#my eyes are set on sanguine metal dawn

[staminaoverlook]

Daroga stalking Erik stalking Christine and Raoul(Modern edition):

[katzkinder]

Pomegranate Seeds, Give My Life To Thee

“This is so troublesome I could just die.”

“It’s not that big a deal. I’m immortal, after all.”

“Thanks, but I’d rather kill myself.”

Mahiru hates the way his Servamp talks.

There were a number of things Mahiru disliked about Kuro.

Getting oil on the controllers, leaving crumbs and empty chip bags behind, forgetting to take stuff out of his pockets before chucking his dirty laundry into the bin, not managing to make the dirty laundry get to the bin at all, and most annoying was certainly Kuro’s habit of snacking just before meal times.

But these were all small things. Minor things. Things that Kuro had, he had to admit, improved upon since they had begun living together. The sort of things you’d expect from someone who had essentially lived for who knows how long as a bachelor (he thinks? He’s still honestly not sure on just what kind of relationship Kuro and Gear had had in the past. Thinking too hard on it made his heart twist) and then however many decades as a homeless bum. And he was proud of him! Of course he was.

These were things he could overlook. Easily help Kuro improve on. Nag him into submission about, though the housewife and “yes mommy” jokes were getting stale. But there were some things, some habits, some phrases… He just couldn’t stand. And it ate at him.

“This is so troublesome I could just die.”  

“It’s not that big a deal. I’m immortal, after all.”  

“Thanks, but I’d rather kill myself.”  

“Who cares? I’m immortal.”

“I do.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and Kuro blinked up at him, lackadaisical in even his surprise at how… Firmly it had come out. The bag of chips, once full of empty calories and now empty itself thanks to the Servamp’s habitual snacking, crinkled noisily in the still air. The burgeoning argument over Kuro’s dietary habits had come to a halt before it even really started, yet somehow Mahiru felt as if it would have been better, simpler to just let it play out like usual.

Mahiru couldn’t find it in him to care. Not when all these bubbling, festering, unpleasant feelings were reaching a boiling point over such a tiny phrase.

He swallowed, Kuro’s eyes flicking down momentarily to track the motion in his throat, then back to his eyes, and Mahiru felt another pang, along with another stroke of anger that quickly cooled to simmering annoyance.

“You’re starving yourself again, aren’t you?”

Kuro broke their impromptu staring contest at the accusation, gaze drifting somewhere else, anywhere else in the tiny apartment living room as he literally turned his back on his Eve, returning to the safe, artificial light and colorful world of his handheld.

“I was literally just eating chips,” he mumbled, all the petulance of a child who knows they are guilty in his drawled words. He scooched the empty bag closer to himself, posture practically screaming that he wanted Mahiru to let it alone, let the sleeping lion lie.

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

“... Why does it matter? It’s not like there’s any danger here. I’m fine. I’m-”

“Yes! I get it! You’re immortal! But... that’s not the problem!”

He was also not very fond of the way Kuro never wanted to address anything until things were nearly as a breaking point.

The heat in his chest was back, along with a bit of bitter satisfaction at the way his outburst had made Kuro turn to really look at him. But then his partner was standing, and the look on his face was so full of concern, gingerly taking the laundry basket from Mahiru’s hands and setting it aside so that they could stand face to face and Mahiru resisted the urge to bow his head in shame. The vampire caught his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying it in a way that worried Mahiru.

A gentle thumb just below it made Kuro freeze, sanguine eyes widening ever so slightly when Mahiru carefully pulled it free, voice uncharacteristically gentle for his scolding.

“Stop that. You’ll make yourself bleed.”

“... Sorry. Didn’t even realize I was doing it…”

“That seems to be a running theme with you.” Mahiru winced ever so slightly at the harsher than he’d meant wording, but Kuro didn’t seem to mind. Or, at the least, was too concerned with other matters to mind at the moment.

“Mahi…” Kuro’s voice had taken on that softer, more raspy quality that Mahiru recognized as sincerity, and coupled with the nickname, he couldn’t help but soften just a bit more himself. “I…” Another pause, Kuro moving to take his lip between his teeth again but managing to stop himself. His fingers twitched ever so slightly, and Mahiru reached for it, carefully interlocking their hands. “What is the problem, then? This… Isn’t just about the blood, is it?”

Biting down a snarky comment, Mahiru replied, “No, it’s not,” gripping the larger hand in his own more securely, knowing far too well that Kuro was liable to bolt. He’d been getting better about that, too, but his issues with taking blood were particularly touchy for him, he’d found. He hoped that, one day, the other would be able to be candid about it with him. To tell him the why and the how. Until then, though... It was better safe than sorry. “But if you keep it up I’ll start hiding it in your food like a cat who won’t take his pills.”     Kuro snorted, relief making his shoulders sag and stiff posture unwind. If Mahiru was joking, it wasn’t that serious. He hoped. “So? What gives. Talk to me. It’s not like you to just… Suddenly explode like that.”

It was Mahiru’s turn to look guilty, staring at their joined hands and Kuro’s pale, almost translucent skin. There was the faintest scar on the webbing of his thumb, and his nails were getting long again. He’d have to trim them for him soon. The vampire, he’d found, was prone to either chewing them down to the quick or clipping them too short. It was simpler to do it for him, and had become part of the routine of their lives. He didn’t mind it. Enjoyed it, even, if only for the excuse it gave him to hold Kuro’s hand, admire his long, elegant fingers and the difference between them and his own sun kissed ones smattered with freckles.

“Would you believe me if I said I don’t even know where to start?”

A finger at his chin, lifting his gaze back to Kuro’s, red, red eyes focused on him and so, so worried.

Why can’t you worry about yourself like that?  

“Keep it simple, then.”

Having his own life motto parroted back to him, he couldn’t help but crack a smile. Of course. Simple was best. And simply thinking… He just needed to say what he felt.

“Earlier, what you said…" he began, words slowly picking up steam as he found his voice again, found his thoughts again, "About how you don’t really care, because you’re immortal? It kinda... Pissed me off.”

A stunned look, Kuro once again blinking owlishly at him, no doubt thrown for a loop by the rare swear dropping from the Eve's lips. “O… kay? I won’t… Say it anymore?”

Still missing the point, huh?  

How did he ever end up with such a dumbass vampire?

Mahiru extricated his hand, instead cupping Kuro’s face, ensuring that the vampire of Sloth had no choice but to look him in the eye as he spoke. “Just because you’re immortal, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take care of yourself. In fact, when you don’t, it… It hurts! It hurts a lot. Because you’re important to me. Because I care about you. And I hate seeing you suffer.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh." The words were coming faster now, louder, more desperate, as if this were somehow his only chance to get them all out and he couldn't stop himself if he tried. Didn't want to, because holding it in was so much more painful. "And not just that, either! When you say things like you want to kill yourself, or that you want to die, or that it’s fine that you got hurt… I hate those too! I really, really, hate it...”

His voice cracked on the last word, embarrassingly so, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care at all, not when Kuro had a dawning look of realization, not when halting hands were reaching for him as the Servamp’s face twisted with contrite, not when he really, really wanted the hug that was being sort of half offered to him. He stepped forward, let Kuro embrace him, a shuddering breath leaving his lungs and all that awfulness he had been hoarding with it. He really... Wasn't okay at all, was he?

 “It scares me… And I’m sorry I got mad at you-”

 “I’m sorry, too. For not… Noticing that it bothered you so much.”

 “... I mean. I dunno if you’ve noticed, but I’m… Kind of really good at hiding when something is bugging me. To be honest…” He snuggled closer into Kuro’s chest, shut his eyes and breathed deep, that mixture of misty mornings and his body wash because of course Kuro was too lazy to pick out his own, all layered over the subtle metallic tang that seemed to cling to every vampire he met. It was soothing. It felt like home, and safety, the same but different as his uncle. Like everything would be okay, if only he just stayed right where he was. “I don’t think I even realized how badly it bothered me myself until just now…”

Kuro hummed, Mahiru feeling the vibrations under his ear and against his cheek. “That seems to be a running theme with you.”

“Ass.” A light thwack to his shoulder, Kuro releasing a little puff of amusement.

“My bad. Couldn’t resist. We’re both… Pretty similar, huh…?”

“I guess so. Who would have thought?”

A pat or two to his back and Kuro drew away, Mahiru reluctantly letting him go. “I’ll clean up my mess, and, um, once I’m done…” The human blinked, head tilting curiously when Kuro cleared his throat, scratched at his cheek. It could sorely use some color. “Maybe we can figure out an, uh… Feeding schedule? Or something?” He gave a helpless sort of half shrug, quickly dropping it when all he got in return was a blank stare. “Sorry, forget it, dumb idea, just thought it would, like, help or something. I dunno-”

 “No!” Kuro jumped at his shout, his anxious rambling cutting off and replaced instead with anxious finger fidgeting, clenching and unclenching his hands while Mahiru rapidly moved to reassure him. “No, feeding schedule is great! In fact, let me get a marker for the calendar and my phone while you do that.”

It was a small thing. A minor thing. Something that shouldn’t even be a problem to begin with. But it was a step towards getting Kuro to take proper care of himself. To value himself. Even if he was only suggesting it to comfort his Eve…

Mahiru tried and failed to hold down the amused little smile sprouting when he sighted the red at the tips of Kuro’s ears, quickly padding out the living room and leaving Kuro to his task, and the dirty laundry in its basket in the middle of the otherwise clear space.

No matter what the reason, it was a step in the right direction. For the both of them.

[reeeyachi]

Title: Eight

Prompt: “I thought that it was worth it, to let myself just disappear.” Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst Setting: School AU Characters: Gon, Killua Requested by: @attack-on-bocchan

Words: 1,632

A/N: Mental health awareness month in here is coming up and I’ve been wanting to publish something to contribute to this. I’ve added trigger warnings in the tags, fyi. This piece holds so much meaning for me. I hope you’ll appreciate it. :’)

Disclaimer: I haven’t been reading killugon fics lately, so please don’t come at me if you think this is a rip-off of any existing killugon angst fic. (uwu)

–

He always found him at the rooftop after school.

The boy with an iridescent cloud as hair and insipid sapphires as eyes, gazing into the nearing sunset as his feet swayed midair, arms curled to the metal railing of the ledge where he had positioned himself to park. His usual spot. The spot where Gon had never seen anyone come near to, let alone loiter in, even at peak hours when it was empty.

Empty.

He wondered why, out of all the times he had visited that part of the building, he would only see the boy when his chest felt the most hollow, when his skull felt the most chaotic, when his limbs felt the most frail, and when his spirit felt the most insecure.

He wondered how, even as he looked the other way, or tiptoed to the other side, even as words dissolved in his throat, the constant need to end his turmoil by floating with the wind dissipates at the sight of him—serene, peaceful him, with airstream reeling between the strands of his hair and puffing it in all the right places. It felt like warm sand under Gon’s bare feet. It felt like home, comfortable, accepting of his weak self.

It would feel okay to fail.

It would feel right to cry.

Weak.

Why did he have to be one? Was he born with a feeble mind?

It wasn’t like this when he was younger. He wasn’t like this six months ago before he moved from Whale Island to Padokea to live with his dad. He was always precise. He always learned how to deliver, enthused about things he had no prior knowledge of, always moved by how bugs grow and how trees reproduce, always embarked on a commission with bloomed flesh and a sparkly-white beam. Wonder and imagination found a home above his head, lightbulb never running out of energy, bright and buoyant, excited and optimistic. Aunt Mito and Grandma Abe always smiled in his presence. Birds happily sung on his windowsill at dawn. Plants thrived with his touch.

It was magic—his gift, his talent. Gon always thought that he was born to discover the world and everything that lived in it. He found a reason to step forward, to understand and connect with nature, embodying the bliss it was feeding him with, and determined to share the same level of happiness he always felt, delighted to be able to shed his rays after a snowstorm. Happy. In awe. Skipping heartbeats.

Purpose.

How could he now reduce himself to a speck of dust? How could he not remember the last time someone greeted him a good morning in the hallways? How could he not paint his classmates’ canvasses the colors of the rainbow with his sunlit eyes? How could these people be so distant and opaque? How could he not feel like he didn’t belong in his father’s house? His bones had felt hollow; his drive entropic.

He wasn’t like this.

He never had this unending storm cloud hanging heavily from his shoulders.

He had never been in this limitless void inside his head.

Empty.

Weak.

Does anybody want him around? Does anybody even want to be his friend?

“Are you gonna jump?”

Friend.

Gon realized that he was spiraling into the deleterious cave that had inevitably formed in his core, for his head spun back into that afternoon reality when he heard an unfamiliar voice. Jump? He caught his breath and clutched the buttons of his uniform over his quavering chest. His heart did, he figured, up and down the trampoline until his glimmering russets met the sea.

It stopped.

“Why are you always crying?” the boy mumbled curiously, brows meeting at the bridge of his nose as he shifted his weight on the ledge to face Gon.

Eight—the number of times he saw him at that exact same spot, the number of times he had helplessly sprinted to the rooftop to clear his head and gasp for air. But not once did they speak. Not once did their eyes meet. Was Gon imagining things? Did he finally fall into the rabbit hole of pure murk, and now dreaming of what could have been?

In response to the question, Gon touched his own cheeks. Wet. He blinked. A sniffle. Was he crying? He turned around and wiped his eyes with his sleeve, flustered beyond comparison, embarrassed to be revealing his inner flaw to a stranger. “Sorry,” he said as he tried to line up his thoughts, pulses hammering in his temples. He shouldn’t be crying. No, he shouldn’t allow himself to. His dad said so himself.

Man up.

“What for?” The boy’s tone was casual and closer.

Gon reckoned he had walked towards him. Probably. He missed the scene, though, for he had to force composure onto himself before deciding to turn back around. He should appear presentable, at least, and offer an amicable greeting. That was the first time they would be introduced. That was the first time someone from school had approached him.

The first time someone initiated a conversation with him in that sad town.

Is he even worth this boy’s time?

“For bothering you, if I did,” Gon answered, gaze darting repeatedly from the floor to his face, bashfully, apologetically. He didn’t mean to disturb his silence. He didn’t mean to be a nuisance. He thought of retreating down the stairs to go home. Forcibly, he tugged the corners of his lips for a blank smile, a smile that disappeared in a millisecond. “Sorry, I—”

“I’ve been seeing you here a lot,” the boy interjected, shrugging, ushering. “Always crying, looking like you’re gonna jump. Just now, you almost did.”

Embarrassing.

“Why?”

Gon hesitated, ashamed. He didn’t even know what it was that he was doing. He didn’t even think of what he was going to do before he attempted to do it. All he knew was that he wanted to fly away—far, far away from that place. “I thought that it was worth it… to let myself just disappear.”

A pause.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His eyes finally rested on his, reading it, searching for signs of pretense. It must be the way he blinked, or the way his pupils moved as the seconds ticked longer, because he couldn’t find any; he couldn’t determine if he was kidding. Since when did he start to question other people’s intentions?

Don’t trust anybody.

But he wanted to. He couldn’t understand why, but the stillness in the air offered warmth he somehow knew could only be possible with this boy’s company. He didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want him to go.

Should he?

Gon breathed in, bracing himself to speak before thinking of what he was going to say. Should he? “Why are you—” No. He stopped himself, scared of a negative reception that could feasibly be caused by his careless mind. He had to do it right the first time. It was a chance of a lifetime. “Sorry—”

“Stooop it,” the boy grumbled sternly, holding up a palm to Gon’s face before tucking it in his pocket. “Stop apologizing. You didn’t even do anything wrong.” He held on to the gaze for a few seconds—four, five, six—stepped backwards and propped himself on a nearby pipe chase—seven, eight—until his features softened and he let out a smile.

A smile.

Gon had to look around to check if there was anyone near, anyone that could possibly be the recipient of that smile. He had to blink a few times before he could assent to the moment.

When was the last time someone made him feel like he was deserving of such greeting? Could his dad’s sardonic smirks count? No, he never felt like smiling back at those. For one thing, he felt like pointing a loaded gun to his head, bullets in another, an endless barrage. But this boy’s smile felt different. It made him think of the clear blue sky and dancing Hummingbirds, of full-bloomed irises and white roses in a summer garden. These, he thought and realized, these made him want to smile in return. So, he did, and it was easily followed by laughter, warm, joyous and sanguine.

When was the last time he laughed like this?

Is this okay?

“There,” the boy said in between his own sweet cackles, harmonizing with Gon’s in perfect tune. “That’s better.”

They kept it in sync for a while, filling the air with music, and suddenly, it was bright and void of gloom. It felt like magic, and Gon was enjoying the thrill as an audience. For once, he didn’t have to rethink about his position. For once, he didn’t have to follow the noises in his head. For once, he wanted to continue existing and be someone’s friend.

His heart pleaded despite his newfound paradise.

Please.

“I have a feeling that you feel alone,” the boy began as he relaxed in his seat.

Yes. So, please be…

“And trust me, jumping off the rooftop is not a good solution.”

Please let me be your…

“Believe me, I’ve tried, and I’ve never felt so alone ever since.”

Let me be your friend.

“So, if you’re feeling alone, just come up here. Or call my name, and I’ll come to you. I’m Killua.”

Gon’s eyes glittered at this discovery. “Killua,” he repeated as it multiplied inside his head. He would remember it every waking day and keep it in his heart forever. He would incessantly hold on to it if he couldn’t hold on to anything anymore. “I’m Gon.”

“Gon,” Killua echoed, along with an easy smile that made the wind waltz smoothly in the spaces between them. “Don’t disappear.”

[high-justiciar]

Repentance

Darkshore. July, 628 K.C

After a setback in Lor’danel, Siphiah’s forces were bottlenecked to the south, caught between two renegade groups of sentinels and Black Moon soldiers. It was a ragtag bunch of any fighters the Kaldorei could spare, no doubt — but at the moment their efforts proved formidable enough to leave her outnumbered.

The situation warranted an outside perspective, one she regretted to employ; the Banshee’s High Ranger was here to ensure that everything moved along as planned. The two of them stood in a tent that served as a makeshift strategy room, pondering over a map of the area. Sif had scrounged up a few chess pieces to set the scene. She stared down a black rook on the table, wishing that the power of her gaze alone would be enough to knock it down. It wasn’t.

“Dawnbane.” The Ranger’s voice was hollow and metallic, an unmistakable marker of undeath. It was enough to make Siphiah’s jaw clench and ears twitch. “I suppose you have some sort of plan? I would love to hear it.”

“I do, Ma’am.” Sif rises to her full height and posture, while a heavy breath was exhaled. “My men can do little to combat them in the trees. They are in their element there, able to blend in and ambush.” She reaches a hand down to reposition the pieces, showing the worst case scenario: the white pawns picked off and knocked down one by one.

“...But if we remove their camouflage, force them to fight in the open, we will have the advantage. Their men are tired and weak. They cannot fend off a direct charge, whether they outnumber us or not.”

The Ranger’s sanguine gaze peers over the map, her lips twisted in consideration. “A brilliant plan in theory. Though, how do you expect to clear the forests? We have been unable to ship machinery this far.”

Siphiah hums her acknowledgement. “I am not proposing that we use machinery. This is a task I can handle alone.” From the table she lifts a globe, small enough to fit in her hand, filled with a thick liquid that hardly moved as she sloshed it about. She watched the Ranger’s eyes light with curiosity.

“Apothecary Black was able to source the materials for a dozen of these. Oil, pitch, resin from their pines. Lit by my flame, they will burn until there is nothing left but ash, Ranger. The Kaldorei will have nowhere to hide.”

The High Ranger cants her head, considering the proposition for long moment. Her gaze returns back to the map as she ponders. “...And you are sure that they will have no way to escape? To combat the flames?”

Siphiah does not answer verbally. Instead she gestures for the Ranger to follow her outside. Anticipating this query, she had already tested a patch of land just beyond the walls of camp. The flames had stretched nearly as far as the eye could see in either direction, leaving nothing standing except the charred remains of ancient tree trunks. Even the ground was scorched to dust.

The Justiciar nods then, answering finally, “...I am positive.”

They attacked at the first light of dawn, depriving the enemy forces of any advantage in the darkness. With the globes set in place, a single charge from Siphiah’s hand lit them in a chain reaction. Holy flames rippled across the trees, taking to canopies and lighting the bush ablaze. The armored Horde soldiers were now able to see and navigate through the forest, sabatons stomping down any fiery debris left in their path. Siphiah stood in wait.

Like rabbits driven from their burrows, the surviving Kaldorei fled the woods, playing right into the Justiciar’s hands. She and her officers were already in position to cut them down — offering no choice except to die by the blade, or the roaring flames. 

A flash of green suddenly streaked across Siphiah’s peripheral. She honed in on one of the Kaldorei soldiers leading a group away from the flames, using some sort of magical shield to keep them at bay. Her grasp tightened around the axe held over her shoulder: Inopia, a titanforged blade that glowed with molten heat. Sending a wicked swing downward, the axe drove a crack into the ground that widened into a maw, trapping the would-be escapees where they stood.

She rose her hand then, urging the flames forward. They surrounded the group in a sudden inferno. She watched as the spellblade was able to pull a single comrade from the fire, holding them close while she struggled to climb from the maw and charge out of the flames. Siphiah’s lip curled as the pair seemed to disappear from sight soon after.

Two survivors was a small price to pay for victory, she supposed.

Elwynn. December, 630 K.C

She had gotten too comfortable.

These days Siphiah walked to her camp outside the city with her hood left down, drinking in the scents of the wintery forest. Few tread this way this time of year, giving her time to reflect in silence. She appreciated the solitude, the privacy offered by the mountains to the west, the way the cold nipped her bare face. It was the last place she expected to stumble upon a ghost from her past. 

The crunch of snow alerted her. She turned to view the path marked by her footprints, but upon seeing nothing there, thinned her lips and continued on. A few paces were taken forward before the crunch sounded again. This time she was able to place it, and sent her power out to sense the hidden body.

An orb of Light flared to life in her hand. She whirled around to strike the assailant, though to her surprise, her spell was caught and held suspended in mid-air. Behind it stood a Kaldorei woman of impressive stature, snow piled upon her pauldrons and caught in the creases of her verdant plate armor. She had clearly been waiting out here for some time. 

The woman said nothing. With a flick of her fingers, the spell was reversed and slammed back into Siphiah with amplified force. It sent the Justiciar flying off her feet, tossed more than a dozen yards before she impacted a tree. It knocked the air straight from her lungs, leaving her crumpled and gasping on the ground.

Forcing her vision to focus, she looked up to watch the Kaldorei make her slow approach. Siphiah sent out her Light once more, though it fizzled upon making contact with the spellblade’s armor, harmlessly rippling off the plate. An enchantment more powerful than any she had seen. She was in the process of struggling to her feet when the woman grabbed her by the collar, lifting her from the snow with a strength that came from pure and utter adrenaline-fueled rage.

“Your flames will not save you now, Justiciar.” She spat the words in Siphiah’s face before throwing her to the side. Yet another tree was there to catch her, though the bark was not particularly forgiving. It bruised and bloodied her cheek, impacting her head with enough force to leave her disoriented.

Combat instincts kicked in. She reached back to draw her blade and swing it for the Kaldorei in a single motion, through it was instantly parried by her own. Both women held their ground, leaving them in a brief stalemate.

“Who are you.” Siphiah demanded, her sneer red with blood. The Kaldorei responded by breaking their guard, slamming her shoulder into Sif’s sternum to demobilize her once more. She bought herself enough time to sheathe her sword and attempt to restrain Sif’s arms. The Justiciar realized, with a start, that this was not an attempt to kill; it was an attempt to overpower and capture.

Lurching forward, she drove the spellblade backwards with her full force, sending them both tumbling out of the trees and down the hill that flanked the path. They rolled together in a mess of plate and flailing limbs, weapons lost along the way, and landed with Sif’s advantage. Planting herself atop the spellblade’s chest, she rained a series of vicious blows down upon her face, halted only when a blast of arcane knocked her off and into the snow.

The Kaldorei rose, growling her frustration while she dove to tackle Sif on the ground. She soon discovered that the Justiciar had an upper hand when it came to brute strength, no matter their height difference; Siphiah more or less threw the woman off, letting her reel while she got to her own feet.

“ENOUGH!” Siphiah’s voice boomed multi-layered, her eyes flaring bright gold. Wings burst from her back in a brilliant display of Light, leaving the spellblade blinded over the course of a full minute. When she was finally able to see through the colors burned into her vision, the Justiciar was long gone, escaped into the cover of the trees.

She snarled aloud, averting her gaze to the blood left in the snow. Galestrike reached out to wet her fingertips with it, muttering a spell under her breath. A red mist lifted from her hand, leaving behind an ethereal trail as it followed the source.

“...This is the last time you evade me, Justiciar.” She promises under her breath, clenching her fist and closing her eyes to face the image left behind.

[wammys-house-a]

Page 359 – Lead;

Awoke - 3:41.

 Nothing.  

 Not dawn, not footsteps, not B's hollow cackling. 

       I surface from a dreamless sleep. 

  Sitting upright, I can't discern my shadow from the ivory sheets in the dark, everything beyond the points of contact with my body is as imperceptible as the midnight sea.  

  As my skin habituates to the pressure, I sense myself floating, without depth; a blind castaway in black infinity.   The boundaries of my body gradually erase. 

   Only the breath against my palate remains to anchor me, cool and oscillating, soft as a whisper —  It's all I can hear over the chronic, distant hissing, like a virgin field in late October.   It rings in my ears, I cannot resolve whether it's coming from within me or beyond the walls, this space that's been most familiar to me is now alien and disorienting

But my identity is consolidating itself beneath my skin,  Who I am is surfacing through slumber's anesthetic.

 Disappointment fills in the gaps of my sleep-clean slate...

 I can sense my lips materializing in gentle sensations, the weight of reality settling into my expression that I'll wear the rest of the day.  But, I'm still only partially a part of the world and I want to cling to the liberating sense of not-quite-being... 

 —  Reaching into the darkness, I precariously lean out into sightless void with blind faith,  imagining gravity inverting, my body hanging weightless from the ceiling...   I can almost sense the blood collecting in my brain,  feel the placebo-vertigo, the tease of fright.

— I make gentle contact with his warm shoulder.    

 His skin is supple, warmth beneath a cooled surface.       He  is the last piece of me I need, the one that stirs, sighs, groans, returns gravity.              

   "Hey-    I'm stepping out. I'll be back."  

            He won't remember this. 

    Trouble is simmering just beneath the surface of this interaction like volcanic vents beneath a calm sea and my bed is capsizing nightly, bringing me into hot, dense depths,  that leave me tossing restlessly in my sleep.          

 On some level, he knows. — intuition, not telepathy.        

 I'll never tell him the whole truth.     

  He has a way of knowing things no one should.  

 But, he's wrong this time.    I'm not belligerently self reliant, destructively martyrial, rigidly distrustful...

   I know there are more conventional ways of sorting out turmoil;  in white walled rooms with prepackaged tissues, between bruising kisses in dark stairwells, in locked confessionals with latticed windows separating you from softly simpering adults sworn to silence.

  But, the cost of someone mismanaging my honesty is quite high...   Though, I don't believe the intention was for counseling to become a tool for successor pruning, there's an idiom that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I've come to find it's often true.  

  I’m selective with my confidants, I have to be.   Mine can harbor no secrets, displace no blame, prove no dishonesty ... 

       So, this is what keeps me up at night —

The key turns in the lock.

    For the first time in seven months I hear the click and whine of the hinges. The cavernous silence that has hung heavy in my bones splits with the piercing sound and sets my teeth.  

 — Unexpectedly,        you close it behind you.       Turning the lock.               Leaving us Alone.

                                  Together. 

 You're too young to be the new tenant.   — Looters don't need keys. They don't come carrying tiny grey boxes, they don't unfold petite pressed gloves from their coat pockets. But, when you pull the drapes and move to the next room, I know this visit is covert.   

 I   watch   you    

 - moving into the kitchen, opening drawers, cabinets, swatting at famished flies as they lick your warm, salient skin . . .     

 Mine crawls as you pull the duck tape from your tiny ashen box. It's ripping-hiss echos in the spaces between my teeth.  I'm so familiar with it that I've forgotten I've been tasting adhesive since December.

Others arrive with their lives compartmentalized, boxes labeled 'kitchen', 'Christmas', 'Abigail'... pieces of who they are they carry with them wherever they go.    

But, not you.       Not this box.    It unfolds under the white, piercing spotlight in your left hand, the dust caught in it's stream entering your lungs imperceptibly — pieces of my existence pulled into you.      

 I hold my breath, peering over your shoulder. Pressed between your fingers are photographs of the room as it was a year ago, before the eviction, the evisceration of movers. 

       You don't notice the walls moving as we sigh.      You're murmuring something to yourself, paging though the pictures, tonguing soft susurations,               I lean in close to your mouth.   

  The whisper of my presence hovers against your temple like the crevices of conch shell.    

           — " Who are you ? "  My words roll out like waves, crashing into the world.

   —  You turn, startled. Your eyes wide and searching. 

 The hammering of your heart replaces the suggestion of my voice in your ears. 

 You tell yourself,

    it's only the house settling.

But houses like this never settle.                

 That's why it's just us, alone.                               

     Together.   

 — Do you know the people who lived here before?       The ones that left with dark circles and the dining room chairs, or the man that lived here when we moved in?   

  He took with him nothing but his crippled body; leaving us for a retirement home where his days are spent being spoon feed sedatives — his appetite still blade-sharp, his body too weak to sate it.   

— If you don't know them, you won't know us.  

 Our boxes are small and singular, like yours, but contain nothing of the past, just the suspended present, sealed shut, soundless.     

 History's fugitives, 

        No names,  Only numbers.         Something else defines us, now. 

   What defines you?

Is it your name, your history, or the reason you're here ? Your box is empty but you carry pieces of what made you wherever you go, scars just beneath the surface, everyone does.

    The expectation behind the trembling of your body as you stare out into the darkness  — it isn't so mysterious, 

 you brought it here with you, 

 from somewhere,   from someone. 

 I know that feeling.    -  alone, exposed, afraid of what's waiting for you.    Darkness makes me restless, reminds me how much it can hurt here... 

   But, the taste of fear coming off you is all that can satiate my fury.    —  Maybe you don't deserve it.   But, waiting beneath his bed, so I can soak into his dreams, has never left me satisfied.   - One day, he will tie a noose from the sheets and drop his weight into it, then there will be nowhere left to  h i d e.

  You see, time never healed me, winter didn't numb the rage consuming me, it cauterized my identity until there was nothing left but Seven ... and this hunger to steal back my autonomy, for someone else to know my misery — to purge it through their body, pierce their illusions of immunity, tear control from their feeble fingers, press my fury into their straining throats, 

        Feel them breaking open under my touch.

 I want to be the one inflicting, renaming, reclaiming what doesn't belong to me simply  because.  I.  can.  

I want to be the one doing the hurting this time.   

 —   But before I can thread my fingers into your clothes, an electric buzzing breaks the looming stillness. You withdraw a slender phone from your coat and look down into it's glowing face. 

   ... I watch fright fade from you, replaced with a gradually cooling trepidation, a quiet disbelief... 

      You smile, softly - into it's luminescent shadow.  

   I drink in the warmth of it, 

 like the poison that brought us here. 

  You smile amnesiacally, like you've forgotten the world, unsullied, ungrateful like the adolescent boys that lived upstairs — laughing, slamming their doors, sharing the same world where, as they lay blissful in their sleep, I lay voiceless in plastic sheets.

I watched them too. 

 I'll never know what 18 feels like.    

 I'll never go to college,     never find my purpose,     never make someone forget the world and smile in a way that I'll never see...  I'll never share my secrets or my sins, I'll never makelove    - I have had sex.   Disgusting, soul-murdering sex.  But, never find love, never marry, never move so far away that I can be free of who I'd spent 17 years being...     

Regret has teeth. 

     They never stop growing, driving themselves deeper into you until you're rearranged around them like a bullet they just couldn't pull out.     It becomes a part of who you are, how you define yourself. 

    — 50% Missing person,    50% Metallic regret.   

  As the phone slips away, your shoulders fall into a gentle slope and the veil of ease replaced by distant weariness, it makes me wonder how much of the weight you carry is lead.   

   Your eyes trace the muted wall paper, white daisies yellowed by humid summers and cigarette smoke..  Your gloved fingers press down cautiously, sliding over the smooth surface with a nearly affectionate care.

      You're so close now,   

       I know you're holding your breath too.

You pause. 

    —       Your brows gently furrow.       

            Your gaze tightens-          

  The light in your hands dies,     

        And darkness pours over us.  

   I watch you track the invisible outline, long rectangles broken by an emaciated cross — it's barely detectable. You glance over your shoulder to the window above the faucet. 

               —  recognition seeps into your face.

 You lift the photograph, the light flickering back to highlight the captured past. — It is not that it is missing, it is that it always had  e i g h t  panes.

   I watch as your fingers begin to crawl — searching for the lower edge, plucking at it's boarder - and, I realize why you're here.

  If only I could tell you.

It was the weeping of our bodies that permeated the walls.    Tears of rage,   of regret,   of blood  began to peel the wallpaper from it's foundation. You had arrived too soon, the sun needed one more summer to bleed the colour from the spare that came to replace it. 

 Your fingers catch on the broad edge and  p u l l ;      —    I knew eventually the end was coming, I saw it, but now it is here -  it arrives with a screeching snap like the ripping of a tourniquet or the splitting of living wood, - thready, crackling r e l i e f.

   Strings cling to the skinned drywall,   a blotched slate,  sanguine stains like dying stars in ivory-white space. 

      And single, black bullseye

         —   A tiny opening, a weeping hole.  

   My coppery, wet fragrance permeates the air.  

   —    I am here.

   Wrapped in my translucent shroud, the molecules that made me up returning to the universe as a black fragrant sap, bleeding from pierced sheetrock. 

  My liquefied body eating through the lining like acid rain.

You cover your nose and mouth.   

   Oh, God-  ,          I hear you say.     

     Oh,   G o d ... 

     My finger, chipped down to it's bone, grey and porous, points out at you, as though you've been chosen -  but God had nothing to do with this.

      This began decades before my fingers forgot how they felt and bled, in an era where secrets stayed within the walls of your home, like a festering wound beneath the facade of preformed virtue, asbestos beneath the varnish of daisies in lead paint.

  Sabbath sweaters and grass stained knees wouldn't have given away what he'd been taught in hissing autumn fields, caressing the stem of his brother's throat, hands bruised and weathered —  trails of hot blood blooming in black earth where they buried their sins in secrets and soil, never spoken of again.

  Maybe the man his brother became doesn't remember being the stepchild of a family death forged, the second-hand sibling that would cut into him with subtle invectives, hewing him into cruel compliance — but fragments of his wrongdoings are embedded in his soul - knowing there's something to repent for, too afraid to discover it.  

   He made him and he made us.   

  —  Eleven skeletons, twenty one femurs, no tongues. - one thigh crushed under the weight of a collapsing wall, the thought of such an insult, being turned to dust, erased, sets me on fire.

  I watch you begin to remove your glove with an unclear intention . . .  -  your hand hesitates, suspended mid-motion, hovering bare, the decision halted like a hitching breath caught in your throat then,  slowly   trickling   out -    

a shaking finger extends towards the open wound.

 The contact.

           -  my blood  s t i c k s ,

        my flesh thaws beneath the touch,  

   damp bone to your soft, warm fingertips -  

      —     Why are you doing this   ? 

    The residual fear fades, as I watch your frame grow heavier under an imperceptible weight. Where before comfort formed resolve, there is a quiet, indecipherable ache...   and,  I realize what you're doing      

  you're saying goodbye, because no one else could.

     Acting like I matter now 

          Outrage swells within me. If I had breath to carry it, ribs to cage it, I would scream - you're an interloper, a uninvited guest to tragedy that you can't possibly understand, how dare you offer me sympathy for loss that you can't even comprehend       

  — How dare you, when you live and I die, 

  When there's no justice in the warmth of your blood or the ice in mine -!  

  But,  as I seethe in silence ...   I can sense our molecules,   yours and mine,   diffusing back into the universe, slipping like sand between our fingers, cycling through time into other beings, pulled together from the metallic fires of stars and sulferous swells of the seas to form us only for a short while — and I realize,   they never belonged to us   — that through the centuries, we might have crossed paths, tiny pieces of the universe seeing itself for the briefest glimmer of time- and then you're not such a stranger to me anymore.

  —   A strange sensation emerges from the density holding me together, a rift drawing me open, siphoning my venom.

      You whisper something so softly, I hear only the hiss against your teeth. I lean in -   ...  but you begin to blur at the edges, your words overcast, undefined, disintegrating into a tender hum like electricity in the air. Clutching live-wires of revelation tightly to my heart like a fresh cut bouquet, I watch the world gently slip just beyond my reach, growing distant, pulling with it my memories as it fades into the night 

     —   Time is now moving too fast, the last of the sand through the hourglass -    I press against my plastic coffin and I seep right through - What's left of me is coming apart at the seams, untethered, slipping away into the ether - eternity is pulling me like a castaway to the tide      

 Panic seizes me

        NO!  Don't !          I try to scream

   where is my mouth,  my voice,  my identity, 

      my home, my life, my legacy, 

       my scars are coming unwound, 

          — I’m free

        I'm not ready!    

          I don't want to leave! 

              This isn't fair!      

          Why did this happen to me?! 

           ...   Why didn’t any of it matter

[grimweaver]

                                                            ~*~

           Lucien leaned back again and closed his eyes as he sipped his tea, with a hum going out with a long and low exhale through his nostrils. After some time of wrapping his head around this revelation, within the uncomfortable silence that fell between us, his eyes shot open and stared up at me over the rim of his cup, ablaze and sharp with anticipation for a further explanation.

           I wet my lips and heaved out the rest:

           “On the 16th of Sun’s Dawn, Year 409, father attended a Hearts Day Celebration at Castle Cheydinhal. It had been seven years since we lost mother to an untimely death— from a respiratory illness that she had developed as a consequence of prolonged confinement in the coal mines of Eastmarch during a Fighters Guild quest. Being a widow and single father for that long was beginning to weigh his spirits down, so he went with the innocent intention of finding someone who would make a good wife and mother. All was well and promising for a while, but it took a horrible turn near the end. While he was in the library, conversing with the countess, he blacked out. For a time, the only thing he could recall happening after that was waking up in one of the guest rooms… lying next to the still sleeping Llathasa.”

           Lucien responded with another low, growling noise into his tea as he sipped it again.

           “After a great deal of agonizing and trying to figure out how the hell it all happened, father left for home that very morning. During the trip back, he started to remember some things that happened between the library and waking up— that he was overcome by what he called a ‘waking dream’—though fully conscious, all reason and fear of consequences left him, responding only to his… um…  attraction to Llathasa. It became clear to him that, during this event, someone must’ve slipped something into one of the wine barrels that altered the minds of all who consumed it—Sanguine mischief most likely, since that prince of sexual deviousness has his goons cause chaos of that nature on Hearts Day every year.”

           “Sounds like a logical conclusion to me,” he heaved, sitting up straight to eat from his plate with the usual aristocratic grace. His brow sank over his puzzled eyes. “Where was Andel all that time?”

           “I have no idea. Obviously, wherever he was, it was not where he could’ve intervened or discovered them together. Anyway… I’m sure you’ve done the math in your head already, but that was roughly nine months before Farwil was born. During that time, father avoided Castle Cheydinhal out of fear and guilt, but was compelled to return when we received the ‘exciting’ announcement that Lady Llathasa was finally with child, and that we were invited to stay in the castle to be a part of the celebration of his birth. Knowing that he was the real father of the child, he insisted on being there, no matter how awkward it was going to be for him or Llathasa. It was his son.”

           “I understand the compulsion, but if I were in his boots I would not’ve brought my children with me. What if Andel knew and had his guards ready to ambush and send him to the executioner’s block?”

           “He was assured that he didn’t. Llathasa included a secret message in the invitation that was sent out to him. It said: ‘He’s your son. Andel doesn’t know’.”

           “Hmm… and how did you come to know all of this?”

           “I overheard a conversation between him and my eldest sister, Ruthandra. It was on the evening we returned from one of our visits with the Indarys family. Thirst woke me up, and as I went downstairs to fetch water from the well, I was stopped by their voices; there was a tension in them that piqued my interest, so I stopped and listened carefully as he spilled it all out. I was old enough to put a few pieces of the conversation that I heard together and understand that he had fathered Farwil.” I stopped to soothe my dry and tightened throat with more tea. “I remember just sitting there at the bottom of the stairs and staring out the window of the back door, just trying to comprehend what I had just heard. By the time I had realized father was about to walk right past me, on his way to his bedroom, it was too late to scamper up the stairs unnoticed. When he inquired about why I was up so late, I told him it was for water and admitted that I had overheard what he told Ruthandra. He wasn’t happy about it, but he answered me truthfully when I asked if Farwil is our little brother—leaving out explicit details, of course. He told me that Andel should never suffer the knowledge of the truth, so that he may remain until his last breath in blissful belief that his wife had bedded with no other man and Farwil is his flesh-and-blood son. He made me promise to keep it a family secret, and I have for over twenty years. You’re the first person I’ve shared this with.” I reached down to grab more snacks from the plate, but it was completely empty— I had been absently munching on them throughout the whole story. Catching my breath after exhausting my voice, I just went quiet for a while and waited for him to reply.

   “Malkhai,” he said, looking directly into my eyes with deep sincerity. “I promise that this secret will be safe with me. And… don’t you fret any about breaking the promise to your father. It’s like you said—it is a family secret. You and I are family.”

           I smiled weakly. “I wish I could say it makes me feel better. But there are still anxious thoughts about Andel—he’s never confronted me about it but… it’s so obvious that he at least knows that Farwil was fathered by someone else. My theory is that, before understanding the situation, he performed the Black Sacrament to have a Llathasa’s accident staged by a Dark Brotherhood assassin, which is why he is now bound to a lifelong obligation to us.” I leaned forward and looked directly into his eyes. “Would I be correct... Lucien ?”

           The corner of his mouth stretched into a sinister grin as he narrowed his eyes and chuckled, “It would certainly seem to be the case, wouldn’t it?” He laced his fingers together over his wide, toothy smile as he chuckled again, “As much as I would like to take credit for that work, I must be honest and say that I was not involved in her death… none of our Brothers or Sisters were, in fact.”

           “But… then for whom did Andel perform the Black Sacrament?”

           “A political rival, and that’s all I’m going to say.” Lucien’s brow sank again, struck by the memory of what was said back in Taneth. “Hmmm… but I do wonder… thinking back on what Farwil said about Llathasa lamenting at the chapel… if it was all an accident, why would she say she had ‘hurt a friend in a way she feared can never be forgiven’?”

           “That confuses me too,” I said. “At this point, the only way we’ll ever know is if I unearth more of those private letters or father can explain it himself… if I ever find him.” A sudden dreadful thought entered my mind, twisting knots in my chest. With much reluctance, I asked Lucien “Please tell me… did the Dark Brotherhood make my father disappear?”

           Lucien shook his head immediately, looking straight into my eyes again as he said “I swear to all the Powers of the Void, we were not involved in his disappearance either.”

           “Oh good!!” I breathed out with a sigh of relief. “Because that would’ve made things even more complicated than they already are.” I pondered a little while, scratching my chin. “Still, it doesn’t rule out the possibility of Andel’s involvement.” I grinned, then flirtatiously folded my arms under my chest and leaned inward. “Gee… I sure wish I knew someone who could do some thorough, investigative work in the castle to find any clues that would either confirm or deny that theory. I’ll be sure to make it worth the effort and risk, once I am in a... position to do so.”

           "Considering what he'll risk," Lucien replied, taking in a deep breath and hiding a bashful grin behind his cup as he sipped more tea. “That someone would have to consult his superior first, I'm sure… but this matter must be set aside for now. We need to keep our focus on our current task.”

           “Right… which means that we need to get adequate sleep soon,” I looked over at the large bed in the corner, through the protective rail made with scrapped Ayleid doors, torturing myself with a vision of us between those silky red sheets.

           “Yes. I suppose, since it's already well past midnight, I'll have to let you go back to the guildhall.” Lucien replied. He then followed my gaze and read the longing in it well, then said with an aggravated sigh, “You know how much I wish I could ask you to stay.”

           “I do, but I know why you cannot. But... as much as I disagree with the reasoning, I will respect it.”

           “Thank you. I can’t say that I don’t share your frustration, but you need to understand the Listener’s restrictions as a necessary measure. In the past, our enemies have gone as far as marrying a member of the Black Hand in order to infiltrate the organization, and have done so successfully multiple times. Also, there is the concern of a relationship opening the doors of favoritism and manipulation. The Listener needs to know that it is through your own talents and skills that you have achieved high ranks and rewards, not because I gave you an unfair advantage.”

           “The marriage part I understand just fine, but not even being allowed to... “ I shook my head and grumbled. “I’m sorry, but I think that’s insane.”

           Lucien heaved a heavy, gravely breath as he shot me a warning glare.

           "And... um... I'm just going to stop there... before I say anything else I'll probably regret," I said, averting my eyes as I stood up.

           “Wise decision.” He replied, rising also and fetching my bag and cowl for me.

           “So... um… what are you going to tell the Listener if he asks you why you chose me to play the student?” I asked him.

           “The truth, of course: you’re strong enough to bear the weight of all those metal pieces, and you’re the only one that possesses the right... hmm… aesthetic qualities .” He answered—heaving a gravely, longing breath. I could almost feel his touch as he eyed me up and down, and it sent another fiery wave through my body.

           We then departed the way we had greeted— with some uneasiness, he slowly closed the short distance between us and placed his hands upon my shoulders. This time the kisses he gave each cheek were a little longer, and he couldn’t resist taking the perfume in again as he kissed the left check. He tilted his head slightly to the right, almost giving into the temptation to kiss my lips. With his mouth only a couple inches away from mine, he half-whispered: “Rest well, Malkhai .”

           “You too, Lucien ,” I replied with a slightly trembling voice.

           LaChance opened the door and bowed his head as I left through it, putting the cowl back on and pulling the handle of the bag over my shoulder. I turned around for one last exchange of smiles, without a further word, and exited the apartment building.

           The streets were still crowded, but since the vendors were closed there was less resistance in the straight path from Sisters of the Sands to the Mages Guildhall— I just had to be extra mindful of my steps because of all the garbage and pools of drunkard heaves on the ground. As unpleasant as it was, I would take waste hazard maze over the uncomfortable situation that awaited me at the guildhall. Even if he had declared that he had no authority over me, arousing Farwil’s anger could have terrible consequences for everyone else.

           The tension inside cooled when it seemed like everyone had retired to their respective sleeping quarters and were well into their sleep. But, no more than a few seconds after ease washed over me, I heard a voice growl from the black shadows of the wide hallway: “Where the hell have you been??”

End of Part XIII

[storyunrelated]

One Way Street - Pray for death

One Way Street is a pretty good example of a lot of my problems when it comes to longer pieces.

I come up with an idea, instead doing the sensible thing and banging out something small and self-contained about that idea I then think of too many stupid, half-baked details about that idea, bash out a few disconnected chunks of dialogue, fail to link them up, realise I have no over-arching structure, get bored, go away.

The basic idea went something like this:

1. It’s a world where the existence of the soul has been empirically proven. Likewise, it is also known as a rock-solid fact that the soul leaves the body and goes somewhere else after death. No-one knows where, exactly, but they know it does.

2. It is also known that they can’t come back. What you bring back is a mess, it does not survive transition. And since this seems like a good way of killing someone twice (and permanently) it’s not the done thing.

b At the same time, there is a booming business in bringing people back technologically - a whole kind of Altered Carbon ‘Scans of brains put into clones bodies’ kind of deal which basically works out as plans people sign up to. The kicker being, of course, that cheaper plans bring back kind of a shitty copy of a person (the main character - such as they are - has their dad come back and he’s basically a shell of who he was).

4. Later, the main-ish character is obliterated in an explosion and has their soul brought back and shoved into a bunch of organs strapped into a robot. This is meant to be impossible, but they are surprisingly sanguine about it.

5. ???

6. Profit.

So yeah. Looking at it all I see is a fucking mess. Like, where was I even going? I mean I know the clear line is to have, you know, the conflict be some megacorp - the ones running these come-back-from-the-dead schemes - wanting to get their grubby mits on this technique to ensure that you can actually, properly come back from the dead rather than just endlessly copying a copy (which is a problem) but, uh, I just lack the enthusiasm.

And there’s bits about...just...all the details need ironing out. Like, if people know souls can’t come back (and people do know this) why do they bother getting these technological plans? In the bits I’ve written the implication is people just don’t think about it that much, but what the hell kind of answer is that? 

I don’t know, I don’t know...

Anyway, I’m going to throw some bits here (under the cut, I’m not an animal and I know you don’t care) because I can.

Going down to breakfast and noticing some strange things with dad:

Alex yawned their way into the kitchen, much as they did every Saturday.

Dad was already there and had already set up everything anyone could ever possibly want to eat at this time in morning. There were artfully arranged glasses of orange juice, ornamental toast and even what looked like a freshly-picked bunch of wildflowers sitting right in the middle of the table. 

The cereal dominated the whole scene, however, if only because there was so much of it. Each place he’d laid out had at least three bowls of the stuff and the boxes were still on the table, turned so that they were facing you the minute you walked through the door. It was certainly visually striking, but by this point the novelty had somewhat worn off.

He’d been acting a bit differently since he died. If Alex had to put their finger on it they would likely say it was Dad’s sudden and overwhelming fascination with breakfast that was the biggest break from his original personality. 

Apparently such minor fluctuations in interests and behaviour were perfectly normal side-effects of the re-mapping process and were nothing to be concerned about. Certainly there had been worse things than a full and nutritious breakfast being set up for you every single day at exactly the same time. They were spending a lot on cereal now though, but Dad was insistent that this was sustainable. Very insistent.

“Ah! Son and-or daughter! You can see that it is breakfast time again! Most important meal of the day, is breakfast! Sit and eat breakfast!” Dad said brightly, pulling a chair back for Alex and smiling perhaps a little too widely. 

Again, this was not standard behaviour from Dad. Back before the accident he probably would still have been asleep at this point in the day, his particular line of work not requiring him until a little later than most people. Nowadays though he was up at the crack of dawn getting everything set up - it was like clockwork.

The implication - to get made clear later - is that the copies of people are just fucked around with, with bits chopped out and replaced with other bits mostly just to cut costs and also, you know, flog cereal. Which is all just setup, really, for the payoff here:

It took Alex a while to notice that Dad had stopped eating. The spoon - still laden with cereal and dripping milk onto the table - was paused halfway to his mouth, which hung open. Alex looked up.

“You okay?” They asked. Dad’s face had lost all trace of the slightly-wearing energy it had had all morning. He looked tired now. His eyes were screwed up like he was concentrating.

“I can’t remember. Something - something bad happened to me, didn’t it? Something isn’t right,” he said. He even sounded tired, each word an effort. Alex swallowed. One of the first things Mum had told them after Dad had arrived home was not to mention the accident. It could cause unwanted complications, according to the instruction booklet. Best a Renewed individual come to terms with the death of the original gradually, apparently.

“What’s not right?” Alex asked, casting an eye towards the door and hoping Mum would come back through it to sort things out. She did not. Dad lowered his spoon and cradled his face in his hands.

“Something isn’t right, it’s not. It’s not right,” he said into his hands. Alex swallowed again, skin prickling. They shuffled their chair closer and put a hand onto Dad’s shoulder.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Just having breakfast, Dad,” they said, doing their best to keep their voice steady. Dad stopped mumbling to himself and peeked out through his fingers, seeing the hand now on his shoulder and then looking at Alex and seeing them for the first time since he’d stopped eating. It was like he hadn’t seen Alex in weeks.

“Alex. Alex I’m so sorry Alex I don’t know what’s wrong but something’s wrong with me. I don’t know what but something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.”

And Dad started to cry and Alex didn’t know what to do.

“I don’t know what happened Alex. I can feel it but I don’t know what it is. Alex I - please - I love you. I’ll always love you. I’m sorry.”

Alex looked up for Mum again but she was still nowhere to be seen.

“Bits of me aren’t where they’re supposed to be. I try to find them but they’re just not there. Gaps inside my head where I’m supposed to be. Does that make sense? I don’t know what happened I’m sorry.”

Dad looked down and sniffled.

“Do I even like cereal? I think I do, but I don’t know I do. I don’t know. I know in my head that I know but I don’t know how I know. Something in there tells me but I don’t know if it’s me.”

Alex was standing up. They hadn’t noticed doing it, but they were. Their hands were also shaking. The spoon they had still been holding fell and clattered onto the floor and off into a corner full of crumbs but Alex found it difficult to care.

“I - uh - I just- I’ll be back, Dad, I’ll be right back,” Alex stammered before fleeing the room. Dad didn’t say anything. Just kept staring down into his bowl, tears falling. Alex stumbled across the hall and into the lounge.

And here is the main person (Alex) in their mechanical body, talking to Granby (the mad scientist who brought them back):

“There are things worse than death, as I’m very quickly learning. Right now at the top of my list is being held the test subject of some mad scientist,” said Alex in the tones of someone far beyond caring.

Granby slapped Alex, apparently forgetting that Alex was now made of metal. Their head didn’t even move appreciably, and most of the shock that came from a slap was lost because Alex hadn’t felt a damn thing. 

“I’m not a mad scientist! I’m a perfectly sane scientist who is also brilliant,” Granby snapped, holding his hand and wincing.

“I’m still a test subject,” Alex pointed out.

“Well yes, but I never claimed you weren’t. Would you rather still be dead?” Granby asked.

“Given that when I was dead I didn’t seem to be aware of it and now that I’m alive again I’m aware of being inside a cold, unfeeling body in a secret lab in a world where both my parents are dead then, you know, it doesn’t seem much of an improvement. So death please, if that’s an option,” said Alex without hesitation.

Granby hadn’t expected that kind of answer, and certainly hadn’t expected getting it so quickly. He’d had a whole thing lined up for the proper answer - which is to say ‘no’ - and was kind of left twisting in the wind now that he hadn’t got it.

“...you’re not allowed,” he said at length, feebly. Alex shrugged.

“Worth a shot.”

All neat-ish bits, sure, but all in the service of absolutely rock-all.

Sigh. I just don’t CARE.

[tomerasange]

Chapter 1: The Meeting of the Companions

As I looked over the scene of the tavern, the tables were occupied by many parties who had sought shelter from the heat of the low afternoon. Merchants and bards who took their earnings to reward, lovers entreating beyond the watchful eye of guardians, warriors come from the wilds or the front to swap stories. The stew of denizens made for quite the sight, and made finding my employer more difficult than expected.

I crossed the floor, inspiring leering eyes from these patrons at the bar including the bartender. Clearly, a Nobleman was not a common sight even in this establishment, never mind an Air Genasi. I tossed my hair in a civil manner, and found my way to the backroom. Here, I came face to face with several tables discussing the financial transactions and matters of security that my tales of adventuring often spoke of in great length. My cloak trailed behind with a soft lift as I found a table being occupied by a young woman roughly my age. She was adorned in finery of black fabric, with hair as stunningly white as my skin and dark purple scales as deep as the night sky in winter. She was certainly of the adventuring sort, and seemed to be a Yuan-Ti bearing the side of Human appearances, reading from a tome to pass the time before our employer arrives. I sat upon a stool and introduced myself.

“Salutations. I don’t suppose you’re working the Phandalin delivery.” “Aye, I am working that job.” Her accent was reminiscent of mine, perhaps a Northerner as well “Excellent! I’m in the same boat. Don’t suppose you’ve seen the fellow who’s paying us.” “Well now, I don’t believe I have.” “Ah, well. Perhaps I can bend your ear a tad. Pass the time while others arrive? Round of Dragonchess?” “I’m quite predisposed, thank you.” “By any chance, are you a Yuan-Ti? I’ve never seen one in my travels.” Her expression flared. “I am a Spellscale. Draconic in nature. You would be wise to never make this mistake again.”

I resigned myself to silence with a “very well” and a nod, and rummaged through my pack for a book of my own. In time, we were joined by several others for the job. In total, these were my fellow travelers.

AURORA, the Spellscale Bard, who was a member of the Feather’s Weave, a legendary guild of artisans and adventurers known for the crafting of the garbs of warriors sung throughout time (note: be ready to make friends with Aurora, as it is clear she will be most helpful in designing new apparel for my tour).

URNIG, an Aasimar Sorcerer, who despite being born of divine nature looked like a feral beast in his ragged appearance. He was the most giant of us all, carving a shadow that dwarfed my physical form.

STARR, a mountain of a Human whose fighting prowess need only be shown in his weapon of choice, a sword more block of metal than blade.

NOAH, a young Human who had an affinity for husbandry but sought out fame in his age as a Fighter.

As the hour was at hand, a burly Dwarf fellow came about our table and introduced himself as the employ. Doing a headcount, he noticed one of our group was absent, but set on to explanation, stating they were given enough time.

He introduced his name as Gundren Rockseeker, a fellow who knew the road to Phandalin well, but requested escort following a series of reports that the path was becoming dangerous. He and another gentleman named Sildar Hallwinter would ride ahead to give scouting, and we would protect the goods wagon from attackers. We would set out in the morning for Phandalin, and upon arrival, we would be paid for our services. I retired to my room gratefully paid by our generous benefactors, and awaited the dawn.

The morn brought a wagon awaiting on the outskirts of Neverwinter, and Gundren and Sildar had already departed. I awoke to a sense of preparation, as my attire for combat had been laid out on a chair the night prior. I adorned my leather armor in exchange for my fineries in front of a mirror, placed the rapier I had purchased prior to my tour at my side, secured the two hand axes (gifts my father presented me from a far-off land, adorned with feathering and inlays), and held aloft the bow and quiver which had given me much in the way of fortune. Finally, I grabbed a small buckler embellished with the light blue of the Sange coat-of-arms. I had trusted it to protect me in a situation of peril, but had never really found use for aside from creating the appearance of legitimacy in combat. Altogether, I looked like I was being sent into battle for the first time in years.

We set off at the quick, Noah on the reins. Urnig guarded the inventory, Starr held back some length to cover the rear, and Aurora was scouting out the trail by eyesight. In addition, a sixth man joined us by the name of Snafu, who cowled himself in mystery with a robe and hood. For my part, I was tasked with a similar role as Aurora, but I found the light sun and fresh air did wonders to lull me into comfort. As though I were in the chambers of my home’s parlor, winter drifting outside and fire lit, the light fumes of the wood smoke dispersed high into the ceiling, so as to not choke our pores, with the dulcet tones of a bardsong in the corner. I sidled next to Noah in front and drifted off to sleep, in hopes the ride would be easy.

I awoke when the wagon came to a halt in the road. Aurora and Noah noted a blockage ahead, and I rose to perhaps help in levitating this obstruction. Only then did it become clear this had been no accident. Two horses lay dead in the road, and by confirmation, we deduced these were the colts belonging to Gundren and Sildar. From the sides, I heard noises. An ambush! I drew my bow and fired into the shrubs. A miss, as the arrow lodged into the ground. I cried out, “That was a warning shot!”, so as to save face in front of my fellow men.

Our attackers showed themselves with my cry. Goblin fighters from all about, left to right and center. Our companions drew their weaponry. Aurora grabbed a harp embellished in the front with a fish motif, Noah his sword, Urnig a well of mana, and Snafu... proceeded to walk with purpose. I leapt deftly to the air, summoning another arrow to my bow. As one of the goblins ran towards me, I calmed myself and let loose without hesitation, stringing the foul beast. The goblin was hardy in stature and continued to track towards Aurora. The field soon descended in a chaotic state, as Urnig wielded a lure of lightning, hooking and pulling a goblin to their demise. Noah began to fear for the safety of the wagon and steered the now spooked horses to the side. As I reared my head, I could see a goblin strike Aurora, who had drawn her rapier in turn. The thought ran through my mind. I cannot allow her to perish. Think of the garments! I dashed to her aid, and with a pirouette stabbed upwards into the goblin, dead on the ground.

As I helped Aurora to her feet, another goblin, seemingly entranced to our cart, gently walked towards the supplies (I later found out this goblin was charmed by Snafu). Without this knowledge, I could not allow the cargo to be compromised, and gutted the goblin. I paused and looked on in shock as Urnig began more evisceration, summoning the might of a thunderstorm to violently burn what was left of the goblins. Starr, having joined the battle, began to slam his sword into goblins with instant carnage. What have I gotten myself into? Surely, I enjoyed the spirit of battle as a Fighter, but these brutes had shown a form of combat that was neither graceful nor dignified.

As the goblins lay deceased, I took a tally of the scene. As my companions scoured the corpses like vultures, I only felt inclined to join. As I went towards the corpse of a young goblin, a sense of bile arose. The sanguine humor caught my nose, and I recoiled. Realizing this was barbaric, I dusted my hands and only congratulated my party before escaping to safety.

It became clear enough we had to find and retrieve Gundren and Sildar with the utmost haste. If not for their safety, then our payment. We hid the wagon and ventured forth, as the sun hung high in the air.

Amidst the tree cover, I took lead searching for the goblin nest. I inspected the surrounding area. Suddenly, I caught a whiff of a disturbance in the nearby area. Under my training, I had remember that malleable dirt, freshly dug, had an aroma not unlike a raw mushroom. Thinking back to the days when I would wander my manor’s many rooms, I distinctly recalled the raw mushroom from a storage cupboard, and realized there was a hole which had been hastily dug into the face of a cliff. As my companions tore open the hole, I began to feel a sense of dread. This was further than I had ever journeyed into the heart of battle, and whatever lay beyond would likely be my most vigorous challenge yet.

[whyshebiteownass]

Until Sunrise Excerpt (2009)

In the fading light of the sun, the sand gleamed a vibrant venetian blue. Which is just a fancy way of saying purple, but writers who don't make with at the least a touch of flowery language and circling prose are few and far between, and your own author, or perhaps, narrator, is not one of those talented few. But, my narrative meanders; back to the matter at hand.

The twilight turned the sandy wasteland to a violet sea. Oddly, there was no change in the quality of light, the sky seemingly caught in the stage between day and night. There was no wind; the sand didn't stir, no breeze whispered between the low dunes. No bird marred the sky, no called from secret burrows. Not a single animal made itself known, nor plant rose from the silent sand. Just seemingly endless sand, and a scarlet sun hanging low on the horizon, tainting the sky in the same shades of purple and blue that painted the desert.

If I may, I will have to admit now that I had lied; in fact, one animal did indeed lay upon the sand...a single animal of the type homo sapien; a human.

A single young woman; her cropped hair a shade unknown in the deceptive light lay still upon the sand, curled on her side and clutching her knees to her chest. Her eyes closed, she shivered, either due to the light chill in the air or due to some internal strife, I do not know.

As if in response to our discreet regard, the girl slowly opened her eyes, sitting up with a gradual disregard for her surrounding, like one who has awakened from a long, strange dream only to wonder again if they may, indeed, still be dreaming. She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing some sand off her face as she did so. It was not the most attractive face, though appealing in it's own way. The short hair framed a pointed pixie face, set with exotically angled large, sleep or daze-blurred eyes which cast around in seeming confusion.

Slowly, the girl stood, brushing clean her skirts and tucking her white shawl firmly about her shoulders, still looking around. The twilight cast her skin and clothing in shades of blue, her hair and eyes touched with lavender and sanguine. And yes, I do know I am getting a little extreme with the colors; I do so enjoy them. Again, I digress.

Hesitantly, the girl took a few steps backwards, turning full circle to take in the full extent of the sheer lack of any significant landmarks, unless, of course, you count 'large dune' or 'slightly smaller but still fairly large dune' as landmarks. Otherwise, the sand stretched in a seemingly endless plain in all directions, though the sand itself seemed to be lighter in the direction of the sun, and darker, almost black, in the direction of the encroaching yet still darkness.

The girl was faced with fourchoices; walk in the direction of the sun, a direction we will now arbitrarily call “West”, as we don't truly know if the sun is supposed to be setting or rising. To walk East into the blue-black darkness of night and all the dangers it might contain. To walk North or South into unchanging dusk or dawn. Or to stay still, sit back down and curl up into sleep until help arrives or death claims her.

This young girl child chose sunlight without a backwards glance.

Elke was confused. She knew her name, but not much else. Not where she was, or how she'd gotten to this land of sandy desolation. She didn't know why the sun didn't move, or how she knew what a sun was; she did not, in fact, remember much of anything, not why she knew her name was Elke, not where she lived or the names of her parents or siblings, not that she knew if she actually had any.

She didn't know why she chose to walk towards the sun and light sand, just that some primal instinct deep in her soul screamed to not walk into the dark, and something that sounded like her own voice (though how she knew what her voice sounded like she didn't know; she didn't remember ever speaking) told her she had best not waste herself wandering in the faded light where she woke.

With that, the only choice left was obvious; straight towards the sun and the hope of true light. And strangely, despite the fact that she knew (and once again, how she knew she didn't know) that walking towards the sun is not any sort of way to catch up with daytime, it seemed to be happening.

The further she walked, the brighter and more clear the light became. As the unmoving sun slowly rose higher in the sky, the purple and blues of twilight faded, slowly revealing the true colors of the sand and girl walking upon them, light shimmering on golden sand and golden hair alike. The air also was growing warmer, rising and rising and without a doubt soon to become unbearable, especially since Elke was not in possession of any liquid that might sustain her on her trek into nothingness; she had the odd feeling this strange desert world would provide.

And provide it did, some hours? minutes? later, when the run rose high in the sky, the savage heat making each breath a labored, gasping thing through cracking and bleeding lips, the lack of wind providing no relief. She staggered, her high black boots catching on sand and nothing, her eyes blinded by the bright reflection off of the now brutally shining sand, and fell. She lay still for a moment, the heat pressing her down, her eyes slipping closed. She could lay here forever and burn, she thought. She could die and turn into some desiccated mummy for some other lost, tired girl to trip over someday.

The thought was too morbid. She tried to gain her feet, and failed. Her forehead in the sand, sand in her mouth and her throat crying for water, she took a moment to regain her strength, and started to crawl, soft gray eyes blind in the light, in the direction she had been heading.

Her hands blistered and split, her skin turned red and burned. She crawled on, relentless, not knowing what drove her forward but helpless in its pull. Her arms trembled and her nose bled, but still, she crawled on.

One hand met something that scorched her already-burnt hands. She let loose a muffled cry, but reached for it again. It felt like metal, and burned her, but not, she now could tell, with heat, but rather from cold. Frost coated the sand where it way, inexplicably frozen; and the chill felt so very good to her. Elke ran her deadened fingers along the cold metal and wondered at what she thought she felt; her mind loose and vague from dehydration. She forced her eyes open and, though her vision was blurred and spotted with black, the crazy idea she's had was true. The white metal haunch of a rabbit stuck out of the frosted sand.

Elke drove her hands into the frozen ground and tore clumps of ice and sand up and away, flinging them out into the heat away from the icy rabbit, where they evaporated into wispy mist.

The rabbit, once it was revealed, shone silver-white in the sunlight; the color not blinding only due to the foggy cloud that surrounded the strange thing. Metal it was, and clockwork by the look of it. At one point it perhaps wore a coat of white fur, but the scraps of dried and brittle furred leather fell away as she lifted the toy from the small hole it lay in with the shawl she pulled from her shoulders and head.

A small indented design lay on the rabbit's belly, presumably the keyhole for the missing key that would start the gears of the small clockwork construct into motion. It was frozen a position like a thing dead; the glassy red-gemmed eyes only enhancing the feeling that Elke held something that had once been more than a simple mechanical toy.

Elke forced herself to her feet, swaying as she tied the shawl into a sling, the cold rabbit resting against her breasts like a baby once she slipped her head and one arm though the loop. She felt oddly refreshed, though her lips still bled and her skin was still blistered; the need for water was lessened, though it could only be that her body was failing. The coolness of the construct spread though the fabric of her shawl, a sweet relief from the unyielding heat. She didn't know why she took the toy (or maybe corpse?) with her; it just felt right, in more way that just as a means to stave off the heat.

Elke had been hearing the sound for a while before she realized it wasn't simply a product of her imagination. She'd been trudging, head down, eyes closed, thinking nothing, the gentle tinkling sound that gradually rose in volume mostly ignored, or at least not registered, until, that is, she shuffled out of the sand and onto tile, tripping on a low ledge before she could come to her senses. She twisted, the sling-carried rabbit coming loose and clattering onto tile as Elke herself plunged into a shallow pool or sweet, cool water.

She inhaled before she could help herself and came out of the water coughing violently, and shaking with exhaustion. She spend a few moments just sitting, staring in disbelief at the brightly tiled bottom of the fountain, until, with sudden ferocity, she plunged her face back into the water and gulped frantically.

Then she threw herself halfway out of the fountain and retched violently as her body rejected the sudden influx of water. Coughing, she lay there helplessly for a long while, eyes half-closed, relishing the sweet feel of cold water surrounding her battered and tired body until she thought herself ready to try again to drink.

Slowly this time, she relished the sweet water, feeling that nothing in her mysterious life had ever tasted as good as this water did to her now. Lazy and feeling as content as if she's just spent hours upon hours sleeping, Elke took the time to look around this bizarre oasis.

She was startled to note that, unlike where she has awoken, here great towering spires of bleached white rose in clusters from the sand. They reminded her of bones, and with a start she realized that they were indeed skeletons, as she realized that not far from her haven the great skull of some nameless beast rose from where it was buried in the sand. It was huge beyond all imagining, a single eye socket rising two, three times her height, perhaps more. The skull lay a little away from the rest of the body that she could now piece together stretching into a massive circle around the fountain where she rested.

The sand stirred, and the first breeze she's felt in this strange place whispered to her, giving her an odd, almost nonsense word, perhaps the name of this beast.

“Ja...Jabberwock?” her voice was a broken croak; she coughed violently in reaction to speech; but when she spoke again, her voice was clearer, “The Jabberwock?”

“Ware,” the wind whispered in confirmation.

Unnerved by the voice in the wind, and yet oddly unphased at the same time, (nothing seemed to be impossible in this place; maybe she'd been in the sun too long?) Elke turned away from the massive skeleton to look at this odd fountain that sprung from the middle of the desert.

It was surprisingly large, stretching a good twenty body lengths across, and seemingly built for either a great many people to enjoy, or for something far larger than a mere human such as herself. She shivered, thinking off the massive corpse that lay forgotten and half buried in the sand around her, and tried very hard to not let her eyes wander to the jutting vertebra that lay in the distance ahead. It didn't particularly help her quest that she could look no direction without the bones being visible. She idly wondered how she had walked past such a massive thing without noticing, eventually deciding that between the heat madness and perspective, she simply hadn't realized, ignoring the fact that she had been in no condition whatsoever to recognize anything before the fountain.

The fountain bowl, in addition to being alarmingly large, seemed to grow deeper the closer you came to the center fountain, the brightly colored tiles of the bottom depicting mice, birds and all other sorts of animals spiraling in and disappearing under the darkening water. And the fountain itself...Elke walked forward, swimming when the water grew too deep to touch the bottom, until she reached the marble statue of shining white marble and tired, beaten gold, her eyes wide in awe.

Upon a white marble crown, a unicorn, also of a pure white marble, was locked in eternal combat with a magnificent lion wrought of gold, or something much like it. The unicorn's horn pierced the throat of the lion, while in turn, the lion's claws were depicted as deeply sunken into the unicorn's thoat. The fountain's water trickled down the massive bodies from the wounds, tinkling sweetly as the tiny streams ran over the edges of the crown which the two fought over and into the bowl of the fountain.

Slowly, Elke swam backwards and away from the fountain, somehow disturbed at the implications, though they seemed unreasonable. Her feet touched the bottom, and she moved to sit on the ledge surround the water, pulling her feet up so that her boots would dry with the rest of her.

She shook her head at her fancy and spoke quietly to herself, her voice still horse and rough, "It's only a fountain."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Elke jolted to her feet, head swinging around in a panic. She'd heard no one approach, and the voice was not the same as the non-threatening whispy voice that rode the wind. This voice was soft, sweet toned, but with a feeling of deep power underneath. It was alien and frightening, feeling that from a mere voice.

A young girl stood a little distance away, seemingly absorbed in examining the white clockwork rabbit that she held in her hands. She was a pale, pixy-like waif of a girl, long pale blond hair falling freely down her back, the ends settling around her waist and swirling with the elegantly patterned white skirts in the breeze that seemed to have just kicked up, releaving a lacy white under-dress and long socks or stockings, patterned, like the white skirts, with soft blue flowers, but lacking the long finned red fish that swam on her voluptuous skirts.

Delicate black slippers, which, in Elke's somewhat distracted opinion, could not have protected the girl's feet from the heat of the sand, were embroidered in white and pale pearls, matching the black garment she wore over the white dress, the fit somewhere between that of a tabard and a long apron, depicting long spiraling lines and curves, which, after a moment of mental tracery, Elke realized depicted cats. Twisty, twining cats, which filled up the majority of the garment's narrow panel and collar.

A small, almost modest white headband rose from the thick blonde hair, and carried the reverse image of the cats on her apron, picked out in black and gleaming ash gray peals. It was understated, but lovely, and Elke had the sudden feeling that it was more than a mere headband.

The soft smile the girl gave her, her blue eyes warm with affection and far too old for such a young face, only served to imprint the impression deeper into Elke's mind.

"Who are you?" Elke's voice was a wavering squeak, but the girl's smile only grew.

"The White Queen, dearling." It was not a little girl's voice. Soft and sweet, yes, but rich with tones that no child carried.

"Oh," was the only thing Elke could think, and she flushed with shame to hear it aloud and realized that she could not control her own mouth well enough to be silent. It didn't seem to bother the White Queen, who only stepped closer.

"You are an odd one, child. Why are you in this place, and where did you find," the Queen cast a look at the clockwork construct she held, sorrow in her eyes, "my old friend?"

Elke slurred nonesense for a moment, stumbling for words, before she creaked out, her lips starting to bleed again, "I...I woke up, out there where it was dark. I don't know. I don't know who or why or, or, what I'm doing here. I..."she realized that she was starting to cry, tears stinging the burns on her face and the cracks in her lips, her shoulders starting to tremble as she sank down onto the soft, warm sand, drawing her knees up and curling in on herself. The stresses of the last few days, or hours, or however long it had been were creeping up and overwhelming her, and she couldn't care less, under the hot sun and the soft eyes of the White Queen.

"I'm tired and hurting and I don't know where I am or who I am, or what I'm doing here and I'm scared." Elke whispered into the soft blue of her skirt. Elke felt the White Queen settle onto the fountain's rim beside her, and a hand started combing through her hair, pulling her out of her huddle to rest her head upon the Queen's lap. Elke started to pull away, to speak again, but the Queen just shushed her and started humming a soft tune, her gentle hand running across Elke's scalp, petting her as one would a frightened child.

The pain from her burns eased, and slowly, Elke could feel the cracks in her lips mending. After a while, Elke was unsure of how long, she shook off the peaceful lethargy that had settled over her and tried to sit up. This time, the Queen let her, but caught her face in one hand, and gently began wiping her face clean with a hankerchief which had been moistened in the fountain.

"We'll take this slowly, child. First, for my own curiosity, where did you find Rabbit?" Elke could hear the capital in the word, and from the particular way the Queen had phrased her question, Elke figured that it must be the construct's name.

"Out," Elke waved towards the skull of the Jabberwock, "that way, I think. I... I'm not very confident of which direction it was. I wandered a long way." The Queen turned to look in the direction of the skull and nodded.

"It would made sense, for him to have been there. Very well. Now, you say you work in the dark?" The Queen's gaze was piercing, though her voice kind. Elke felt small, but nodded.

"More like, the place right before dark, but...yes."

"Hmm. Good." The Queen looked thoughtful, but Elke was just confused.

"Why is it good?" Elke asked, with something approaching desperation tainting her voice. Her confusion was reaching it's peak, but the Queen just patted her head.

"It means that while you lack purpose and are almost too far gone, you aren't beyond all hope. That you walked this far from the edge means that you are seeking the very purpose you lack." She hummed quietly to herself, obviously considering something, while Elke merely watched, placid and strangely sure that she'd get more information at some point, and oddly fine with the idea that she wouldn't be getting it right away. She had another question.

"Where is this?"

The Queen looked at her in surprise, then laughed, the sound as light as the water tinkling into the fountain behind her, "You are in what was once the Tulgey Wood, my dear, a dark place of secret beauties. Behind us rests the Pool of Tears, and around us, lay all that remain of the Guardian of these lands, the Jabberwock. He was once one of my friends, and known as the Black King."

"What happened here? This is so... so desolate." Elke winced at the look of old grief in the Queen's eyes as the child that was not a child answered.

"With the Black King dead, his lands withered away, and his people died. Now, there is nothing but this waste."

"But...what could kill something like that?" Elke motioned towards the massive head, lying in the distance.

"One of his own Knights, twisted and turned against him, and using a weapon of great power; the vorpal sword." Elke paled.

"He was betrayed? By one of his own people?"

"It was not a willing thing, my dear. Knights are most loyal; it was a great act of evil that caused the death of the Black King. And my little friend here," The Queen lay a hand on the hardened hide of the sand logged Rabbit, seemingly unbothered by the extreme chill it emitted, which lay beside her on the fountain edge, "Was...killed, I suppose would be the best way to say it, defending his King, for he, too, was a Knight."

"White Rabbit as Knight to a Black King?" Elke couldn't help but ask, but the Queen only laughed.

"There is no requirement saying a subject must match the color of their ruler, just as the color is not a requirement of the ruler. It's more for the fun of it, really. Or was, at the very least." Elke was sure that there was more to the story there, but before she could ask, a wicked look washed away the sadness on the Queen's face, the sudden, unexpected change from sweet faced girl Queen to plotting wickedness throwing Elke off balance for a moment, "I have just had the most delightful idea."