The Poet and His Immortals

November 16, this year
Venice, Italy
7:53 pm CEST

Loche takes Julia’s hand. He turns his hooded face to her, “It’s time,” he says. “It is time to make an end of all of this.” He leads her from the rear of the crowd into the circle of paintings and joins the armed immortals under the lights. In passing Loche notices the hazel eyes of Leonaie, the caring brown eyes of Corey Thomas, Athelstan’s peculiar stance, Alice of Bath’s round shape, and Adam Talansman’s towering frame. And others he seems to recognize, too, despite their masks. He comes to a halt beside his father, William Greenhame. Facing the podium, Loche pulls back his hood. The Itonalya react almost simultaneously with fearful exhales of wonder seeing his choice of disguise: the Ithicsazj. The purplish-blue pallor of the face and the blood tear running along the cheek almost forces the immortals to take a step away from the Poet as if he were generating a spine tearing Rathinalya.

William pronounces to Lynn Eastman, “May I present the Poet, Aethur. My dear son, Loche Newirth. The Poet has come!”

Albion turns to Loche. His masked face cannot hide a sudden humility and willing obedience. “Mr. Newirth,” he says bowing his head. “Ever have you ruled the pages upon which we appear. Make for us now an end to be told over and over again, until the world believes it was we that made it new.”

Loche says, “Protect my brother’s art. Protect the innocent. Protect each other. I have come to defend all you have done, all you will do and all they will say of you.” Loche’s sword slides from out of its umbrella casing. “Where is Marcus Rearden?”

From behind Eastman comes a familiar voice. “Good evening, Loche,” Dr. Marcus Rearden says. “I think you may have lost control of your story.”