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[deiarcana]

Storm of the Past

The temperature drops, the full moon and its entourage of stars were swallowed whole by gray storm clouds. At times like these, the world burns in nostalgia. Feeling the painful stabs of cold, many retreats to the warm and unchanging past.

There, a smoke rise from the cookfire, the woods turning into char and, “Ash?” As a pot boil. Inside them are letters forming words, whispering seducing sentences sweet and yellowed by age.

Each one she remembers by heart, etched there by forces far greater than her own. When she recites them, the sound of her own voice seemingly dances with the letters in her hand, as if the recipient was here guiding her through music audible only to them; to herself.

After all, it was obvious that the one addressed by the letters wasn’t here. She wouldn’t dare read her own letters, all meticulously kept by him in his presence. Yet, she can still his warmth holding her tight, hanging by her neck like the most expensive amulet.

The beating of his heart was slightly out of sync with her own, the sound of his voice calling her name. All of it was—a hand not her own obstruct her field of vision. She can hear a familiar smile forming on a face she can recognize by touch alone.

“Ryxes?” she asks, blood cold with shame unearned.

“Yes?” came the quick answer as she turns and their eyes lock with each other, their lips so close it took but a slight movement to kiss, which froze them both.

Outside, the weather made do their threat as droplets of rain wet the cobblestone streets. The sound of it beating against the window of their bedroom fills the heavy silence between the two before finally: Ash broke from the tension.

Borrowing strength from the past and words of her own, she catches him surprised as their mouths meet. Chaste at first, the kiss turns deeper as Ash pushes herself closer to Ryxes, forcing him to lay onto the bed, the heat of her body melting his surprise to another mood entirely.

With the change, their hands, previously busy holding on to one another’s shoulders was now exploring each other with impatience only confined by their care for each other.

Her hands rub over his shoulder and stomach, tracing the muscles that contract and relax with just a touch of her fingers. His hold on to her neck, as if afraid she will resurface without him while the other explores her chest, familiarizing himself to the shape.

This pleasant torture the newlywed endures until their lungs gave out, forcing them back to reality for air, to face each other and see how hot they’re from the activity.

This pause bends logic as instead of cooling them both down, each breath they take to fill their lungs fan the fire inside instead.

Longing, the fire fuels them to once more connect with each other.

Obsessing, it moves their hand to explore again.

Voraciously they consume, their tongue dance to the tune of their bosom.

Eager was their soul for connection as they undress each other, their eyes filled with hunger unknown but familiar.

Their breathing slowed, they’re two people once more.

But not for long.

Ash position herself above him, his priapus standing ready just below before it was swallowed whole as she pushes herself down, holding both of her hands over his chest to feel the beating of his heart, how it quickens as she moves.

The movement, erratic at first, becomes slowly controlled as Ryxes puts both hands onto her hips, stifling a moan and grunt beside. The rain grows into a storm, but the both of them sweat as they groan and whine with each movement they make.

With the help of Ryxes’ help, the two of them dance in the night, the melody audible to them both as their breathing grew heavier and heavier.

“Ash…,” Ryxes forces out, in pain from the pleasure.

Hips moving still, Ash answers in a quick succession of kisses, drowning the love of her life in love of her own.

Unwilling to be outdone, Ryxes massage her breasts, hoping to give her the same pleasure he currently experienced, forcing out some stifled cry of pleasure each time he does.

Filled with his member and the same thought, Ash dips herself deeper down, thankful for her own athleticism as she bends her body so she can put a tongue in him while she kneads his pecks.

Awash at the sea of pleasure and unprepared to face the rising waves of her kiss, Ryxes was forced to let go of her chest and hold tighter onto her back instead, hoping the air will come soon.

But it never does. Not for the both of them. As they slowly reach the climax of their journey, the impatience of their body grows and grows, forcing limbs to move on their own, hips to power through the desperation and depletion until a cloud of white, thick and wet explode in their head.

Drunk in the climax, Ash falls on top of Ryxes, the both of them panting from the loss of their virginity and the beginning of something new once more.

Some small part of Ash begrudge herself for being so shy in taking the initiative; another part of it was simply glad that it finally happened and it was all that she imagined and more.

Dreamily, with haze of euphoria still clouding her eyes; she tries to focus on her husband.

And seeing Ryxes beneath her, panting for breath with cheeks painted apple red; Ash can’t help but laugh. It came out as a smile at first, then a stifle before it crackles and explodes, blooming in her chest, the spore contagious and charming both.

So captivating was it that Ryxes can’t help but follow her, despite not understanding the joke, or the possibility that he was the joke. Why should he care? Why should she? In the privacy of their home, the beating of their heart was one, and that was enough.

[deiarcana]

Dawn of the Prophetic

In the dark, among the chaos, in a place no creature—divine nor mortal—dare tread, a heart beat once, announcing its presence to the whole of the cosmos. Twice, something cruel and old was reformed. Thrice, and she was born anew. The sinew that made her is of the universe itself, only ending and disappearing when realities are no more.

She did not die; therefore, she cannot be revived. She’s wounded, and now whole again. And the first to notice was not her people or her kin, it was her enemy. In their arrogance, they declare her death, and now: they declare her revival.

Soon, they shall declare her victory.

***

I was there when she first came. I saw her form, graceful and rigid both. I hear her voice, kind and cruel all the same. And upon her face: the mysteries of life were written, dancing with the answers forever and eternal.

“I won’t hurt you,” she says, a promise as the world bends to her crowned will, reshaped by her sceptered hand. And though fearful and afraid, I approach her still.

As I did, I like to think, that the next time our eyes meet, the twinkle in her eyes is a sign of a smile. For that day, the day she came, I witnessed her kindness.

Soon enough, I shall see her cruelty.

Not long after she claims a throne that was hers to sit on, Aegis declares against her. As their war horn calls upon steel and iron, and their drum controls the marches of their soldiery; the deities above and below sheath their weapon to watch.

Watch what? I foolishly asked. I should not have doubt, I should have guessed, I should have known. For when I watch the most noble of creatures declare for her, I do not doubt the truthfulness of my own eyes, I was not surprised.

After all, it was not a long time ago since the Scholars of Gardenata, the historians of the future as I am of the past came to bow upon her throne. However, I do not understand their hesitance to ally with a queen such as her, the queenliest among them.

I hear them debate in the corridor, considering if Aegis is perhaps the lesser evil in this conflict. I almost scoff, I almost break away from my eavesdrop to make sure they understand that this was no fight between greater and lesser evil, but a classical tale of good and evil and that the future has blinded them to the past and present.

Luckily, I do not need to, another scholar pipes up before I do, naming all the good—nay— great things she has already done for her kingdom. The towers she built, the domes, the spires, the bowers, the fanes, the regal hall where she built her throne, all the gifts she gave to her people, and many more.

Trusting her to persuade her colleagues to the side of good, I left them alone to watch history in the making, noting all the glories that I spotted.

And there’s truly so much of it, especially during the first few battles of her forces against the demonic forces that oppose her rule. It was beautiful, the blood, the musk of death, the scream of agony; all in her name.

Every time, she was there to watch. I knew she was, even when I did not see her, the breeze was her hands pushing her soldiers forward. On their whistle, she whispers her orders, a fervent encouragement to murder.

The many banners that are raised quickly are trampled just as quick. The brutality intensifies with each passing battle, through every witching hour and noontide.

Both sides refuse to give way, believing their cause to be just and righteous, though I know only she can lay claim to such a cause, and so only her armies march forward.

The only reason the war dies down is because both sides have managed to cull themselves for and against her. They litter the ground, an ample fertilizer for the trees the hosts cut down to make weapons and fire.

Some of the bodies are burned and charred by dragons, others mutilated by demons and humanoids with demon-like bloodlust. All of her, the fairest among them all.

I envy them. I envy them for their death and I mourn my survival. For in her victory, she grew weaker instead. I dare not assume why, but my mind goes to the worst and best of possibilities.

Her weakness was due to her love for her people, the very same people who were massacred and died for her cause and the cause that sought to displace her from wearing the diadem that was always hers to wear.

The time for cruelty passed, so surely now she mourns. And in mourning, she forgets herself. Amnesiac, she sometimes only gazes upon her people with eyes that are empty and her mind far away.

She’s seeing something else, the past perhaps, the future hopefully. Whatever it is. I know she cares still. During her lucid moments, she would regale them with her dreams, fantastical and utopian both, wishing her people could live there sooner rather than later.

Such a wish she repeats as she slowly disappears, becoming more and more unreal as time passes. But I know not to worry. For she cannot die; therefore, she can’t be revived.

What is a millennium to the Immortal? Nothing, for she does not end; therefore, time is a meaningless concept to her.

So, I close this book, this journal, as the greatest amongst us close yet another long chapter in her colorful history. Already, I can hear the drum of the Aegis on the horizon, waiting for her demise before plaguing the land again.

But I—we can worry about such a thing tomorrow or the week after, or the next month, hopefully even in later years. For now, we celebrate the Infinite, the Eternal, and the Ethereal.

[deiarcana]

Wind & Wave

There’s something in the ocean. Something cold and old, yearning to be free. It’s not the Bottomless Sea, Tsamaela recognizes the chill from it, this one is new and unfamiliar to her.

And for one reason or another, the Bottomless Sea wants it out. Tsamaela doesn’t understand why it doesn’t simply spit it out if that’s all it wants, but she doesn’t know exactly how to question a being who speaks in bubbles and sea foams, and it wasn’t from the lack of trying.

She has attempted to fathom why she’s being ordered to dive deep into the saltwater so soon after she just faced the most fearsome deities in the continent’s canon, to bargain out of such an order with little luck.

The only thing she can claim she gains is an extra one year to prepare, a year she spent not preparing to survive the mission, but to die from it. She makes sure she spent all her time with her husband, niece, and nephew—going so far as to deny a wedding invitation solely meant her to the Feywild.

A year that has passed in a blur of a moment, leaving her in the here and now; packing what little things she has and what little things she hopes would help her in her journey down, instead of up.

When she’s done with her preparation, it was with trepidation for what is to come. After all, the last time she dives deep underwater, it wasn’t exactly by choice. She can feel the pull of the waves, the way the water saps her of energy the more she struggles, the cold tentacles that choke her out of—“Tsamaela?” A familiar voice calls out.

She doesn’t need to turn to look at the owner, she would recognize him blind and deaf; by touch and smell alone. But she still does it, hoping the sight of him would help level her nerve.

It does, even though his face shares her worries.

Hoping he would mimic her again, then. “Yes?” she answers with a smile lacking mirth.

He doesn’t copy it. Instead, his brows furrowed more as he walks closer. “You’ve been standing there for quite some time now. Everything okay?” His voice was steady, like a rock against the wave.

“Why wouldn’t everything be?”

At her rhetorical question. “Do you want a list?” He raises his eyebrow.

Tsamaela snort, but plays along. “If you have one.”

“Well….” He prolongs his word until he’s but a hairbreadth away from Tsamaela. “… no. But if I do have one.” Pulling her even closer as he wraps his arms around her. “The fact that you’re going out there—”

“Lautner—”

“—Alone, without any support would be at the top of my list,” he finishes with insistence, and Tsamaela rips away with a sigh.

“I will be back. Hopefully.”

“That’s not very convincing.”

“The best I can do, love.”

Lautner’s silence, he’s thinking. Dark, heavy thoughts that really helps no one. And finally, after minutes of such thought. He recognizes that too. With an exhale. “… okay.” He walks closer and gave her a light and chaste kiss. “Go says goodbye to your niece and nephew, I will be here looking after your stuff.”

“You think someone’s going to steal it?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Tsamaela grin at that.

Unfortunately, the smile doesn’t last as she continues down her way to where she knew the two teenagers—children, really—would be. They spent most of their day there after the event, gazing up at the sky as if trying to gleam meaning from their glimmer.

She doesn’t understand if it was their means of coping—after all, her sister isn’t a terrible mother from their stories, though definitely a terrible sister—or they’re actually attempting to steal a flicker of forbidden wisdom from the night.

Whatever it is, she has no time to consider. “Oh, hello.” For the children have noticed her.

“Hello,” she offers back. “Finding what you’re looking for up there?”

““Yes,”” they both answers at the same time. “But that’s not why you’re here.” Until Julia once again takes the leading position in the conversation.

“No, that’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s time, isn’t it? You’ll submerge yourself in seawater.”

“Mhm,” Tsamaela replies, a bit uncomfortable now. She doesn’t exactly try to hide this truth from the people around her, but she only ever tells them once; and she doesn’t really enjoy the fact that they still remember.

Fortunately, the children aren’t privy to the content of her mind, though they’re good enough to guess she’s uneasy, they simply suspect the wrong reason. “You’re not going to die, Aunt Tsamaela,” Claude offers, sure and gentle in his voice.

Clearly, he meant for his sentence to be taken by Tsamaela as a rather comforting thought, but she has seen a few fates worse than death. And even if it means she will come back home safe, the fact that it was a thirteen-year-old child declaring it’s still… creepy.

She shakes her head the moment the word enters her mind. Forcing herself to smile and says, “Thank you, Claude.” Instead of assuming terrible notions about her nephew.

“We will be by the door to see you go, Aunt Tsamaela. Just give us a few moments, please.”

“Of course, you kids enjoy the night.”

A murmur of thanks from both is her reply as she returns to the master bedroom, finding Lautner there as he says he will be, lost in thought while staring at the things he was supposed to guard.

“Lautner?” she greets, startling him awake.

In response. “I’m here, and I’m present.” He straightens his back but doesn’t look towards Tsamaela.

Forcing the woman to walk closer until she’s hovering right above him. “So am I.” Gazing down on him.

Their eyes meet now. “Have you talked to the kids?”

The warmth of their bodies is shared once more as Tsamaela hugs his head. “I have.”

Lautner tries to reply in kind. “I think one of them hates me.” Failing miserably while his tone grew heavy, the topic he took upon a distraction.

And Tsamaela plays along. “Which one?”

So, there’s gratefulness in his sound now. “You know which one.”

Sincerely, Tsamaela smile at that. “Julia doesn’t hate you, Lautner.”

“Well, she certainly doesn’t like me.”

The smile turns into a laugh, she remembers that.

Julia did have allergies to all felines, which include Lautner on the list. Which is why she constantly stays away from him and everyone that has recently interacted with him until they took a shower and a change of clothes.

Gradually, though, she improves her attitude into what it’s now: wearing a mask of her own creation so she could have a proper introduction with Lautner, and their conversation has been pleasant so far, though always stilted and formal.

Tsamaela are sure they’re only going to get closer when she’s gone, and even closer when she returns. And she can only hope that she returns because there’s no other option out there.

For while the wind and wave will separates them soon, she’s ever theirs.

[deiarcana]

Gravedigging

He watches the skies; it seems gloomier somehow. Perhaps it is, he wouldn’t know, it has been quite a time since he last saw the sky, free from a cell stinking of corpses and diseases.

Unfortunate there’s a chance he might not see it again after this, even after the fact that he spent the first week of his freedom chasing a dream and being used by a hand untethered.

Alas, life move on all the same, and so will he.

With his back turned towards the sky and shovel in hand, he digs. It was the first thing he did after he purchase the land, and it will be the last thing he does if he ever does come what may.

He didn’t purchase this land for some superfluous reason, he does so because of a legend. And if he doesn’t misjudge the world around him, then the myth might be more than just tall tales and some fancy fiction.

In fact, he’s almost certain the proportion of the real thing is underplayed if the result of his investigation were to be believed. Which is why, even when the first week of his dig result in nothing but a discovery of a small underground waterway and some inexpensive minerals, he continues.

Some rocks are too hard to break through, forcing him to alter his course. Some places are finally too deep for the light to reach, forcing him to bring his own light source down, the ladders growing longer and longer with each day that passes.

At some point, he thinks it insanity. At another, he fears stopping when he’s so close to his destination. Time no longer has meaning to him; he no longer counts them. He seldom eats, the muscles trained hard for nimbleness has been remade for his sole purpose and deteriorating fast.

Like a man possessed, he was rotting alive; the trusty blade that has always been at his side a silent witness to his predicament. For all of his searching, there’s naught to be found but the foundation of the earth.

At the bottom of the pit in a barren land he owns, he’s forced to admit that he’s wrong. There’s nothing buried beneath his barren land, there’s no hope for the world above.

A somber thought to have when you’re surrounded by nothing but darkness in a hole of your own making. He fears that’s where everyone else is heading and he would much rather they head there with help. He wishes they get there with help.

His word echoes through the inky black with the help of his blade, reaching into the primordial string of the world and pluck a tune out of it. The discordant melody was haunting yet beautiful all the same.

It reminded him of—the ground shakes and cracks. He tries to clamber up and escapes but many sharp blades, piercing through the floor and ceiling, block his only way out.

He falls, his hands only managing a shaky grasp of stone before being pulled further down. The hole—once familiar—slowly turns and move in a way impossible. Colors explode out of the dark, voices call out from beyond, all familiar to him who has lived too long.

All of them was his.

His greatest failures in life, his achievements, the short amount of people he can call friends and call him one in return. Even his childhood memory, one tainted in both nostalgia and bitterness taunt him.

He suspects he’s dead, why else would his entire life burns bright around him, displayed in full to shame him of all that he is and isn’t? Why else would I be standing in front of a giant centipede with a human head for a face?

“A giant centipede with a human head for a face?” he repeats his thought out loud, the giant centipede with a human head for a face bark an unnatural laugh, but mirthful all the same at his question.

“Unwieldy name, Abraham,” it says, voice lilting and beautiful. “One I do not prefer, yet accurate enough to describe me that I wouldn’t mind being called so by you.”

Used with people knowing his real name now, Snikey ignores the mocking way the centipede says his name to ask a better question: “What are you?”

“I am many things,” it replied, as its body circle around Snikey. “I am the Power That Be, the Violence That Kills, the Star Devourer, the Guardian of Hell, the Queen of the Dead and Damned.”

Undaunted. “What should I call you, then?” Snikey stood his ground, already expecting the centipede grand answer. Since his involvement in that mission, he has been dealing with things with far too many names, even by his standard.

“Power! Violence! Hell! Queen! Or my favorite: Aztra.”

“Aztra?”

“Given to me by a child in a red dress, the first sacrifice to the Most Powerful. Starz, as she would put it.”

“Are you a devil, Aztra?”

“Devil?! Me? Oh, I would never!” Its tone is light, obviously spoke in jest and arrogance. “No, no, no! I’m not a devil, Abraham! I’m the Devil! The one you seek unless you seek the non-existent one for whom the prison was originally built for.”

“I see,” he responds, studying it closer. The story spoke true indeed, it was a giant centipede that rampages through the world all those incarnations ago, a legged snake, as they would call it.

And if that story is true, then it means—“Yes,” Aztra cuts his thought. “I’m capable of what you want to be done. What needs to be done.”

“Are you a mind reader?”

"A mind eater, perhaps. But a mind reader? You’ve read far too many fictions, indeed.”

“Fiction? The books that claim you exist, you mean?”

“Yes, exactly that kind of book is what I’m talking about, Abraham.”

“You are real, though.”

“Am I? Or am I your wish incarnate?”

“You are.”

“If you insist,” it whispers, the bait obvious from its sentence, something Snikey doesn’t take. Instead, he changes the topic: “You’re open for a deal, then?”

As he asks the question, the centipede changes form at last. Each of its legs turn stiff and sharp, becoming the tip of a blade hungering for blood. Its carapace cracks and recedes, turning softer into a raven black silk that covers every part of its body, with the head crowned in a lovingly crafted mask with a script of a language long forgotten.

It—no—she smiles, then. Snikey doesn’t know how he’s so sure of both. “I do.” He simply is as the woman answers in a whisper. “Name your terms, mortal, and I shall give you a balance for each.”

“The continued protection of my city,” he begins with the most important one.

“The permanent gateway to Hell at your city.”

“I accept.”

“Good. Continue, you want more. You needed more.”

“The assured prosperity of my city.”

“A small shrine to be built and maintained in my name, for my worship near the gate.”

“How am I going to know how to build your shrine?”

“The same way I shall deliver all my promises.”

The old bear raises his brow at that, encouraging more explanation. When nothing comes, he sighs and shakes his head. “I accept,” he repeats.

“Great!” she says, extending her hand to Snikey. “Let’s make it official, hm? Put it there!”

He studies the hand and the person that offer it, both suspicious and obviously untrustworthy. Yet, what other options he has after spending more than half a year looking for her? Nothing, he answers.

Perhaps that is part of the devil’s ploy, to weaken his resolve so because she can’t back him to a corner. If that’s true, then she has won, for the world-weary bear shakes her hand.

And the instant he does, the world burns. Every part of him scream to let go, but the woman’s hold is vicious and strong, there’s poison in his blood, at his fur. It threatens to claim his life, to weaken him until he’s nothing.

And the devil watch as he falls to his knee, succumb to suffering eternal and unending and—he’s alive.

The breath he believes his last are released with shock and relief as he studies the world around him. The sky is clear, the full moon is there, and so are the many stars that loved Her.

They’ve not changed, Snikey doubt they ever will.

He cannot speak the same for the world below, for his world.

Already, he can feel it tremble in terror of the terrifying being he just met and made the mistake of making a compact with it. Just another thing to add to his list of crime beside stealing from a teenager.

He needed to allow her to have a say in the name of the city, at least.

With that thought in mind, he let go of the shovel and walk away, a new destination in mind.

After all of his struggle, the Power That Be can wait, he has friends to visit.

[deiarcana]

Thing that Goes Bump in the Night

You look at the altar with a curiosity tempered only by your fear of punishment, a plethora of them, really. Yet, even the thought of being beaten to submission doesn’t quite deter you, not from this course of action.

You don’t know why, you can’t even say which part of the statue catches your eye, you’re just sure you must come closer to it, be alone with it. And so, one night, you try to do exactly that.

Barefooted, you rise from your bed and walk, tiptoeing just in case it will help, your eyes focused forward and back, watching both fronts as you pray for success.

Each step you take feels heavy and loud, the beating of your heart betraying your location to the people that dwell in the temple. Sweats of nervousness wet your body, causing your nightclothes to stick far closer to your skin than comfortable.

It’s too quiet around you, the light of the torches too bright, and you’re too recognizable, out of place. You know this is a stupid idea, you will get caught soon. Any moment now and—no.

A voice cuts you off, rushing in with the wind of spring, blowing cold all torches in the corridor, leaving you alone in the dark.

That should scare you, yet it didn’t. After all, the voice was soft, gentle, and kind: all the things you would imagine your own mother to sound like whispering to your ears.

Yet, as you look around in the dark, there was no one else but you. You consider opening your mouth to call out, only to stop yourself at the last moment after something warns you of the dangers of such a course of action.

Whoever or whatever they are are correct, your voice will attract the guards, even in the dark, and you would much rather that doesn’t happen.

And so, hoping the mystery was connected, you continue on your way to the statue until you finally come face to face with Her.

She was a tall and ethereal Woman with holes for a stomach, and even that only adds to Her beauty, not lessening it. You’re not even sure what you—and so many others—finds beautiful about Her.

She doesn’t have a face, Her features are purposely abstract, made to represent something that details can only obscure: love. You’re sure of it without question.

In your surety, then, you stand before Her, gazing onto Her face illuminated by… what? The torches all have gone cold, their fire no longer burns. There’s only darkness around, even in this open room, yet she shines.

Was it your imagination that She shines? No, it wasn’t.

A voice answers, the very same that the gentle wind whispers a moment before the torches lost their glimmer. It came from Her, the statue in front of you—no—the Great Mother.

It has been so long since you wonder why people call Her great, why they would sometimes kneel in tears in front of a status made of sharp obsidian whose most prominent features are a hole in Her stomach.

As you yourself sink and bow to Her, you understood the reasoning. After all, you didn’t do such a thing out of respect, no one taught you to kneel in front of Her statue, no one thought you to kneel.

Yet, what else can one do in the presence of a love so heavy that it became a burden onto one’s shoulder? What else can one do in the presence of a care so vast it shames realities? What else can you do in front of Her who Sees? Nothing—nothing but this, your soul responds quickly, finding no need to dwell upon the question.

Or perhaps it cannot dwell on the question, maybe you still need to know about the why and how. For surely, a creature such as She was not as benevolent as the story claims, and even if She does, what if Her understanding of ethics and morality was so alien to you that She’s above your judgment?

What if—nothing. Her voice again, it calms you down, cutting you off just at the right moment. Hearing it echoes inside your skull for the third time allows you an understanding of how She was talking to you, in that She did not.

You understand the things She was doing as language familiar to your ears, but the air did not vibrate because of it, your ears did not twitch and catch it; your brain does.

And your brain, ever kind and diligent, translate the imagery She sends you into words when all She ever let you see is moving images. In the third one, she let you see the night sky.

It was mostly dark, yes, but glimmering with lights. The smaller ones look almost like dots, a speck of glowing dust compared to the largest celestial object you’ve ever seen. It shines cold like freshwater, caring and refreshing.

You understand, then, that She was not trying to answer your question, to deny your accusation, but to simply calms you down. You understand Her, yet you don’t know why She’s here still, with you, in the middle of nowhere at the darkest of nights.

So, you asked Her. Your shaky voice steadied by Her presence.

Even then, your question sounds wrong to your own ears, illegible.

But somehow, She understands.

Your curiosity She answers with another moving image as She grants you vision of a world beyond—beyond what? You asked—and her answer came maddeningly bright, raging and piercing every part of you.

It was a world of the future, infesting you with grief you had never experienced before. All around you, stars are eaten, swallowed by darkness far heavier than Her shadow.

You try to look to Her statue, to borrow strength from Her posture, but She was no longer there, perhaps She never was.

And alone, like the rest of the world, you float in the emptiness that She once was.

[deiarcana]

Final Report, Final Page

•••

"Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday Fiah!"

"Whoooo!"

Her tiny lips cone forth to blow the candles atop the cake, along with our exaggerative clappings. Quinn is the fastest to spare her little sister a piece of cake in baby serving, while Seraphina does a few wipings over slathered cream around Qafiah's nano sized palms. Zack and Perry are pretty persistent in relaying the song with random lyrics but Liam—unexpectedly—just calmly sit directly across Qafiah, giving the baby a very rare crooked smile.

Yes. It's the restaurant Quinn used to drag us every lunch time before retirements.

Visitors nearby seem to be stealing glances of adoration towards my five years old daughter who is looking happily carefree as she swings both her calves in random order.

I admit reunion feels livelier every year. Eversince I gave birth to Qafiah, somehow my comrades annually anticipate me bringing my baby more than me coming over myself; I swear I find it heartwarming. Other than cherishing Qafiah's birthday—the day we had survived an event akin to doomsday, I love the fact that our affection to one another doesn't change. We barely exchange letters since we're very much into real time-conversations.

Quinn smiles the widest as ever, not to mention completely showing rows of teeth when her prosthetic hand flies a spoon before Qafiah's mouth like a jet on attraction. I cackle in excitement, palpating fingertips all over the birthday gifts.

My foster daughter has handed over her mansion to me like it's nothing, then there's Liam the second wealthiest to ever gifted a check inside a watch box. For vacation purpose. And a set of oil-painting! Qafiah loves drawing and he remembered well.

Seraphina doesn't stop apologizing for bringing nothing; which makes me mad because she pays routine visitation and take a very good care of Qafiah when my job engulfs me with intense business. And so Zack, oh God. His mother even volunteered their household as another playground to Qafiah and treat her like one's own granddaughter. While Perry never stopped reminding us life time-discount at his bakery shop,

I couldn't stop expressing my gratitude that I had stepped into journalism. I'm thanking my past that I've met these people. Though we're going separate ways now, this doesn't matter.

We always find our ways to reunite.

[deiarcana]

A Murderer's Epilogue - Part 03

It was early in the night when she finally fell asleep from exhaustion, early even by the standards of toddlers, I’m sure. Yet, not unexpected. No one outplayed the great Quinn, after all!

I chuckle at my own thought as I close her door, ready for another adventure. Which, if I guess correctly, now stands behind me.

“Mom,” I greet, my voice soft to my ears.

“Quinn,” she replied in kind, sharing the sentiment.

Finding myself vindicated, I turn around and approach, arms open wide; an invitation to a hug that she accepts without hesitation.

“I do apologize for not hugging you sooner, and for stealing your daughter. The downside of my charming self, I believe!”

“And here I thought you’ve turned honest after your marriage,” she says, playing along as she hugs my arm, dragging me to the parlor for tea.

“Honest? Me? Come now, Mom! You know me better than that!” I counter with an impish smile, daring her to challenge my words.

And Mom being Mom, she does so in a way most eloquent and irrefutable.

“I do,” she admits; simple, fond, and proud.

And not even I, the most depraved among thieves would be found so lacking in honor that I rebuke the words of a woman this honest.

So, I let the topic go, allowing the conversation to flow as she begins to make some tea for the both of us to accompany a tray of hard biscuits she already has on the table.

I watch her work with an almost childlike wonder, a silent understanding now of why Mrs. Valegarden seems to be so insulted of my marriage proposal, pushed forward as a joke, a silly gamble to gain family.

Funny then that my gamble works in a way most unexpected.

At home, I have a wife.

In my childhood house, a sister that adores me, and a mom that cares deeply about my wellbeing.

And it all started by starting a bogus ritual in an attempt to enter a purple marriage!

I chuckle.

“Someone’s happy,” Mom chimes in as she sets down the tray in the coffee table.

“Oh, Fall,” I respond by shooting her a subdued smile. “It’s impossible for anyone to be near you and not be happy.” Accompanied by a playfully flirtatious tone to my voice, lowered to almost a whisper.

She scoffs good-heartedly to my joke. “You’re married.” Before sitting down and patting the sofa beside her, inviting me to join.

“Fortunately for the both of us,” I answer as I take my place beside her, starting our conversation with one another.

The topics of it are mundane, forgettable.

In the morning hour before we even break our fast, I’m sure we will already forget all the things we say tonight.

What we won’t forget are the warm and floating motes of light that fills our chest as we continue the conversation, happy to just be in the presence of each other.

Outside, the night grew older, as do we.

On the table, our tea rest cold, our biscuits stale in the open air: the exact opposite of our relationship.

[deiarcana]

A Murderer's Epilogue - Part 02

I’m visiting my mom today, and despite half a decade of time I have to get used to saying the sentence, I still can’t help but smile each time. Why, a mom? My mom? Preposterous! She’s dead and buried in a plot of land I can’t visit.

Yet, she’s also here, in the family house I’ve grown up to be who I’m now. The mom inside wasn’t with me during my formative years, but she’s here now for my sister, and even a selfish woman like me can understand the value of that.

Which is why I’m now sneaking up on my former home.

Though, it seems like I do a poor job of it when—“Quinn!” Even a child not yet five can easily detect me.

Without giving me the chance to reply, the child tackles my legs. Strong and fast, but not enough to bring me down. “Hoho! Someone’s excited.”

“Do you know what day tomorrow?” she asks, her eyes wide in barely contained excitement.

“Of course! I know my week! Let us see, tomorrow is… Sunday!”

“No!”

"No?” I look to Mom, then, giving her a wink to encourage the growing smile. “Is tomorrow not Sunday or are you merely unprepared for kindergarten?”

“But my birthday also!” she insists, pouting.

“It’s my sister’s birthday tomorrow?”

“Yes!”

“Then it’s her lucky day!”

“It is!”

“Got any gifts, yet?”

“No, but—”

“Good,” I say, pulling a ring of mine free from my finger. “Then, I can be the first to do so.” And putting onto hers.

The ring slowly adjusts to the size of her small fingers, the three star-shaped diamonds shine still, though only two of them have any magical luster left.

“What is it?”

“A ring, my ring.”

“But you have lots of rings!”

“Well, little Ms. Breeze! You will find this one the second best one I own, beside my wedding ring, that is.”

“Is it magic?”

“It is,” I answer, holding her hand. “One day—hopefully not soon—you will be alone.” Stroking it with as much kindness a mechanical and calloused hand can muster. “When the day comes when Mom and I can no longer give you all the things you wish, whisper unto it your greatest desire. We understand?”

She stays silent for a moment, ruminating on my words.

When she’s done, she nods and I had to cut her off. “Not now, Qafiah! Promise me you will only do it when you need to and I will stay with you.”

Offering my little finger and my most charming smile, I wait for her to take a bite.

“Forever?”

“In your life? Of course!” I instantly respond, causing her to smile to grow. “In your home? For today.” Before it dampens with my second sentence. “Come now, sister of mine. You don’t want the love of my life to be sad because of you, do you?”

And finally, after a bit of guilt trip: “Hm….! Fine!” She takes my finger on hers, solidifying our bond.

[deiarcana]

A Murderer's Epilogue - Part 01

The smell of oil and ash permeates the air, in front of me: a building burns bright orange, shaming the sun. Beside me, the source of the fire; the woman that holds the match, my hand, and my heart.

She releases the first, hold tight the second, and rule over the third.

The resulting brilliance of the first light her face in a way that’s grim and beautiful both, almost like a statue of old.

The second kept her steady when the fire reaches for us, threatening to sear our flesh and bones, mar them forever with their terrible bites.

The third I don’t believe she realizes yet.

The greatest tragedy of life, unfortunately.

No one will ever know how greatly they’re loved, not until they’re told, so I told her.

“What?” she asked, the confusion cute on her face.

So, I repeat myself. “Do you want to marry me, Lyra?”

She does.

She does.

She does.

By the powers that be, SHE DOES.

My cheeks hurt from being forced to put on such a big smile, a pain I quickly forgot when she kisses me, whispering "I love you," in the pauses we take for breaths.

By the fire of her past, our future was forged, warped neatly like presents.

There, she hugs me tightly. Half-drunk, her smile was almost dumb in an endearingly idiotic way as she watches me, as if I’m the most interesting in the room.

Finding her irresistible and inviting, I have to quickly kiss her before I ruin the moment.

Yet, the instant our lips meet, she halts all of my plan and gives chase, her tongue easily slipping in and dances with mine, allowing me to taste alcohol in her mouth and the strawberry of her gloss.

Only when both of us ran out of breath do I have the chance to whisper her name. “Lyra.…” Husky still from our intimacy as I caress her cheeks, trying my best to control myself when I deliver the news: “I’m going to sleep on my mom’s tomorrow.”

“What?! But why!? Is it me?!” With spirit and baseless paranoia, she begins. “Do you want a divorce? Can we not try to fix this? Quinn, please—!”

“Lyra!” And only stops when I pull her even closer to me. “My dear and darling love, I’m going there for my sister’s birthday.”

“Then, can I come?”

“During the birthday party, yes. But, not tomorrow.”

“But—”

I kissed her. “Lyra, my treasure, my wife, my soul.” Then, I kissed her some more, in every part of her face but her lips. “I love you until the day you no longer want to share yours with mine.” And before she can force her puppy eyes to me to change my mind. “So, please?” I use her method against her.

I don’t believe mine are as effective as her, mainly because I don’t believe anyone can be as adorable, beautiful, and charming as her; but it works all the same.

At the five second mark: “… fine,” she relents with a pout that she buries in my chest.

“Thank you,” I say, kissing her hair.

Tomorrow morning, I shall leave her for an entire day, and will miss her every step of the way.

[deiarcana]

A Young Girl's Storm

Her eyes gaze curiously towards the endless sea, shining with a desire to swim and see where she would end up. There are only two things that stop her: one, she's wearing her favorite dress; and two, I haven't taught her how to swim yet.

I don't believe I will have time to do so either. I can smell them in the air, a cruel and terrible storm is approaching us despite the clear morning sky.

By instinct, I held her hand tighter, eliciting a whimper of pain from my only daughter.

I quickly release my hold and kneel at her eye level. "Apologies, Quinn, honey." Offering her a wry and sheepish smile as I pat her head.

She looks at her hand for a moment, taking her time nursing it before looking me in the eye and smiling. "It's okay!" she says, taking my hand again. "Do you think you could teach me how to swim now?" Then changing the subject.

She has seen something again on my face, perhaps on the light behind my eyes. And whatever it is she doesn't like it, neither do I.

Which is why I am afraid to ask her about it, following her lead instead. "Not today, Quinn, honey." I smile placatingly as I stand back up. "A storm is coming."

"... Really?" Her question was rhetorical, disappointed but with no distrust, I wish it had more of the latter.

She's a good daughter, too good of one. She learned how to smile and speak before six, mastered her letters and numbers by eight, and has never once defied me in the decade of her life.

Even now, there she is: silently reading something from my small library, seemingly absorbed by it as the storm I predicted got worse and worse outside of our door.

I have a reading of my own to be done, a breakthrough in a field I've long held interest in, but I can't seem to focus, not when I know for certain my own daughter has been stealing glances towards me the entire time we're inside.

She wants to say something, but she never once raises her head again after I begin paying attention to her, obvious that we share the talent of knowing when someone is watching us.

Idly, I wonder if such a talent is indeed genetics by nature or if it's a simple nurture. Whatever the case, she's not as good as her father, not yet.

At the moment when she believed I was done watching, she stole another glance at me, locking our eyes together.

Not one to waste an opening. "Are you okay?" I asked, my voice gentle with no reproach.

She's dumbfounded, but only for a moment. The rest of her silence is her mulling, debating inside her own little mind for a few moments.

Patiently, I wait until she makes her decision, ready to accept whatever it is.

"Papa," she begins with her first word; a word she would say to manipulate me to give her what she wants.

But there's no ulterior motive to such a word now. She says it sincerely, desperately, as if hoping the mention of her father would be enough.

Enough for what? I asked as she reached her little hand towards mine, holding it tight.

"I..." she hesitated, so I squeezed back, willing all the strength and bravery that occupied me move my daughter instead.

And with my strength. "I will make all the bad things go away," she continues. With my bravery. "I promise," she swore by word and tongue.

And for the briefest of moments, I believe her. Believe her promise, rely on her comfort, grateful for her words.

After all—there is a rap on the door, cutting me off.

I know who and what is coming. So, I put on my best smile. "Quinn." And gain her attention while I pray she doesn't see the plasticity of my expression.

"Father?" Her word changes now, and worry creases her brow.

"Be a dear and go to your room, okay?" I say, as reassuringly as possible. Long she looks at me as if willing me to change my mind, but when the door raps again and I say nothing, she nods and stands instead.

I kiss her forehead. "I love you." And part her my last word. She jumped me with a hug in return. "I love you too, Father."

For an eternity the moment lasts before she lets me go and walks away, never looking back.

When she disappeared to the second floor, I pressed my cane to the floor as I rose, feeling magic gather around my body.

Forever I hope she knows her parents love her. My world, my joy, my daughter: please mistake this for thunder.

***

A child stares silently at the corpse of her father. Her hands are trembling, and so does her lips. Her eyes are watery as she finally buckles under the pressure and falls onto the floor.

She really wants to cry, but will herself not to. There's no one out there that will comfort her, not anymore.

She's alone now, alone with the oath she swore and broke hours ago.

Alone.

[deiarcana]

Lost in Translation

Let me feel your soft kisses again, the roughness of your skin against mine. Allow me to collide against you, our stars—dying and decaying—smashing into each other to form a brilliant supernova.

Biarkan aku merasakan lagi lembut kecupanmu, kasarnya kulitmu bergesekan dengan tubuhku. Izinkan aku berbenturan denganmu, bintang kita—layu nan lemah—bertabrakan dengan satu sama lain untuk membentuk supernova raksasa.

---

I miss the warm of your body, the kind whispers of your voice in my ears. I long for the caring hold of your hands. You said you love me, darling.

Aku rindu akan hangat badanmu, akan bisik ramah suaramu di telinga. Aku rindu terhadap tanganmu yang acuh dan peduli. Kamu bilang kamu mencintaiku, Kasih.

---

I did too.

Aku juga.

---

I still do.

Masih menyayangimu.

---

So, please.

Jadi, tolong.

---

Let me cut and burn.

Biarkan aku terpotong dan terbakar.

---

Let them eat me to the bone.

Biarkan gigi mereka menghabisiku hingga ke tulang.

---

Let me die.

Biarkan aku mati.

---

So that I may live again.

Agar aku bisa hidup kembali.

[deiarcana]

Menuju Kota Tanpa Tuhan

Punpun takut mati, tidak mau cepat-cepat meninggalkan dunia ini. Akan tetapi, jelas sekali bagi dia bahwa dia tidak bisa lagi menghindari mati yang sudah menatapnya tajam di depan mata.

Tak peduli seberapa kuat dia berusaha menyembunyikan wajahnya di selimut yang sudah dia kotori dengan lelehan otaknya, atau mengabaikan ejekan Dewa yang tidak bisa membantunya; dia tidak bisa lari.

Sekarang, tidak lagi dia bertanya apakah dia bisa memenuhi janjinya kepada Aiko, tak lagi ia berpura-pura dia bisa melakukan sesuatu untuk cinta keduanya itu.

Semua yang dia pikirkan adalah, “Bisakah Aiko membunuhku dalam cara yang tidak sakit?” Berharap cara itu benar ada dan Aiko cukup pintar untuk tahu.

Namun, menebak dari bagaimana Aiko berpikir mungkin bagi dua orang anak untuk pergi ke Kagoshima tanpa bantuan orang dewasa, Punpun merasa Aiko sebodoh dirinya dan tidak akan tahu hal semacam itu.

Ditemani tebakan itu, Punpun tidak bisa melakukan banyak hal kecuali memegang kepalanya dengan kedua tangannya, berusaha menutupi telinga agar tidak mendengar segala khawatir yang datang dari dalam kepala.

Hingga akhirnya, “Bagaimana kalau kita ke sana naik sepeda?” Sebuah ide cemerlang tiba kepadanya.

Sepeda barunya itu tidak punya boncengan untuk membawa pujaan hatinya, tapi jika kami bergantian menaiki sepeda, mungkin saja ....

Mungkin saja bisa! Teriak hati Punpun dengan bahagia, sekarang tumbuh besar menyaingi besarnya kekhawatiran dan stres yang telah berkembang lama di dalam dada.

Kakinya melompat mendorong tubuhnya bangun dari lantai. Ia tidak ke kamar mandi untuk membersihkan muka atau merapikan pakaiannya terlalu sibuk fokus pada jam yang sudah dia sepakati dengan si gadis muda yang menciumnya.

Gadis yang bangga dan percaya padanya itu menenagai setiap pijakan pedal sepeda yang dia ambil dengan gegas dan tanpa hati-hati, melewati rintangan dan lalu lintas seakan dia adalah seorang pembalap sepeda profesional.

Tak lama dia menggayuh, kakinya berhenti lalu bersama seluruh dunia yang terdiam menemani.

Punpun tahu tentu saja bahwa dunia masih bergerak di luar penglihatannya, bahwa kendaraan-kendaraan itu masih saja membawa pengemudi dan penumpangnya ke tujuan tak bermakna hidup selanjutnya.

Akan tetapi, bagaimana dia bisa memedulikan orang-orang dewasa di sekelilingnya yang masih sibuk mencari tujuan dan makna hidup mereka saat dia sendiri sudah menemukannya?

Mustahil ..., bisik Punpun dalam sukma, tapi di sinilah dirinya melihat senyum Aiko membuat mentari cemburu bahkan dengan ompong di gigi depan itu.

Senyum cerah itu mengusir khawatir dari wajah Aiko, menghapus segala kesedihan yang Punpun sering lihat di sana untuk menunjukkan sesuatu yang bukan lebih indah, melainkan ....

“Punpun!” ... Hangat, “Aku tahu kau akan datang!” Pelukan Aiko lembut dan hangat menenangkannya, ikut membasmi semua pikiran bodoh yang menghantuinya sejak janji mereka dibuat.

Dia bukan hanya tidak akan mati hari ini di tangan Aiko yang sudah berhenti memeluknya tapi masih memegang pundaknya, “Apakah kau sudah siap?” Bertanya dengan ceria.

Ia juga akan menyelamatkan Aiko. Ya, dia akan membawa pergi gadis ini ke mana pun sang gadis mau dengan sepeda bergigi enam pemberian Harumi.

Tak peduli apa kata Dewa tak berguna di belakang kepalanya, kau hanyalah seorang anak-anak, Punpun.

Tak peduli apa kata dunia, pulanglah.

Dia akan membawa Aiko ke Kagoshima.

Dan selanjutnya? Punpunia.

Ruang angkasa.

Sebuah tempat hanya untuk mereka berdua.

Berdua selamanya.

Selamanya yang dimulai dari balai warga dan sebuah kayuhan sepeda.

[deiarcana]

Embraced by the Cold

Mishaps and misfortune forge a way to yet another.

As if fate taunts her with glee, believing she would break and fall apart beneath their cruelty.

Alas, here Lily sits despite all the obstacles the very universe put through her way, still full of conviction to fulfill her mission and reunite with her friends.

Although, “That’s a good girl.” She doesn’t know how to get out of this one specific situation she has placed herself into while never imagining she would find herself in the first place.

Despite so, the outside world’s image is precise in her mind’s eye that opens after the twins blindfold her.

Their touch shapes her understanding of reality, making her shiver with each brush of their fingers.

Even under the covers of her clothing, she can still feel them at every inch of her body, forcing her to let out a stifled moan tinged with fear, trying her best not to let go of her mission.

And yet, “Hush.” As if reading her mind, “It’s okay.” A calming voice similar to the first whisper to her ear before nibbling it gently.

Trying to fight back, Lily raises her hand to reach her attacker’s hair. Yet, instead of pulling the man away, Lily rests her hand there, caressing the hair as the owner of it continues his way downward.

The nibbling is on her neck now, while a hand is fondly grasping at her chest. It massages it with love and great care that causes her to release another moan.

Finally seeing an opening, the other twin steals Lily’s moan and breath. At the same time, his hand is busy traveling upward from her thigh, pulling the dress’ skirt with it until it stops at her private area.

There, the hand makes its presence known with its own movement. Clear, deliberate, and undoubtedly being made with knowledge and expertise.

How the twins have procured such information is above Lily.

Lily wasn’t even sure if she even cared about any kind of information at the present moment.

Not about the magical world, nor about the mission.

All there is, is this intimacy.

The warmth on her lips as her tongue dances with her partner’s, the excitement she felt on their trousers, the passion.

All of it melted her, excited her.

Lily can no longer help herself.

Among the pleasure, she can only moan to her partner’s mouth as every inch of her is covered in fluid, every single part of it beside...

Cutting off her thought, “Alright, it’s good enough, it seems ....” Both twins pulled away from her without warning, “... Indeed.” Causing her to suddenly feel lonely and in need, wanting more.

But before she can protest, two fingers enter her mouth, warm and covered in a slime-like substance, giving her an impulse to lick it clean without a word.

Watching that, the twins freeze for a moment.

They try to contain the excessive primal force rising in their chest as they watch this young woman take hold of White’s hand and obediently wash its fingers.

They failed.

Snow snatches Lily away with great haste, forcing a yelp out of the Sage and his twin as their body falls onto each other above the wide bed.

Content with Lily on top of him, “S ... Snow? ... White?” Snow let the moment pass in silence for a single breath before answering: “I am here, My beloved.” With a warm tinge.

His voice is soothing as one of his hand open his zipper to let out his desire while the other opens a way into Lily’s body.

Realizing Snow’s plan, “Damn you ....” White climbs into the bed and gets into position while cursing White under his breath.

Feeling the two twins were now sandwiching her, Lily perked up and became more aware and sensitive as two hands pushed her up.

Alongside those hands, another two pulled her in the same direction, placing her on all four, filled with anticipation.

Her breath labored now. The scene in her head is in the middle of happening. However, in reality: the twins wait still, watching her expression and body language become increasingly agitated and impatient with great interest before, “... ah!” They stab.

Their movement is quick, but more than that: “Why are ... ah!” They attack the exact same gate.

Forcing Lily to her limit, “Please ...!” Pushing her to the edge, “You’re... ah!” Molding her in their hands, “... killing me!” As they kiss, caress, fondle, pinch, and touch.

There’s no stopping them, no pause in their tempo nor in their activity as time passes, and Lily feels like her moan has filled the space for all eternity.

In fact, Snow White feels like their effort was not enough.

They wanted to break their beloved, to own this powerful little thing by showing her all they have.

So, from the floor, tentacles rise and make their way into the bed. It reached for Lily and grasped her with its slimy arms.

It explores and touches every place the twin didn’t take hold of at that moment, leaving a red sucker mark as it moves on from one part of the skin to another.

This insanity should’ve disgusted Lily; it should’ve caused her to regret accepting their invitation to spend the night together.

And yet, “I am ...!” All she could feel was the building climax, “I ...!” Burning her insides with desperation, forcing her to move her hips.

Expecting this development, the two stopped and spoke, “Go on.” One with a firm squeeze on her behind, “Let it all out with us.” And the other with a smile and a gentle kiss, containing all the euphoria the squeeze has caused.

The three of them explode into each other, feeling the fluids mingle freely while some escape, then slowly succumb in bliss.

Yet, the twins did not sleep.

Still sandwiching their tired partner, both touch her still, tracing their fingers on her curves with love and combing her hair with their own hand with eyes of longing.

Quietly, “You’re a naughty one.” the cold passes their judgment, “An obedient one.” Whispering as the color does the same.

Before finally, ““A good thing.”” They reach the same conclusion as they embrace Lily, covering her in White and Snow to protect her from the winter’s cold.

[deiarcana]

A Drawing of Dinosaurs Chicken Nugget

Somewhere in the past, sheltered from the cold autumn wind by the walls of their hideout, two women huddles close, sharing one blanket to further help with the weather.

One have their artificial arm being held by the other, smiling pretty contently with her own situation.

The other that held the arm, held it kindly as she drew on the artificial arm with a marker that will be visible and sticks for a long time.

"You're going to draw a dinosaur chicken nugget on yours?" she asks when she notices one of the drawing is finished

"No...."

"Oho? Why are you drawing one on mine, then, Lyra?" she continues to prod, seeking justification, though her tone are playful and kind. "Hm? My dear and darling friend?"

After all, she already knew the answer. Sitting with them on the small bed are a bucket of dinosaurs chicken nuggets still warm, on their bedside table are beers with the same purpose.

Which is why Lyralei doesn't answer, because there's no need to. And when Quinn puts one more into her own mouth and another into Lyra's, she also doesn't refuse her, because Lyra doesn't want to.

In that silence, they munch, have grown too comfortable with each other for either to feel the need to fill the silence.

And so, this goes on for some quiet and peaceful moment until Lyra finished another drawing, wildflowers.

When their eyes connect. ""It's because I/you smell like wildflowers."" They both explain at the same time, causing Quinn to cackle and Lyra's to laugh.

After taking the moment to fully express herself. "Very smart, my dear." She offers a friendly pat to Lyra's shoulder. "Obvious, but smart." Praising her.

A praise she agrees still as she observers herself one last time in the mirror in the present, preparing herself for Song of Spheres.

Lyralei is a very smart woman that she truly wishes all the best in the world. And so, she shall show them her favourite mask, her little beautiful drawings on her artificial arm and they shall be dazzled.

Not only because Quinn is the greatest that ever was, but also because Lyra will be there with her. Of this, she's sure.

[deiarcana]

The Host: Rising Dead

The land is a graveyard. Buried bodies rot underneath without headstone or ceremony, hidden away by bad memories. Above it, cacti grew their thorn sharp and unforgiving, their flowers budding.

It is obvious, that the corruption beneath nurture them; allowing them to live under the burning sun, the nanovores, and the ever-present radiation from the nuclear weaponries detonated in the area.

This hostile desert has a name once, though it is no longer spoken. For the rest of the world wish to forgot all disasters that has happened since the Great Great War, the things that started it and the thing that broke the camel back.

And so, here it stands. The site of a battle most gruesome, where nothing lives but the hardiest of creature; and nothing dying but a head.

Rusting beneath the shade of an uncaring cactus, is a metal head of a usual proportion. It has no nose, but it can smell the dry wind; no eyes, but it has bear witness to human cruelty; no mouth, but it screams.

The scream. It was not its voice, nor it is its emotion. But, if it was not its—no…—his—no—her—no!—their voice, then who? Because it certainly was not the cacti. Nor was it the smothered masses below, for their thoughts has long been dusted. Nor was it the reptilians and arachnids that survives in the desert, for theirs are thoughts of survival.

So, it must be mine, then. The head finally realize. But… why did I scream? Why did I …?

They remember.

The smell of bitter coffee was sharp in their artificial olfactory. And though they did not like it and can voice protest, they chose not to. They do not remember why they do not protest.

The coffee owner was no superior of theirs, nor was it their friends. They have no friends among these humans. Not one who view them as equal.

What they do remember is the coffee spilling and mixing with blood, skull, flesh and brain of the person that drink it but a moment before.

As biting as the winter chill, the scene froze all who sees it. And though all of them wonder why. They refuse the obvious. Much like the robot, they’re stuck here in the trenches to die.

But unlike the robot, they have much more to lose.

The robot cannot remember whether or not that is true.

They cannot remember every minute details of battle or the reason why they were now without a body yet conscious.

However, they do remember the name of the people—the human in their post.

Heward Hackney, a thin and educated man who can smell a storm coming a day away. They can feel their limbs, moving somewhere. Helena Westenton, a good listener and a better storyteller. Their upper body was rising from the sand, wriggling itself free.

Gunther Browning, an atheist who pray still. They are approaching. Trey Welder, a bulky medic with a soft spot for insects. They are approaching them fast. Agatha Berkeley, a bloodthirsty soldier and loving mother. And when their torso arrives, they rise from the sand.

Conrad Truly, who never shuts up about Sabaton. Sun-like above ground they shine. Lina Kirby, who offers me her food with sincerity in her eyes. Complete they are with their limbs connected. Arnold Pickering, a friend. Slowly, they descend to touch the sand. Ida Atherton, a friend. They feel them beneath their feet searing and sweltering.

Weld Rutherford, a friend. They walk then, ignoring the warning. Roxanne Oswald, a friend. Towards the capital of the state that send them here to die. To be scorched. It shall be burned in return. I shall decimate them in kind.

[deiarcana]

Short Story: A Sacrifice of the Heart

Trigger Warning: Self-Harm, Sexual Assault (Implicit)

"My heart to the Heartless!" she screams to the clear sky as the ceremonial blade bites her breast. As the first blood travel to the grass, the sky darkens.

The wind, kind before, harsh now. It blew sharp and fast as it shriek in terror, for something far crueler is on its way.

But the woman does not stop, the response instead encourage her to pull the curved knife up and up, helped by gravity to mutilate herself.

The deeper the cut, the deeper the grey of the sky until thunder and lightning surround her, who alone now feel the warmth of the sun on her skin.

Under the Eye of the Eternal Storm, Her One Thrall, she finishes the ritual standing, proving her constitution.

And while the response from the world has been encouraging, the fact that the War Goddess does not yet appear is not.

Until finally, the ground tremble in fear and all sounds grew silent, afraid of insulting the Many-Armed.

Her halberd hailed down and pierces deep into the earth a moment before She appears in the form regal and human, Her previous champion.

"And in return...," Her voice booming, an explosion that echoes to the end of the universe.

She walks, then. As She does, greeneries rot and animals die rather than gaze upon Her body and be inflicted with pain infinite.

When She is close enough to the woman mutilated chest, she picks up the mammary, separated now from the rest of the woman's body, and eats it.

With each bite she takes, a new spiteful agony invade her body and mind, more malicious than the hours she spent slowly cutting herself.

She knew the feeling of being mutilated into great many pieces, how the burning fire taste on her skin and its smoke in her lung. The torture of being assaulted, of being robbed of power and autonomy.

She sees in her mind horror mortal-made, the things they've done to their fellow kith and kin, the things they've done to her.

On and on she sees. In what feels like an endless barrage of anguish, she forces her head to rise and lock eyes with the Goddess to find her watching.

Not with pity nor delight, but cold and dead eyes that ask one simple question: what do you feel?

Angry. She's angry. Smoldering in her heart is a fury so maddening that she's bleeding from her own fingernails digging deep into the palm of her hands.

This world, she will end; these strangers in her mind she will persecute; and the Goddess—

"... my power to the powerless."—ends her affliction with a sentence and grant her strength so great she knew no other will be able to challenge her.

[deiarcana]

My heart on her hand, beating and begging, but she refuse to listen. I try to scream, but it cannot reach her. Is it because I am the past, trapped and frozen, only to be remembered in a certain way, for a certain reason? Yes, a lucid voice answer.

But, I don't want to be the past, I reply. I want to be the present, something that made her smile when she found them beside her. I want to be the future, ever-hopeful and destined to be with her.

All I want, all I need, all that I have. It shall be her, her, hers.