The Adversary

This is something I wrote awhile ago, a couple years ago at least. Right after reading Stephen King's The Stand, which got me to thinking about a character who has been my own Randall Flagg, my own Crimson King. Believe it or not I used to write fiction all the time. Tons of it. I've got hundreds of pages of unfinished business. Worlds on pause. The question I hit myself up with all the time is, when are you going to wake them up again?


Ozihael had learned the lesson. Evil—that which seeks to destroy all which wishes to create—must work alone. The singular flaw of evil was its self-consuming nature, its tendency to spin out of control with the force of its own malice. To have minions, to build intricate plans with pawns and armies—that was where evil built-in its own downfall. Ozihael, therefore, sought no allies. He made himself strong, smart, and most of all careful—and he did his work alone. He did not plan—he maneuvered his way among the plans of others, smashing the cogs as he went. He did not raise an army—he was the army.

Minions could turn on you. They could have sudden attacks of conscience or sanity, or be bought by your adversaries. They were a wild card. A risk.

And who doesn’t know the old adage about the best-laid plans? Going into a world with a plan for how to destroy it was foolhardy at best. Instead, Ozihael slipped into pre-existing plans as fluidly as he walked between the worlds. He looked, saw what was being created, sought the lynchpin, and pulled it out.

Sometimes he set himself up as a dictator. This worked well in worlds where nobody knew much magic, or where the weapons were primitive. He looked for lives that could be torn apart. He looked for beauty that could be tortured into ruin. And always he kept an eye open for a reaction.

How long would the Creator allow such atrocities to go on? The answer seemed to be indefinitely. And that pained Ozihael all the more, because as much as he wanted to face down his maker, he wanted that Being to prove more kind than himself. What kind of Creator would sit back and let Ozihael take Its creations to pieces? Was It a coward? He wanted to see a thick vein of hypocrisy pulsing in his maker’s mind—who would create such wonderful realities, all with such loving attention to detail, and yet only look on impotently as one among them stood up and challenged, spilling blood and raining fire as he waited? It had supposedly given Ozihael and all the other souls of the worlds this unlimited freedom, this Will to do as they pleased, but how could It? How could It possibly, when they were all trapped within It? What Ozihael wanted was to see the Creator make a slip, tip Its hand, show Its true desire—that all of Its creations should play by Its rules. Let It force my hand, Ozihael thought. And I will show It just what free will means...

Thus far, although a trail of dead and dying worlds littered his history, Ozihael had not been able to draw even a disapproving glance from his Creator. Except....

There was that young man, Pfilip. His once-friend, Pfilip. And that little tart that traveled with him, Hestia, with the amethyst eyes and dark green hair. He had known them, been in their presence, looked them over. They were no different than he, yet perhaps they were the Creator’s pawns, Its pitiful operatives. Killing them might be the act to push things over the edge, but hunting them seemed... a waste. A Creator that cared more about two dewy-eyed lovers than the burning of an entire world was such a ridiculous thought that Ozihael rarely entertained it. When he did give this consideration, the day often ended with a thrashing or a slaughter, and a rant directed at the sky.

Ozihael knew his maker could manifest Itself anywhere, possibly inside his own mind, but yelling into a mirror was too much like madness...