The Antiquarians Part 1: Into the Fog of Memory

A Christian Fantasy Novella

Dive into of The Antiquarians: The Song of the Covenant, Part 1: Into the Fog of Memory, where ancient truths and modern lies collide in a desert of forgotten hope.

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Numbing oblivion enveloped Soldier 739.

He was unable to see anything. No light, no shapes, no colors—just an endless expanse of nothingness.

Time and space were absent. Thoughts flickered, but the thick fog swallowed them before they could take shape. Whenever he tried to grasp a memory or idea, a hazy wall obstructed his thoughts, preventing clarity. He felt trapped in this state for an eternity, unable to break free.

Then eight words pierced the fog. "We have need of this one."

An electric shock coursed through his spine, sending heat down his arms and legs. His chest and limbs ignited with warmth, awakening every nerve from its slumber. The surge of energy jolted him to life, like a bolt of lightning striking a dormant field.

His eyes snapped open, but he winced at the harsh light filtering through his blue-tinted visor. He blinked several times, adjusting to the sudden brightness, his gaze sharpening as he took in his surroundings.

The white chamber stretched before him, lined with rows of upright pods, each containing a soldier like himself. The sterile lighting cast a cold, lifeless glow over everything. The low hum of machinery filled the air, punctuated by the occasional beep from the pods.

“Soldier 739, what do you know?” The figure standing before him was cloaked in black, his face obscured, save for eyes that seemed to pierce into every corner of 739's mind, reading thoughts he didn’t even know he had.

Two facts emerged from the depths of his foggy mind.

“I am Soldier 739,” he rasped, his voice unused. “I have been given an exoskeleton to help establish utopia. If removed, I will die.”

The man’s lips curled slightly, not quite a smile. “Utopia,” he repeated, his soft voice a hiss, the word twisting in his mouth as if it were a bitter taste. “And who am I?”

739 focused on the man’s penetrating gaze, and like an echo from deep within, the knowledge came. He bowed slightly. “You are the Subjugator, servant of the Enlightened One, leader of the Neoterians, ruler over all the lands.”

“Good.” The Subjugator held up a flask containing gray, viscous liquid. “Now drink and receive your mission.”

739 reached out, his pale skin interwoven with wires and metal that glinted in the light. He took the flask and drank. The taste was bitter, and the sludge coated his throat. But the moment it hit his system, his mind exploded with knowledge. Memories—or were they orders?—flooded him.

In his mind he saw the Desolate Lands, once vibrant but now a wasteland of dust and crumbling ruins. There was movement there— a survivor, an Antiquarians who defied utopia. 739’s mission was clear: find them, bring them to the Enlightened One. Let no one escape.

He opened his eyes and met the Subjugator’s gaze.

“You will leave immediately,” the Subjugator said. “If you fail, you shall be terminated.”

739 nodded. “May time always march forward.”

***

The two-day journey stretched on, the land as barren as his memories. His exoskeleton whirred tirelessly, the only thing keeping him from succumbing to the desert’s lifeless grip.

As he left the capital city behind, he ventured eastward into the vast, barren desert. The world had once been fertile, but the drought had reduced it to a lifeless wasteland. The once-lush forests were now skeletal remains, and the vibrant grasslands had withered to sand.

Even the air felt heavy, devoid of moisture. It clung to him, dry and oppressive, as though the very sky itself was suffocating. The thought of water was almost alien—something from stories told by civilians. He wondered if he had ever known it in his past life.

But he had a purpose: to serve the Enlightened One and fight for utopia. The Antiquarians were a plague, clinging to their ancient ways, and their rebellion was said to be the cause of the unrelenting drought.

His exoskeleton wasn’t just armor—it was life. Thin, translucent tubes snaked from the metal plates into his skin, each one carefully designed to deliver a steady stream of nutrients into his bloodstream. The suit regulated his heart rate, controlled his hydration, and replaced what the world had long stopped providing—water.

The land was as parched as the people, the once-lush forests now brittle, skeletal remains. Rivers had dried into cracked beds, and lakes had become mere impressions in the earth. Even the air clung to him, heavy with dust, a reminder that the world itself was suffocating.

His exoskeleton whirred softly, the only thing keeping him moving in this desert wasteland. There was no need to stop. The only mission that mattered was to prevent the disease of the past from infecting the future.

The Enlightened One was close to finally discovering the location of the main Antiquarian base, his mission was to make sure not a single rat escaped to continue spreading their dangerous disease.

Three days ago, Wyv-Droids had detected movement in the heart of the Desolate Lands, in a building that had once been a religious center for the Antiquarians. He would find the rat there.

***

When he arrived at the crumbling remains of the old Antiquarian lands several days later, his visor scanned the desolate landscape.

The buildings were charred and hollow, their skeletons twisted by fire and time. The silence was thick, broken only by the whispering wind and the occasional groan of decaying wood.

He moved through the streets, each step echoing in the empty space around him. His exoskeleton clanked with every movement, but he pressed on. The familiar weight of it reminded him that without the suit, he was nothing. Death was always a breath away.

As he approached the main building, where the Wyv-Droids had detected movement, the cracked stone streets gave way to the sound of his boots crunching over sand that had blown through broken windows. Inside, the once-grand structure was a shell of what it had been.

The stained glass windows, now shattered and fragmented, cast colorful shards of light upon the ground. The intricate designs, once storytellers, were marred by time and neglect. Rotting wooden pews lay scattered throughout the room, a stark contrast to the grandeur it must have once held. The air was thick with the musty scent of decay.

Along the decaying walls, remnants of beautiful tapestries could still be seen, their vibrant hues now faded and tattered.

One tapestry caught his attention, and he stepped closer, drawn in by its intricate design. It depicted this very building, but from a distant past.

He stared, transfixed by the woven figures. Slowly, impossibly, the scene began to shift, the figures in the tapestry moving as if stirred by a wind he couldn’t feel.

The people in the image stood from their pews and raised their hands in unison, their faces beaming with pure joy. He couldn't believe what he was seeing - images stitched into fabric were not supposed to move. But there they were, moving and swaying as if caught in a blissful trance.

He reached out and touched the fabric, still unable to comprehend the impossible sight unfolding before him.

And then, to his amazement, they sang.

The one who was and ever be,

From beginning to eternity.

To honor you, our voices rise,

Oh creator of all the skies.

As the sound of singing filled the air, a sharp and intense pain pierced his brain, shattering the trance the scene had ensnared him in. His body recoiled as he clutched his head in agony, gasping for breath.

The haunting music came to an abrupt halt and the ache gradually subsided, leaving behind a lingering sense of unease. He let out a shaky sigh of relief.

Glancing back, he noticed the scene had returned to normal. No movement people or strange songs. Just an ancient tapestry rotting in an old building.

He shook his head. Moving fabric was preposterous. He must have imagined it.

Focus. The past was irrelevant. Only forward.

His gaze swept the room. “By order of the Enlightened One, the Desolate Lands are condemned. Anyone here must surrender now or be considered hostile to progress.”

A creak. From behind a pew.

739 moved swiftly toward the noise. His exoskeleton made him strong, even if it was slow. He rounded the pew to find a girl sitting on a makeshift cot, her brown braid hanging over her shoulder. She locked eyes with him, her green eyes wide with fear, but something about her face—something familiar—caused him to hesitate.

“I’m Selah,” she said, her voice steady despite her trembling hands.

739 tightened his grip on the black sword, his exoskeleton humming faintly as the suit adjusted to his rising adrenaline. “By order of the Enlightened One, you are wanted for trespassing,” he said, his voice cold and mechanical.

He caught the flicker of worry in her green eyes, but it didn’t last. Instead, a small, defiant smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “You’ve got the wrong person, soldier.”

Her gaze darted to the sword, and 739 instinctively tightened his grip. But before he could react, her leg snapped up in a blur of motion. The sword clattered from his hand, skidding across the dusty floor and coming to rest at the edge of the stage.

“You should really rethink that armor,” she said, a mischievous lilt in her voice. “Makes you slow.”

A growl escaped his lips, frustration bubbling over as he lunged for her. His movements were precise but heavy, the weight of his exoskeleton amplifying his strength but turning every step into a clunky stomp. Selah darted out of his reach with infuriating ease, her steps light and nimble. She vaulted over a pew, her braid flying behind her like a banner.

739 growled, his enhanced strength allowing him to shove the pew aside as if it weighed nothing. But Selah was already gone, slipping between the rows with the fluidity of a shadow. She moved like smoke, unpredictable and impossible to pin down, her soft laughter ringing in his ears like a taunt.

He lunged again, his suit enhancing the power of his strike. His hand grasped at empty air as Selah twisted away, spinning behind another row of pews. Each of her movements was a calculated dance, her bare feet barely touching the ground.

“You’ll never escape,” he growled, shoving another pew aside with a loud crash. Dust clouded the air, swirling in the fragmented light streaming through the shattered windows. “You can’t outrun the march of progress.”

She slid across the stage, her braid whipping behind her.

739 surged forward, his mechanical legs propelling him with force, but his heavy frame crashed against the corner of the stage as Selah darted to the side. The old wood groaned under the impact, sending a shudder through the floorboards. The echo reverberated through the cavernous room.

Frustration burned in his chest. He could break through steel walls with ease, but this girl—this fragile, unarmed girl—slipped through his grasp like water. He swiped at her again, the whir of his exoskeleton louder now, but she ducked low, darting under his outstretched arm.

Selah vaulted onto the stage, spinning to face him. “Let me guess—moving targets aren’t your specialty.”

739 didn’t reply. He advanced, his mechanical limbs whirring. He feinted to the left, forcing her to dodge to the right, and then lunged, his hand finally closing around her wrist. She winced at the pressure of his grip but didn’t cry out.

Her eyes met his, steady and unwavering, even as he began dragging her toward the fallen sword at the edge of the stage. She stumbled slightly but didn’t resist.

The wooden floor beneath them groaned again, louder this time. A splintering crack cut through the room.

739 froze, his grip tightening instinctively. The sound came again, followed by another, deeper groan. The floorboards beneath them buckled, and with a sickening crunch, the wood gave way.

For a heartbeat, they hung in the air, the moment stretching endlessly. Then, they plummeted into the darkness below, dust and debris cascading around them as the world above vanished. The impact stole the breath from 739’s lungs as he hit the cold stone floor, Selah’s weight crashing down on top of him.

739 lay there, dazed, as his consciousness slipped away once more.

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Excited to see what happens next? Read part two now!