[Oh, he makes her smile for that, though she won't say so. Heads or tails indeed, and it's so hard when every word reminds her of Robert— but then again, what doesn't?
But ah, Comstock . . .]
Zachary Hale Comstock was a grifter, or so I believed when I was younger. A clever fool using religion to achieve his goal of establishing a city where he would be beholden to no one. He was very good at it, admittedly. He styled himself first as a preacher, then as a prophet: a man guided by visions from God, working to make a holy city that floated in the sky. A heavenly paradise above the sinful earth, redeeming all those who were worthy enough— and wealthy enough— to enter.
And he was very good at it. He was a charismatic thing, handsome in his younger days and filled with a surety and affability that made most want to give him what he asked for. [For Rosalind, sixteen and perpetually unable to summon anything more than icy disdain to those she felt beneath her, it was stunning. A science all unto itself, and one she couldn't emulate no matter how much she wished to.] Clever, too: clever enough to make his vision a reality, quoting passages and hymns to inspire those gullible enough to believe it— and utilizing money, bribery, and other such base methods for those who didn't.
It wasn't until we were all trapped in his city that we realized he believed every word. That he was no grifter, but truly believed that he was Chosen.
[Hm.]
A story, to better illustrate my point. We have a ritual in my world called baptism. Perhaps you're familiar. Undergo it, so they say, and all your sins of before will be wiped away, and you can start anew. As if a dip in the water can[Anyway.] Comstock, former a solider who killed innocents for no other reason than sadism and spite, underwent such a ritual— but he rose from it believing that all his sins had been approved of. That God, in all his infinite wisdom, had said to him that he could do no wrong.
So: he could do no wrong. As he hired a man whose greed was only outstripped by his lack of audacity; as he contracted prisoners and worked them as slaves, using them until their bodies collapsed and they could be discreetly disposed of. He could do no wrong as he stole a baby to act as his heir and imprisoned her for her entire life, attempting to mold her into his perfect progeny; he could do no wrong as he murdered anyone who understood that his prophecies— so terribly, stunningly accurate— were the result of his peering into alternate universes, not through God.
I was sixteen when he hired me. Twenty-two when Columbia, his golden city, took flight and never returned. And I was thirty-eight when he killed us.
[There is a sense she's never gotten to say all this before— because, of course, she hasn't. Robert was there, and while they commiserated for so many years over the growing madness in their patron, well, the walls always had ears. Bad enough they had to keep their attraction a secret; complaining about Comstock was the surest way to a swift death. And afterwards, well . . . there was no time (and yet all the time in the world).
It's a relief to write this out. Excessive, though, and she wrinkles her nose as she peers it over. A smear of ash, hastily wiped away, appears on the page; a cigarette is the least of her vices, and she deserves one for recalling all this.]
It all backfired on him in the end. So there's that, at least. The benefit of evolving beyond humanity's limits: we ensured he was not just killed, but erased from all timelines, all universes, all worlds. Excessive punishment for my murder, but I admit, it was satisfying.
[Oh, that makes it sound so very different than what really happened. Not a lie, not at all, but a different perspective. As if she had acted out of vengeance and noble intent; as if she hadn't had to be blackmailed into doing the right thing, her arm twisted for no other reason than latent guilt. As if it was all her doing, and not the girl rightfully taking control of her fate for the first time in her life.
She's fond of Elizabeth. She really is. And she admires her so much for what she did. But this is a personal story, and she's allowed to twist the narrative to suit her.]
no subject
But ah, Comstock . . .]
Zachary Hale Comstock was a grifter, or so I believed when I was younger. A clever fool using religion to achieve his goal of establishing a city where he would be beholden to no one. He was very good at it, admittedly. He styled himself first as a preacher, then as a prophet: a man guided by visions from God, working to make a holy city that floated in the sky. A heavenly paradise above the sinful earth, redeeming all those who were worthy enough— and wealthy enough— to enter.
And he was very good at it. He was a charismatic thing, handsome in his younger days and filled with a surety and affability that made most want to give him what he asked for. [For Rosalind, sixteen and perpetually unable to summon anything more than icy disdain to those she felt beneath her, it was stunning. A science all unto itself, and one she couldn't emulate no matter how much she wished to.] Clever, too: clever enough to make his vision a reality, quoting passages and hymns to inspire those gullible enough to believe it— and utilizing money, bribery, and other such base methods for those who didn't.
It wasn't until we were all trapped in his city that we realized he believed every word. That he was no grifter, but truly believed that he was Chosen.
[Hm.]
A story, to better illustrate my point. We have a ritual in my world called baptism. Perhaps you're familiar. Undergo it, so they say, and all your sins of before will be wiped away, and you can start anew.
As if a dip in the water can[Anyway.] Comstock, former a solider who killed innocents for no other reason than sadism and spite, underwent such a ritual— but he rose from it believing that all his sins had been approved of. That God, in all his infinite wisdom, had said to him that he could do no wrong.So: he could do no wrong. As he hired a man whose greed was only outstripped by his lack of audacity; as he contracted prisoners and worked them as slaves, using them until their bodies collapsed and they could be discreetly disposed of. He could do no wrong as he stole a baby to act as his heir and imprisoned her for her entire life, attempting to mold her into his perfect progeny; he could do no wrong as he murdered anyone who understood that his prophecies— so terribly, stunningly accurate— were the result of his peering into alternate universes, not through God.
I was sixteen when he hired me. Twenty-two when Columbia, his golden city, took flight and never returned. And I was thirty-eight when he killed us.
[There is a sense she's never gotten to say all this before— because, of course, she hasn't. Robert was there, and while they commiserated for so many years over the growing madness in their patron, well, the walls always had ears. Bad enough they had to keep their attraction a secret; complaining about Comstock was the surest way to a swift death. And afterwards, well . . . there was no time (and yet all the time in the world).
It's a relief to write this out. Excessive, though, and she wrinkles her nose as she peers it over. A smear of ash, hastily wiped away, appears on the page; a cigarette is the least of her vices, and she deserves one for recalling all this.]
It all backfired on him in the end. So there's that, at least. The benefit of evolving beyond humanity's limits: we ensured he was not just killed, but erased from all timelines, all universes, all worlds. Excessive punishment for my murder, but I admit, it was satisfying.
[Oh, that makes it sound so very different than what really happened. Not a lie, not at all, but a different perspective. As if she had acted out of vengeance and noble intent; as if she hadn't had to be blackmailed into doing the right thing, her arm twisted for no other reason than latent guilt. As if it was all her doing, and not the girl rightfully taking control of her fate for the first time in her life.
She's fond of Elizabeth. She really is. And she admires her so much for what she did. But this is a personal story, and she's allowed to twist the narrative to suit her.]