until Sam grew calmer.
“Vision?” Dean finally asked.
Sam nodded.
“What’d you see?”
Sam caught his breath and looked him in the eye. “Zombies.”
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