The Madnesses

“Ah, but love,” the Dead Spirit breathed, circling back and forth around the bars. “That isss a poison, even to you—poison to make men mad and sssend women to their deathsss. No, no, love is too strong for me to use, bright and black and gloriousss, an infection I cannot drive away or bring. It will recede as the tide and come again, steady as the sea, wild as the wind—love destroysss all. But he is not destroyed by love, but by lust. It is not my doing.”

“So you are not responsible for it?”

“He was infected by that madness long before I came here,” the Spirit answered honestly. “Bright-Crown has too long taken what he wisshhhed to be bound by it—his madness is greed, lust for power. You know this, ”

“I know.” The queen pursed her lips. “Spirit, I know you intend to destroy my son.”

“Do you now.” The Spirit paused, just far enough into the blackness that the edges between the shadows of the skull and the shadow of the cell bled into each other. “He tempts me, taunts me, waves morsels beneath my nose and sssnatches them away—the blackened sssouls of all who support him. I intend only to satisfy myself.”

“By his destruction.”

The Spirit hesitated, then nodded, smiling widely. “Yesss.”

“Were it in your power to bring this... madness upon him, would you?”

“Which madness do you ask?” The white skull began to circle again, ducking a little further into the darkness. “The greed, the lust, or the vengeance?”

“Any,” the queen said firmly. “Any madness.”

“The greed, perhaps. If it were in my power, I might blacken his soul to suit my tastes, drive him down a dark path that ends with me. But were it in my power to bring such madnesss, why would I stop with one who bindsss me; why would not every man be infected with such? No, no, such is not my power.” The Spirit drew a little closer to the bars, gliding smoothly instead of the snake-like bobbing that normally marked his motions. “The lust... perhaps. I could make him drag others down with him; lie and cheat to sate the flesh, blacken the souls of many—but again, this is not my power. His lust is what has drawn me here, not my doing. But the vengeance...” The dark figure stopped, inches from the bars, and the queen did not move away. “The vengeance I would not. This madness sets fire to sssaw-dust, forces those who would remain bland cowards to become bright lights, fighting against the mad prince. It pushes away those who would be blackened with him. Yesss, it is madness, yesss, it blackens his soul—but if it were in my power, I would not bring it. The vengeance can only destroy him until he is one like me.”

The queen remained silent for a moment. “So what is in your power then?”

“Fear alone is the source of my power, and fear alone is what I can bring. But there is a power in fear.”

Pump, Lift, Pour

His life is threefold, in this moment—three words, three movements, and none other. Pump, lift, and pour fill his every thought, and he lets himself go blank, flicker out like a star behind the clouds—still there, but hardly. The water runs over his hands as he pours, washing away the dry and warm and making his fingers slippery so the bucket is harder to hold. But the water is there, is real, and is more than him in this moment. He can see his breath, and it is water.

Pump, lift, pour, and the basin is another drop closer to being full. But that is unreal and far-away, and this is here and now, and the spotted tin of the rings around the bucket reflects scarlet and skin as he lifts it to the edge. The weight makes it real, weighs him down and keeps him here, so he will not blow away. As the water drains out, joining that in the still basin with splashes and ripples, the weight lessens, and he feels the nagging urge to kneel again, to fill the bucket, to pump.

Pump, lift, pour, and he doesn't need to understand it. The handle of the pump is freezing cold no matter how much heat his frozen hands pour into it, and he must only touch the wooden part or his hand will stick and leave his skin behind. He thinks, briefly, that he should repaint it come spring, because the red paint is flaking away and breaking the surface of the falling snow, and the red of rust is ugly and his master would not like it. Up and down, up and down goes the handle with a rusty creak, and the gurgling rush of water hits the bottom of the bucket with a thock-athocka shhhhh that sounds hollow and full all at once. The sound echoes further than his breathing, into the sparse forest and snowy darkness. The world is half black and half white and all water and sound and scarlet.

Pump, lift, pour, and the snow continues to fall, and there is no sound but the splashes of pouring water and the rush of falling water and the back-and forth creak of the pump's handle. There is no time but hours. There is breathing, slow and measured with the motion, and droplets of condensed breath that vanish in the empty air. There is weight, of the bucket and the handle and the water that falls into the basin. There is darkness, light, and snow. There is scarlet.

There is nothing else.

Pump, lift, pour, and everything changes. A door flies open on the other side and the snow lights up with the firelight, and someone tumbles out into the snow, rushing with barefoot steps that crunch fast across the dry snow, running around corners to the back where the pump is. Pump, lift, and pour fade away—the footsteps are more important, familiar and demanding and he straightens, dropping the bucket from frozen fingers to meet them.

She catches sight of him in the shadow, and stops—her feet are bare in the snow, and she must be cold, he thinks, she needs to go inside, but then she runs to him, and grabs his hand, and pulls. She is saying something, scolding him, going on about cruel pranks and frostbite, but it is very hard to listen over the heat of her hands pouring into his fingers, dry against the wet and warm against the cold. She nearly drags him around the corners, marching stubbornly along the path that her footprints carved a moment ago. He follows meekly, silent, and merely listens.

She starts to drag him inside, but he pauses, more out of habit than any sort of fight, to kick the snow off his boots, and he realizes the ice has frozen them on. She pulls on his hand again, and he follows her in.

The children watch them, silent and guilty, and he remembers hours ago how they told him to pump and pour, to go outside in the frozen dark, how they said it was her wish. It wasn't—he can see that now, through hindsight and the snow in his eyelashes. The fireplace is startling in its warmth, and he draws back. She glances back at him, then shoves him down on a bench. She orders him to stay, and that becomes all that matters, and he gladly obeys. A boy hesitantly offers a blanket, and she wraps it around him, muttering something in the nonsense language she uses when she is angry or dealing with very small children.

It is rough, but warm. He settles into it, trying to force the cold out of his bones, listening to her whirl on the children and begin a long tirade about taking advantage of Bird and cruel jokes and could've died and what could happen. They shrink before her like shadows before light—she controls them, creates them, and they cannot exist without her. There is a pause in her tirade, and the fire cracks and jumps, and he leans forward towards the warmth, because the fire is not so startling now.

He remains here, hunched over, for some time, as children are banished to bedrooms and silence and punishment declared for all, before she returns to him. She kneels before him, brushing away the blanket to remove his hands from where they have been tucked next to his stomach. She takes one gently, and rubs it between hers. The warmth is burning, almost painful, and he winces. She sighs, and apologizes. Something halfhearted about the children not meaning any harm and him knowing better follows, but she doesn't mean anything but sorry, and both of them know it.

She picks up his other hand, and rubs it in the same manner of the first. She says the circulation is still alright—he won't lose anything, and he is glad because she is. He puts the first hand to her shoulder, and she looks up, startled, and there are tears in her eyes. Thank you, he whispers, and the tears fall. She puts her head in his lap.

Once

Once upon a time, there lived a fantastic beast; a horned bird that tormented a city by the sea. Nothing could stand before it, and only the winter storm could slay it. But that was long ago, and unremembered, and it has long since died.
Once upon a time, the city by the sea found itself a mighty king, who ruled over great lands. He lived among them, and there he built his palace, overlooking the western shore. Beneath it there were catacombs, dungeons, and darkness. But that was long ago, and he has long since died.
Once upon a time, a monk was falsely accused of murder, and imprisoned beneath the castle. His order built a shrine upon a hillside, on the site of an old spring that had run dry, where they waited and prayed for him. The monks dug into the hillside to build it, and paved a great road with the stone. Two years later, the accused monk appeared in the shrine; the people of the city took it as a miracle and let him go free. But that was long ago, and the little shrine has fallen into disrepair; the monk it saved has long since died.
Once upon a time, the city by the sea was blessed. A man who might have been a prophet said that they would forever prosper, if they never forgot who they were. A great storm blew all around, but never touched the city, and the white walls of the palace shone like a beacon out to the sea. They blessed the man who might have been a prophet, and welcomed in the hundreds of swamped boats as he commanded them. The city became known for kindness, and beauty, and wealth. But the might-be-prophet's words have been almost forgotten, still whispered in proverbs and by old women in their last days. He himself has long since died.
Once upon a time, a selfish king inherited the throne. The city by the sea struggled under his rule. There were whispers that burned through the city like fire, and they forgot how to trust their king, or the nobles, or even themselves. Grief marked them, fear ground their hearts to dust. Their kindness was beaten into obedience, the high-held heads were cut down. Their hearts were burning as they forgot. But that king has died, perhaps not so long ago.
Once upon a time, there was an actor, with great skill in his craft; he made worlds spring to life with his voice, and moved like a dancer in a dream. He knew the powders of the street magicians and the stories of the city, the beast and the monks and the might-have-been-prophet. The court was entranced by him, and he walked among them for a time. But he learned what he should not have learned, watching as he did. And he was falsely accused, and cast down from the light, to the lowest cell of the dungeon to starve.
And perhaps he died.
Once upon a time, a black spirit appeared in his place, clothed in torn robes and wearing the skull of a fantastic beast. It spoke in riddles, could not be caught, blew away like smoke. It brought forth a bleached human skull, and the skull burned.
It called itself the Dead Spirit; it walked in darkness.
Once upon a time was now.

Do Not Die

The blackness was warm, soft, and welcoming. He felt his mind slipping in, slowly, inevitably, like falling asleep or sinking into deep water. It was peaceful, he felt, it was restful, it was right...
It was wrong!
He shot out of it again, fighting. He couldn't remember why it was wrong. Maybe it wasn't wrong. He just didn't know what was right. He needed his master, his master would know, his master would...
His master!
There was an order! He had an order! Finally, finally, after what felt like years! He felt the need to obey surging through him like electricity in his veins. He had to remember, had to obey!
But the blackness was still there, and he was still slipping, and as his mind hazed over again he wondered why he'd been so desperate a minute ago, for not even the peace of a master was like this; not even the peace of a good master...
His master! His good master!
He gasped, his mind suddenly connecting to his lungs and burning like fire. He had to wake up, had to remember, had to obey. He had to obey his master. His master. He couldn't forget, couldn't slip anymore. He forced himself to keep breathing. Remember to breath. Remember your master. Remember your order.
He couldn't remember. The blackness had stolen it.
He fought, clinging to the fire in his body like a lifeline. Pain kept him awake, pain kept him here. Breathe in, breathe out. He had to remember to breathe. He had to remember his master.
The pain was burning into his body, into his mind now. What was the order, what was the order. The fire was burning away the darkness, what was his order?
Don't die, Bird.
Don't you dare die.
That was the order. He breathed out in relief, before panic hit him. The blackness was death, that tempting peace was death. He had almost disobeyed! His master had ordered him and he had almost disobeyed!
He forced himself to keep breathing, letting the fire burn through him. The rest of his body was coming into sharp clarity now, blackness pushed back by the pain in his lungs. He had feet to run with, hands to serve with. Everything was still there and burning. There was a strange wetness running down his hands. Blood. One of his legs felt strange. Broken. He couldn't move his arms. Trapped.
He ignored it all, focusing his mind to burn through the blackness that remained. It was raging against him now, fighting all the stronger for his defiance. It no longer seemed the soft, restful thing it had been moments before, but a raging beast, more terrifying than anything he had ever faced. He felt fear, then, stronger than he had ever known. Stronger than loyalty, stronger than contentment, stronger than love...
Love.
His master.
Theia!
He surged against the blackness, then, fueled by a fire other than pain, fighting it with every resource he had. He dragged his mind awake, pulled his consciousness together so it was focused behind his eyes. He couldn't let it win. He had to destroy it, had to, had to, Theia had ordered him. Theia had ordered him. She wouldn't abandon him, he just had to fight this, stay alive, stay awake until she came for him, came to order it away and tell him he had done well. She had ordered him to live. He would live. He would.
The pain wasn't his friend anymore, fire turning into ashes and welcoming the darkness back in. The darkness was stronger now, surging against him like he'd surged against it. He never relented.
He gritted his teeth, fighting for what felt like hours, forcing himself to breathe. He ignored the pain, tuning out every part of his body but his burning lungs and the focused self behind his eyes. I am iscovo, my masters will is my own, he repeated to himself again and again, growling at the darkness like a caged animal. What my master has willed I will do. My hands will be useful, he clenched his hands into fists. My feet will be swift. He moved them a little, ignoring the knife of pain this sent up his leg. And my eyes will see...
He burst into consciousness, his eyes snapping open to see white light, and the arched ceiling of the healers chambers, and Her.
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Small thing I wrote for a character named Bird. He's a chimera, so the master thing isn't *that* weird. Anyway, not sure how well I like it. Tell me what you think!

Fashion Advice

“You have the worst taste in clothing, human.” Wisp curled around the closet bar, calmly sorting through her shirts. “I assure you you are not an autumn. Oh dear, is that glitter?”
“My name is Amelia,” she corrected for the millionth time. “Get out of my closet.”
“I'm waiting for the rat to come out.” The tiny dragon gestured to a little hole in the corner of the floor. She felt a little nauseous at the thought, and looked away. “And I decided to take the opportunity to examine your wardrobe. You have very little taste.”
“You don't even wear clothes!” she objected. “How would you even know?”
“I have seen many fashions come and go! I am an expert. I watched Style and You for four years.”
“...You watch television.”
“It is my great regret that you don't own one.” The dragon shook his head. “A pity. I think you would benefit from Our Host Jennifer's wisdom.”
“Oh yeah?” Amelia raised one eyebrow, tugging her favorite shirt away from the dragon's claws. “Then enlighten me.”
“For starters, you are not an autumn. You are a spring. Glitter is so last year, and you seem to favor the 'baggy old lady' style of shirts.”
She blinked. “My shirts are not...”
“And,” he continued, “Your jeans are an unflattering cut for you—you want to emphasize the length of the leg and diminish the hip with your body type.”
“Excuse me?”
“You have no accessories, your shoes are hardly suitable for yardwork, and Oh My Gosh, girl, you need help.” The dragon looked smug.
She stared for a moment. “...Get out of my closet.”

The Dead Spirit

The prison cell at the end of the hall was built almost like an amphitheater. The bars formed a small stage at the center of a wide half-circle of cell, almost completely dark except for the flickering torchlight from the hallway behind them, extending into endless blackness. Perhaps more unnerving were the hundreds of carved symbols, of every color of wood and stone, hanging like gallows from the bars. The prisoner examined it through a swollen black eye, then swallowed hard before the captain shoved him forwards again, closer to the bars.
“Y'think the dead spirit will go for him?” One of the guards whispered to his companion, his free hand edging closer to his blade. “I mean, 'e's kinda skinny.”
“Dead Spirit don't go for bodies, idiot,” the other whispered. “Goes for souls, and then the bones burn up. You've seen it.”
“Yeah, but...” he glanced at the shackled man behind them. “Y'sure 'e's got a soul?”
“Don't matter, numbskull.” The second guard fumbled with his keys. “We just gotta get 'im in before the spirit shows up, and not be 'ere when 'e does. If the spirit don't get 'im, 'e'll just starve. Same deal.” He pried the sticky lock open, and the gate creaked open into the cell.
“Yeah, but... Look out!” The first guard slammed the gate shut again as something white flashed into existence in the back of the cell. “It's the spirit!”
The second guard swore profusely, stumbling backwards away from the bars. “No way no how am I opening that door with that spirit in there.”
“Come on, you two.” The captain spoke up from behind the group. “It's gone. Look.” Sure enough, the cell was nothing but empty blackness again. “Get that door open.”
The second guard fumbled with the keys again, but as soon as the lock clicked, the white returned. He locked it again instantly. “He's watchin' for us.”
“The spirit cannot make you any less alive than the king can,” reminded the captain. “Open the door.”
“'Ey, 'ow's about this?” The first guard spoke up again. “We keep this one in another cell for a couple hours. Once the spirit's gone, we come back, toss 'im in, and run. King don't gotta know 'e's not dead yet.”
“No, we do it now.” The captain pulled his blade. “Or else we'll find how well the Dead Spirit likes the souls of cowards.”
A sudden breeze flowed through the hallway, chillingly cold, coming from the darkness in the back of the cell. The lamps flickered, and one went out. The first guard took a step back in fear.
“Cowardssss...” A thin, raspy voice finally came, echoing around them in the darkened hallway. “Taste of unripe fruit, of sawdust, of old dreams. Perhapsss I should prefer a murderer?” The spirit's tone lilted upwards on the last word, curious and half excited. “You smell of empty pride, and innocent blood. Do come closer, Cap-tain.” The white object began to slowly appear again, resolving itself into the twisted skull of some gigantic bird,with dark patterns carved into the bone. Horns like an antelope's jabbed upwards from the skull, with a net of tangled white string hanging between them, decorated with black feathers and glass beads. It tilted to one side, then the other, as it approached, moving back and forth, up and down with a tuneless rhythm. The other guard took two steps back, mirroring his companion. “Yes, yesss, I smell it on you. Your blade holds nothing but tatters of old soulsss, musty and dry. Do come in, cap-tain.” A claw-like hand of bleached bone appeared from the blackness to reach out for the bars, but stopped short over one of the runes. “I will speak with thee.”
“Dead Spirit, we are honored.” The captain fought to keep his nerve, tightening his grip on the handle of the sword. “We bring you a sacrifice; a rebel and a traitor.”
“He who has spoken to the queen,” The spirit tilted its head again, and beneath the skull the prisoner could see an almost human looking face, painted black save for a row of painted teeth stretching around its face in a hideous grin. “Is he traitor, or is he advocate?”
“Traitor.” The captain narrowed his gaze at the elusive spirit. “He is yours.”
“Are you ssssure you do not want to come in, cap-tain?” The spirit moved silently and smoothly around the bars, bone-clawed hands pausing only briefly over each of the hundreds of runes. “It shall not be painful.”
“This one is yours,” the captain repeated. “No other.”
“Pity.” The spirit seemed to deflate a bit before it stood straight, suddenly towering over them all. “Then he is mine. I allow you to open the door, sssaw-dust-soul. But ssstep not inside.” The bleached bone hands withdrew into the shadow, and the spirit quickly followed. The four men stared after it into the darkness.
“Well,” the captain finally said, “You heard it. Throw him in!”

Predawn Warning

“Oi, what do you want now?” Sajan grumbled, trying to grab the blanket back. “It's early! And it's your watch, you stupid thing!”
The dragon snorted, sending scorching hot air across his exposed skin. Ryven flipped him over with an immense closed forepaw, very deliberately reminding the man how much larger Ryven was than himself. He stared upwards in surprise at the glaring blue eyes that glinted in the predawn light.
“Ok then.” He sat up, and the dragon backed off a bit. “What?”
Ryven turned his head away, gesturing down the slope of the hill. The musician followed his gaze, then looked back at the dragon.
“...It's a hill.”
The dragon snorted again, making the tips of his messy hair sizzle.
“Ok, fine, I'll go look.” Sajan stood quietly, glancing over at where K slept curled up near where dragon's chest had rested. “Stupid dragon,” he muttered. “Too early for this.”
He trudged on down the hill, being forcibly shoved by the dragon following close behind him whenever he started to stop. He finally reached the bottom, and looked up at the dragon expectantly.
“Well, nothing here. Small trees, grass and shrubbery, just like... Oh.” He caught sight of the hill above them that they'd just passed over, all the way from the campsite down.
Thin patterns had been burned into the shrubbery, hardly noticeable from any other angle. They stretched all up and down the hill, very clearly fresh. He stared for a moment, trying to make sense of them, before the dragon glanced down at him, and seeing his confusion, picked him up by the back of his shirt, dragged him twenty feet to the left, and deposited him unceremoniously on the ground. He considered protesting this before he noticed that from this angle, the burned patterns looked to form letters.
Stay. Away. From. Her.
He stared a moment longer, then glanced up at the dragon. “....Right.”
He could have sworn the dragon was smiling.

Voices, hats, and superpowers

“So you can't hear the voices when you have a hat on?”
“Nope.” She shook her head, wincing as she took her hat off. “I line them with tinfoil. That's what does it.”
He took the hat from her hand and examined it. “Wait, you have the shiny side on the inside.”
“Is that that that unusual?” She took the hat back from him, placing it on her head.
“I thought the shiny side was supposed to be out.” He shook his head. “Something about it deflecting mind control waves or something.”
“Huh.” She narrowed her eyes in thought. “It definitely has no effect on mind control waves. From what I've heard mind control is really difficult to block—you need an interfering circuit, and...”
“It's alright, nevermind.” Seth glanced up at the web of twine and newspaper strewn across the ceiling. “So, assuming you're not crazy...”
“I'm not,” she said defensively.
“Then where are the voices coming from?” he finished. “They can't just be coming from nowhere.”
“I... I used to think they were trying to talk to me.” She glanced over at him. “But half the time they're ignoring me, or talking about something else. I think they're something natural that I just happen to be able to hear.”
He thought for a moment. “So you're psychic or something?”
“I guess.” She wrapped her arms around her knees.
“So that would make the voices other people's thoughts.”
“That's one theory.” She nodded. “I've thought about it sometimes. It would make a lot of sense if it's true.”
“Can you control what voices you hear?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I told you, it's a sea of noise. I can barely pick out one over the other.”
“What about when you have the hat on?”
“...I can't hear anything when I have the hat on.” Sam looked at him skeptically. “I just told you that.”
“Have you tried?”
“Why would I want to?” She flopped back on the bed, staring upwards. “The hat makes the voices be quiet. It's the only time I can hear myself think. If I try to hear them, maybe it'll make a way for them to get in, and then where would I be?”
“You could just make a new hat.”
“That's not what I mean. I mean, if I open that door in my head, I don't know if I can close it.”
“No, you could. It's not a door.” Seth rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “I told you I can see energy fields if I want to. That includes mental energy, and well... You've got one heck of a field.” He looked away, out the tiny window and across the street. “That hat contains it.”
“Really?” Sam sat up again, torn between skepticism and hope. “Is that how it works?”
“I think so. But there are still edges getting out. I think if you tried to control it, you could focus that small amount enough to hear someone's thoughts.”
“So what, I can control what I hear?”
“I guess.” He shrugged. “I don't know. All I know about powers like this are from a couple of self-help books my mom made me read. But it seems like it'd be a good thing to try, right?”
“Sure.” She stared at her hands. “I just don't know where to start.” She paused for a moment, realizing what he'd said. “Wait, powers?”
“Sure. Telepathy. You read people's minds.” He nodded. “It's a superpower.”
“...Huh.” She looked thoughtful. “I'd... never thought of it that way.”
“Sheesh, it's either superpowers or insanity. And you keep saying you're not insane, so...”
“I'm not!”
“So it's superpowers.” Seth shrugged. “Question is, how do you control it?”
“I... have no idea.” Sam looked away again. “Tinfoil?”
“Well, other than that. I mean, can you like, do some kind of insane yoga concentration thing, or...” he gestured vaguely around his head. “Something with your hands, I guess?” She laughed, and he pouted. “I'm serious! There's always hand signals in the movies.”
“I really don't know.” She shook her head. “I've never tried it.”
He shook his head. “I just don't understand how you didn't think of this before.”
Sam smiled a little. “You try sharing your head with a million voices and see how well you do.”
“Point.”

The Signs

Brief explanation: I've written a rather lot of merperson mythology. The solstice child is believed by the aqueans (merpeople) to be the one who will end their world. So what, logically, should his mother do when he's born?


She could no longer ignore the signs.
A golden child, he was. That she couldn't deny, even if she wanted to—his eyes and scales were amber and sunsets. But so had her grandfather been, and he hadn't been the solstice child, now had he?
But her grandfather hadn't been born in the darkest hour of the summer solstice, thanks to his parent's foolishness in conceiving him at the right time of year, thanks to his mothers foolishness in traveling despite being heavily pregnant, thanks to the warm summer night that hadn't killed him instantly with the shock of cold like most babies. That she could ignore, or deny, or tell others differently—for all anyone but she and his father knew, he had been born two days after the solstice. Still close, but clearly not the prophesied child, just enough to save him from suspicion and ire.
But she knew differently, and her own suspicion was one she could not save him from.
Born on the summer solstice solstice, when seven (and she'd counted, and his father had counted, and both shook their heads and desperately, desperately hoped they had counted wrong) stars had fallen across the night sky, a golden child. They whispered quietly to each other—should they let him live? If he was the child of prophecy, then to save their world—to save themselves, their family—he had to die. Was it not better to kill him before he had the chance to know his fate?
But no. No. They could never—would never. The golden child had lived, in the hopes that he was not the child they thought he was, that he would grow to be insignificant and normal, and live a happy life regardless of the foolishness that gave it to him.
But they knew, from the time he was old enough to swim away, that this was a false hope.
The dolphins loved him. His father had started to think he would go insane if he had to listen to their chatter for one moment longer—but the child laughed as the friendly bunch poked their noses into his soft belly. When he began to swim, they swam with him, chattering so fast that not even the elder of the pod could understand their language. He learned to hunt among the dolphins before he learned among his pod, and chattered with them in the bright squeaks and whistles. His mother almost smiled.
And the dolphins shall know him, as they know my child Feldspar, and they shall teach him...
Almost as soon as he'd learned to speak, he'd learned to sing. He started off simply—a single toned voice much like any other child, singing back the songs she'd sung to him as a baby. But there were other melodies, that emerged not long after, blending into two vocal tones, then three, then four—an impressive voice, even for an adult, and especially impressive for a child. But the songs were different, with words and phrases he'd never heard, then ones his parents had never heard. She didn't want to ask.
Illa shall sing with him, and teach him all her songs...
On occasion, they would visit the shore, and lie on their backs on the smooth rocks at low tide. He would lie next to her, nesting between her arm and the bend of her hip, staring upwards in wonder at the stars. She asked him what he saw, and tried very hard not to cry as he identified the constellations, one by one, without ever being told.
She didn't want to believe it.
The stars will be as simple as the water, as Somin tells all he knows.
He loved to play, with the dolphins or anyone who was willing. The dolphins didn't play with him as much when their pod joined to a larger one, but there was still always a few tagging along behind. The other children—who were always bigger or smaller than him by half a year—taught him a few games. The dolphins foiled his every attempt at hide and seek. He was a fair shot at tag. He lagged a bit at catch-the-otter, but that was alright. But he came up with new games, other games, and soon the adults began to ask their children where these strange games had come from. They told, and he was asked.
“There's someone in a dream who tells me about them,” he said. “Just like the one who told me about the stars.”
And Hollin shall teach him games, as he has always taught my children, and he shall play...
It was possible, at this point, for her to still imagine he was not the solstice child. The six children of legend had been known to visit some in dreams and teach them great things, and though it might have been a stretch of the imagination to believe that four of them would bless her child, it was not impossible. And even a desperate hope is better than none.
But she still knew, in her heart, that he was.
They left the new pod not long after that.
They found ruins, from before Alanti, and stayed there for a few days. The buildings were alien to all of them, the carvings barely perceptible, and the runes meaningless—but he understood them. She found him explaining to one of the younger children what the carvings meant, what the runes meant, the stories they told, as clearly and as plainly as if it were as simple as what fish you would eat and what would eat you. She could not turn away, as if in horror.
Karo shall teach him words, letters, all that shall be lost to you...
It was in his twelfth year, at the solstice festival, that she finally, finally, could not deny it any longer. The elder was telling a story, that he had never heard—she knew he had never heard, for it was one she hadn't heard since she was a child, one of those stories that by tradition was only told every fourteen years, to mark the fourteen the solstice child would one day (not yet, she hoped) be among them. He nudged her again, and again, until she finally whispered, “What?”
“Mama, he's got the story wrong!”
She asked him how. He told her the way the story was supposed to be—the way she's heard it as a child. When he finished, she realized the whole gathering was watching him, listening in rapt attention to the true and real story. The elder had fallen silent.
So she asked him, late that night when none were listening, where he had heard the story, and why he knew it so well.
“She tells me—a girl a lot older than me, but not a grownup. She's purple.”
“Is she like the one who told you about the stars?”
“And the songs, and the runes, and the games, and the dolphins, Mama!” He nodded. “They talk to me when I'm sleeping.”
And Urma shall tell him her stories, though they may pass away in time, he shall know them...
“How many of them,” she'd asked carefully, “do you see?”
“Seven, Mama.”
“You mean six,” she corrected quickly, hoping so desperately he was wrong.
“No, Mama. There are seven.”
Though all may see these six in dreams, to hear the stories or learn the stars, only the Child shall see the seventh.
And Antioch shall guide him.
She could not deny the signs any longer.
They had to kill him.
She didn't want to. What mother would, what father would? They loved him, even if he was the solstice child, even if the world would end, he was still their child, their only child. They made a knife from obsidian shards, and tucked it away with a quiet promise to each other that tomorrow, tomorrow, the deed would be done.
Tomorrow came and went, again and again. The deed was not done, never done, not for another year. He was only twelve, they still had time—another day would not destroy the world. His father gave him the knife as a present two days after his thirteenth birthday, on the day he thought he had been born.
He was old enough to hunt on his own, among the dolphins that still followed him. He was old enough to wind shells and coins and tattered rope into a bracelet for his mother, and another for himself. He was old enough to understand and fear the coming of the solstice child.
He was not old enough to understand that he was the solstice child.
The days flickered past. She knew they had to kill him soon, before the fourteenth year, before he was taken from them and all hope was lost. His father became a little more resolute on the matter, steeling his nerves, determined not to force his wife to do it. They made another knife, larger, more deadly—the first one had gotten a little chipped in the hands of their son.
They would explain it to him. It wasn't fair any other way—his mother wished more than anything that they had killed him before he was old enough to love them. He had to understand what he was, what he was destined to do. How that destiny had to be fought. Why. The death would be swift. She knew it would still be hard, still be painful. But he would at least know, and his spirit would be free to wander.
But the days still washed by them like waves, and time was running short.
They fixed a date. The day they were intended to leave for the solstice festival. He would be sent out to hunt, so they would be late. The others would leave them behind, and they would be free to do the deed alone. He would return, ask where the others had gone, and it would be explained. The deed would be done. The world would be saved.
He was sent off to hunt.
The others left.
And they waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And he never returned.
She did not know if Antioch had guided him away from them, or if he had understood more than they knew. Perhaps some chance circumstance had done the deed for them, a shark, an orca, a fisherman's net. She grieved for him if he was dead.
She grieved for the world if he were alive.

Lies and Magic

“I'm not lying. I don't lie.” The magician tossed the silver rings from one hand to the other. “Or at least, I do my best not to.”
“You're a magician. Everything you do is a lie.” The inventor shook his head, watching the smaller man carefully. “By definition, I mean.”
“Not really.” The smaller man looked rueful. “Those lies are what makes it so hard for you to believe in me. But I'm not lying.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Because falsehood is the death of magic. It's what makes most of us, yeah, but once you learn, just once, that the magic is a trick...” he pulled the rings apart effortlessly, snapped them back together, twisted them in and out as he spoke, “You never believe again. You find it amazing, but... you never really trust in it. Every trick is just a trick, that you're an inch away from figuring out.” He tossed the rings into the air, and they vanished. “So if I trick you again and again, then when I want to show you something real...” He pulled the rings out of his sleeve. “You won't believe me.”
“We don't believe you anyway.”
“Which is why I never lie.” The magician smiled. “So when I find some real magic...” He put a hand to the windowpane, glancing out at the darkened sky. “You'll believe it really is.”
The world outside suddenly exploded into light, as a thousand tiny lights rushed by the windows of the airship, swirling in the drafts kicked up by its wings and dancing around like an enormous ballet. Amongst the lights were doves, diving in and out of the chaos with swooping wings and snow-white feathers. The inventor's jaw dropped.
“How did you...”
“I didn't do a thing.” The magician smiled. “That, my friend, was entirely real.”
“But...”
“I think...” the magician trailed off, watching the display with hidden eyes, “The trick to magic, if you will, is believing it will be. Magic, that is. Whether you find that in one of my little tricks or in the sunset or the sea or the patterns of light coming through the trees is up to you. Or even,” he motioned to the fantastic display outside the window, “something as simple as a swarm of fireflies. There's magic in all of them, if you choose to believe it.”
“And if I don't?”
“Then there isn't. You can go on living as if magic doesn't exist.” He sighed, and began to twist the silver rings again. "But that, to me, seems like just about the worst way to live. Why not simply believe?"

In the Solution

The room was silent, totally silent, as he waited. The vent above his head didn't rattle; the hardwood chair didn't creak as he shifted in it; there were no voices from down the hall that passed his way. He could almost hear his own heartbeat.
In short, it was unnerving.
He stood, not for the first time, pacing back and forth as he waited for the other door to open. There was no clock, but he was sure they were late. Agent Sampson was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. And the man was not known for tardiness.
Tin sat again, forcing himself into the placid complacency that had once come so naturally to him. Agent Sampson would be here. There was a reason, he didn't need it. There was always a reason.
The room was small, gray and featureless. On one side there was a mirror, behind which he knew was another room that watched over him, but nobody was in it-the door that lead into it had been open when he passed coming into this one. There was a table scarred with long use, and two hardwood chairs, one on either side of the table. On the opposite side of the table from him was a cardboard shoe box, slightly battered and with a lid that didn't quite fit. He hadn't opened it.
Another five minutes ticked by. He shifted again, annoyed. Though he had very little better to do, he still detested wasting time like this. He glanced at the shoe box again.
Why would Agent Sampson bring a shoe box? He must have left it here—nobody else used this room, after all. Was there something important in it? Tin fought back the urge to look for a few moments longer, then finally gave in, pulling the box cautiously across the table. He removed the lid cautiously, half expecting something to jump out at him. Nothing did. He set the thing aside.
Inside lay two black wristbands, bearing the names of bands he didn't recognize, and a hat with a couple buttons pinned to one side. He examined it, then set it aside, rapidly losing interest.
The last object caught his attention, though. A multicolored cube, with nine different-colored squares on each side, their arrangement seemingly random. He picked it up, and turned it over. Every side was the same way. The sides looked like they could rotate-he tried it. They could. He twisted it around for a moment, more for something to do than in any actual goal, before he quite suddenly remembered.
The colors were all supposed to be on the same side. He didn't know how he knew that, and he sat for a moment staring at the thing, fighting back the shock and an overwhelming feeling he didn't recognize. He started twisting it again, experimenting.
The rapid clicking of the cube soon filled the room as he twisted it this way and that, trying to make sense of the pattens. Every so often, a flash of something would hit him, sometimes little things, and others so much to make him stop, staring wildly at the cube. It was a rubix cube. There'd been a party. There was a brick house, a school, a chain link fence in front of an abandoned factory. The door wouldn't latch. A black cat that hated him. He didn't know what was happening, but he couldn't bear for it to stop.
The sides of the cube spun faster and faster as he focused all of his attention on it and the patterns gradually worked themselves out in his head. A math class, a girl, a beat-up red locker. A small room at the top of a long staircase, painted blue. Posters, pictures, something that looked like a kid had drawn it. An old computer, a set of beat up speakers, a blue guitar.
Bits and pieces were beginning to fall into place now. Recognizable patterns began to form on the sides of the cube, and he bit his lip, trying to focus on that only as every part of his mind screamed for attention. Voices he recognized, but didn't remember, someone telling him to do the dishes, his own voice speaking back. The feel of a spiral bound notebook pressed up against his palm. A teacher, telling him to focus.
He paused for a moment, and the room fell back into that blank, empty silence that had been there before, what felt like hours ago as he let the memories—they were memories—fall into place. A wall in his head was crumbling, it felt like, and everything behind it was rushing in all at once. He started to feel lightheaded. The house was his, the locker was his, the room and guitar and posters and... and everything. That was his past.
He forced it back, ripping his attention back to the cube in his hands. He was almost there. He started twisting again, fighting against every new revelation as he did. A mother, a father, his own hands, so much younger. He forced himself to only see the cube.
The last piece fell into place, and suddenly the noise in his head died away, falling back in the place of one word, which he uttered aloud.
“...Peter.”
The empty room didn't respond. He stood, holding the solved cube in shaking hands.
“My name is Peter.” He looked up. “My name is Peter!”


I wrote this in like, December, but I liked it enough to post. It happens towards the end of Tin's story, and is a bit of a spoiler, really. Wish it had something more to do with Easter, though if you squint and read my mind, you could kinda get that, I guess.. Ah well. Happy Easter to you all!

Naming

I promise you've seen at least one of these characters before, so it totally counts as continuation. Yes.

He blinked at the sudden brightness, struggling to follow the fast-moving shadows that swarmed across the room. There were close to thirty of the children here, he realized as his eyes adjusted. Some played on the floor with battered toys, some worked on small projects on the scattered wooden tables. A few were sleeping, on benches or tables or whatever came to hand. Everyone looked up at his entrance as his young guide dragged him inside, slamming the door behind them.
For a log moment they just stared at him, battered toys and games forgotten, and he shrunk back just a little, back towards the world of mud and exhaustion that had been his only home for so long. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. Everyone simply watched, with cautious, suspicious eyes, and the room hung frozen.
Finally, one of the girls spoke up. “Who'd you find, Mikhail?”
And then the noise crashed into his mind like a wave, sweeping him up in the rush of children. They ran towards him, swarming around him like moths around a light. One took his backpack; another helped him out of the battered coat. He could barely make out single voices in the massive barrage of questions as the kids took both his hands and pulled him towards the room's big open fireplace.
“Did you walk all the way...” “Where'd you get that big mark on...” “Do you like potato soup, or...” “...Have a name?” “Did you come to see...” “Can I...” “...You want me to...” “Theia?” “...Look in your backpack, please? I won't touch...”
“Hang up!” shouted his rescuer, clapping his good arm to the bandaged one with the odd crash of resounding metal. “Quit with the questions! Give him a chance to catch his breath. The guy's been walking for like, ever! ”
“How long is like ever?” asked one of the littler girls, staring at him with wide eyes.
The boy—Mikhail, he corrected himself—paused a moment, then turned to the chimera, momentarily lost. “How long have you been walking?”
“A... A long time. Four years.” The words sounded strange, his own voice unfamiliar. He hadn't spoken to another living creature in almost that long. Four years. Really?
The children gave a simultaneous “Oooooh,” clearly very impressed. “That's longer than Tina's been alive!” piped up one boy. “And she's old enough to punch!”
A crash sounded from one of the small doors that edged the big central hall. “I got a blanket!” Another boy, this one with shaggy blonde hair only kept out of his eyes by the speed at which he was moving, skidded through the doorway, stumbling as he made the sharp turn. “Three of 'em!” He dumped all three rather unceremoniously on the chimera's lap, smiling widely.
“Thank you,” he said, trying to return the smile.
“Not a problem!” The boy ducked his head respectfully. “I'm Wilbur. What's your name?”
“I...” he paused, momentarily lost. “I don't really have one anymore,” he admitted quietly. The whole assembly stared for a moment longer until they again exploded into sound.
“You should be Gilgamesh!” shouted one, waving his hand wildly.
“No, Izangati!”
“Gabrialla!”
“That's a girl's name!” someone shouted indignantly. “You should be Antonio!”
“You can be Misha, cause that's my name too! We'll both be Misha!”
“Vincent! You should be Vincent!”
“Compass! Umbrella!”
“...Not even real names!”
“Gabriella!”
“Hang up!” yelled Mikhail again, clapping twice. “He can't be named everything.”
“We should vote,” suggested Wilbur. “Like we do with babies.”
“That won't work.” Mikhail said flatly. “Babies don't care what their name is.”
Wilbur thought for a moment. “Right. How about he picks one, then?”
“I was gonna suggest that,” muttered the older boy. He turned to the chimera. “Well, how about it? What should your name be?”
“I...” He paused for a moment longer, thinking, then shook his head. “I really don't know.”
“So should we vote then?”
“We always end up with something stupid when we vote without Thiea here. Like Toastpants.” Mikhail crossed his arms. “Let's vote on some names, and then he can find one he likes off of those.”
“That'll take forever!” Wilber whined.
“Toastpants.” Mikhail enunciated, like that one word would win him the whole argument.
Apparently, it did. “Fine.” The blonde boy sulked. “But what are we supposed to call him until then?”
“Gabriella!”
"No!"

Sir (Meeting Old Crow)

Short introduction: Skie is a series of flying islands, ruled by a small number of city states that all hate each other. They've agreed to ban flying machines (Skyships) with the exception of a small police force for the sake of not killing each other, and of course, as for every law, there are those who live to break it.

The room was dark. Isaac peered in nervously, clenching the note in one balled fist. “Hello?”
There was no reply. He stepped through the doorway hesitantly, glancing around at the ashen shadows of the hanger. Huge, curving forms were suspended high overhead, with walkways interspersed here and there, with dangling ropes and curling pipes winding along the pathways. His eyes adjusted as he stood in the darkness that ate all the color out of it, staring. There was a window, somewhere high above him, but most of it's light had been lost to the thick coating of dust that fell heavy in the air.
Something moved near his feet. He jumped back, and the black and white cat stared at him, curious. He breathed out, relieved.
“Hello, uh, cat.” He knelt, holding out his hand to the creature. It examined him with a disdainful air, and paused for a moment, thinking.
And then it bit him.
“Ow!” he pulled his hand back abruptly. “Dumb cat!”
“His name is Ferris.” A woman's voice came from behind him, barely hiding a kind of sadistic, braying laughter. “He does that.”
“Oh!” Isaac whirled, forgetting his bleeding finger. “Who are you?”
“Same person that gave you the note, of course!” She laughed, switching on the lights. The room was not lit by a single bulb, but by close to a dozen separate light sources—ranging from an old, flickering fake-flame bulb to a string of Christmas lights. This oddity was lost on him, though, as he stared at the woman in front of him.
Old Crow looked remarkably like her wanted posters, it occurred to him. The high ponytail was a little longer, of a dark brown the color of dirt, and she looked a little younger—though, perhaps, that was the wide smile more than any actual indicators. The wrinkles around her eyes certainly didn't make her look any younger, but the freckles that dotted her face made her seem almost childlike as she stood, laughter plain in her face and her stance as he stared. Her clothes were baggy and warm, an old green sweater over burned, greasy work pants, and a leather tool belt that extended down one leg, not unlike his own. She wore combat boots, stained with mud, and he glanced back up at her face, feeling half afraid and half incredulous.
“Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not polite to stare?” she asked, moving in on him like a freight train. “Stand up straight, shut your mouth, and try not to look like a fish.” She prodded him into position, then surveyed him with a discerning smile. “Better. Now, you're the halfwit flier that I saved from the police ships today.” He nodded dully. “First time?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Yes, Sir.” She emphasized, looking pointedly at him. “Honestly, what do they teach you...”
He stared a moment before he finally caught on.“Yes Sir.”
“Better.” She gestured with a wrench at his ragged toolbelt. “Doesn't look like you know quite what you're doing, now does it.”
“Well, ah, no, sorry.” She shot him a glare. “Ma'am.”
“Sir!”
“Sir!” He held up his hands apologetically. “But it was my first time.”
“Flying or building?” She inquired, holding the wrench threateningly.
“Both... Sir.”
“Hm.” She surveyed him for a moment longer, like a general surveying their troops. “Not bad, then. Not bad at all.”
“Um, thank you.”
“Could've been a lot better, though!” She whirled, striding across the workshop. “Come with me. I'll teach you a thing or two.”
“Um, about what, exactly?” He followed her cautiously, being careful not to step on any of the myriad bits of ship scattered about.
“Building! Flying! What makes things go! Come on, boy, keep up!”
“Right.” He sped up his pace to where he was almost running. “So, um, Sir? Where are we going?”
“Workshop, where did you think?”
“You mean this isn't...”
“This is a hanger, boy! What did you think it was, a pretty princess powder room?” The gestures Old Crow made as she spoke would have been hilarious had she not been holding the wrench in the other hand. “Hanger, H-a-nggg-er! Say it with me now, haaaang-eeeer.” She stopped so abruptly that he almost ran into her, and whirled again. “I can't hear you.”
“Hanger.” He very hard not to look as shocked as he felt.
“Haaaaang-eeeer” She enunciated, though he couldn't quite tell what he'd said wrong.
“Haaaang-eeer.” He repeated.
“Better.” She nodded, turning again. “Hanger. Just do what I do, boy, and you'll learn the ropes in no time!”
"What ropes am I learning, exactly?"
"Look," She whirled to face him again. "Apparently, you're as smart as you are pretty. So let me spell this out for you. You have two choices. You can work for me, become my apprentice, and learn to build, maintain and fly faster than you ever could on your own. Ooor, this is the dumb choice, you can say no, and I hit you with this wrench and feed you to my cats."
"...The first one, please."
She glared at him for a moment.
"Sir."

This story is three years old. I swear. I just haven't posted any of it before.(Have you heard that before? Yessss.)
That being said, I think I'm actually running out of stories I've had for forever and not posted, so maybe we'll eventually get some continuity going on. Maybe. Unless I think of some new ones.

Meeting in the lane

So apparently, I haven't fooled anyone into thinking that I can keep my head in one story for more than twenty minutes. This is further evidence towards their point, and as such, a new story. A bit of introduction is necessary for this one. The story is set in late 1800's Europe, though I need to work on showing that in my dialouge, and stars Mary, a british author on holiday, and Charles, her unlucky suitor/stalker/friend, who, working together, create a fake detective and accidentally make him famous. This is early on in their working relationship.

The man I had collided with was not, fortunately, a stranger. The shaggy brown hair and startled eyes were extremely familiar, coming as they did attached to a beanpole of a man, shabbily dressed, and headed towards the inn where I was staying.
"Oh! Good day, Charles!" I said, trying to regain my composure.
“Mary!” Charles looked startled, nearly falling backwards into the woods as he stumbled to regain his balance. “What's going on? I heard there was a murder!”
“There was!” I whispered, pulling him off the lane towards a small stone bench. “But keep your voice down, I'm not supposed to have left.”
“What happened?” he asked, a little more quietly, glancing back up the road to the little inn.
“The desk clerk was poisoned. Looks like Arsenic to me, but they haven't let me inspect the body well enough to tell for sure.”
“You're trying to investigate?”
“Of course I...”
“Mary, just leave it to the police!” Charles implored, interrupting me. “They know what they're doing.”
“No they don't,” I retorted heatedly. “That inspector is a first class idiot—he's been promoted because of some rich uncle or something, I'm sure of it.”
“He can't be all that bad.” Charles glanced from side to side, making sure we were completely alone. “Can he?”
“He saw my name on the desk register and assumed it was a man.”
“”Well, Augustus is a man's name...”
“Well, yes, but when he came up to speak to me about the clerk's death, he assumed...” My embarrassment took over at that point. I turned bright red, and broke off abruptly.
“Assumed what?”
I took a deep breath, and attempted to continue. “I had to tell him Augustus was my brother, and not, in fact, my lover.” I had to look away as I spoke, trying to hide the burning blush on my face.
“He what?” I should have known better than to tell Charles that. His face turned redder than mine. “Why, that's an insult to your honor—I won't stand for it, I'll...”
“You will do nothing!” I caught his arm, holding him back. “The last thing I need right now is for someone to imply that I lied to a police inspector in the middle of an investigation!”
“But...” He sighed, calming down under my watchful eye. “Right.”
“Thank you.” I gave him a brief smile, before glancing back down the lane towards the inn. “But now he's looking for my supposed brother—he wants to interview him about where he was and what he was doing last night.”
“Oh.” Charles stood thinking for a moment and running a hand through his hair. “Well, that is troublesome.”
“Extremely.”
“I don't suppose you have a plan to divert them?”
“Not as of yet, no.” I sat down on the little bench with a sigh, momentarily stymied. “I've really gotten myself in deep this time.”
“No joke.” He sat next to me, thinking, before he suddenly stood again. “I've got it!”
“Got what?” I inquired, staring up at him.
“I'll masquerade as your brother!” he said triumphantly.
“Charles, we look nothing alike!” I objected.
“Well, not naturally, no.” he admitted. “But you've caught me before in disguise—I bet I could fool that police inspector!”
“But...” I trailed off. “I don't like it.”
“It's the only plan we've got.” He sat again, shrugging his shoulders. “Unless you've got a better one.”
“Unfortunately, I don't.” I sighed again, brushing the dirt off my skirts. “But do you really think you could pull that off?”
“I said you've caught me before.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke. “I didn't mention the times you haven't caught me.”

It was raining

Raining. It was raining.
He hardly noticed anymore.
The battered leather overcoat had once been fairly waterproof, but age and use and use and use had reduced it to nothing, and water soaked through like sound. He plodded onwards, heading into nowhere, across the wastes. He moved not so much forwards as away.
Mud caked the old trousers, the broken boots, the blistered feet inside. The rivulets of water running down his face ran into his open mouth, and he thought without thinking that he should swallow, and save what little water he carried for later. He stumbled, catching himself half-inches above the ground. The world was mud, and what wasn't was pain, and what wasn't was water and tiredness mixed into more mud, just like the stuff on his trousers.
He didn't know where he was going. He'd never known, not since he set out. He knew precisely, though, where he'd been.
The smell of woodsmoke drifted through the rain, suffering a thousand battle wounds from the piercing drops, but still there. He almost, almost woke up from the trance of one-foot-forward at that, lifting his eyes from the broken, muddy ground to stare blankly at the forest around him, not sure what he intended to see. Nothing, nothing, ever nothing, and he looked back down.
His pack was heavy, slung over one shoulder. It didn't hold much; a little food, a little water, a lot of rain. Two books, soaked through and useless. A needle, black thread. Nothing.
He thought, his mind fighting against the stupor, that he could hear children laughing—somewhere, elsewhere, probably only in his memories. There was little enough laughter there, maybe it could use a little more.
He stumbled again, as his exhausted feet lagged behind where his mind said they should be, and fell this time. He pushed himself back up, wiping the mud from the scarlet mark on his face with a sleeve so dirty it hardly made a difference before he plodded onward, upwards, away.
Always away.


This isn't exactly finished, but I like this part. It's a lot shorter than most of my stuff, but hey.

Beautiful

“Karen?” His voice was unsure, for once, and she dropped lightly to the ground, listening to the distinctive sounds that her boots made on the pavement.
“I'm here.”
“Good.” He breathed out, relaxing his grip on the railing. “I was worried...”
“Why?” She didn't mean to sound as startled as she did. “Did something happen?”
“Oh, no. Just something I heard on the bugs.”
“What?” She put a hand to his shoulder. “Tell me.”
“Oh, one of the delve guessed you were a girl.”
“What?” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “What did he say—should I do something?”
“It wasn't serious—I think he was drunk, actually.” Jay almost laughed. “Nobody took him seriously.”
“Heh.” She relaxed. “So only drunk people and blind men can tell I'm a girl.”
“Oh, I'm sure I could tell anyway.” The smugness crept back into Jay's voice. “Even if I could see you.”
“You sure?” Karen shook her head slowly. “People have made the mistake before...”
“No, really?” He turned towards her. “They can't have really...”
“They have!” she insisted. She expected him to make some comment on that, but he was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.
“...Karen.” He finally spoke. “What do you look like?”
“Why?” She shifted nervously.
“Just curious.” He shrugged, turning away again. “I just don't know, is all.”
“I...” She hesitated. “I have brown hair and hazel eyes.”
“And?”
“And... and I'm kinda pale and I'm shorter than you by about five inches and my dad says I'm too muscular for a girl.”
“And?”
“I don't know,” she turned away. “What do you want me to tell you?”
“I don't know.”
There was a moment of silence between them, as Karen stared out at the winter skyline, and Jay listened to the dull roar of the monorail tracing it's way through the city.
Jay worked up his courage at last. “Can... can I touch you?”
“...What?” She took a step back. “Why?”
“It's... it's the only way I can tell what you look like. Just your face. I'll be gentle.”
“...Alright.” She swallowed hard. He held out a hand to her, and she very slowly guided his hand up to her face, and let him go. She shut her eyes.
“You're shaking.” His voice held something different in it now. “I don't have to...”
“No. No, go ahead.” She spoke quickly, trying not to turn away.
His fingertips rested lightly on her cheek for what felt like forever before they finally started to move. He traced the line of her jaw with four fingers, leading down towards her mouth. He brushed it lightly with his thumb, and moved upwards, gently running his fingers across her skin. She barely noticed that she was clenching her fists so hard that her short nails bit into her skin. His fingertips glided along her forehead, pausing for a second at the base of her hair, then down again, following the curves of her eyebrows and onto her eyes.
“Why are you crying?” His fingers stopped.
“I'm...” She started to deny it, but the crack in her voice defied her. “I didn't want you to...”
“I didn't have to, you could have said...” He sounded genuinely concerned. “I'm sorry.”
“I didn't want you to know...” She tried to keep from sobbing. “I didn't want you to know how ugly I am.”
There was a silence that felt like it lasted for forever, with his fingertips still resting on her face. Then Jay pulled away, for only half a second.
And then he embraced her.
She almost tried to struggle, but he didn't let her, strong arms holding her still against him. “Don't say that,” he whispered. “Don't.”
“But..”
“You're beautiful, Karen. Who told you...”
“I'm not—I'm really..”
“Don't say that.” He cut her off again, pulling her closer. “You're beautiful,” he breathed into her ear. “I checked.”


Normally, I wouldn't post stuff this sappy on my blog, but hey, it's valentines day. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

Power in a name

“...That's your name, isn't it.” He cradled the small body in his arms as he made his way across the rocky field. “Your name is Christofori.” The boy started glowing again, and cringed in pain. “I didn't mean anything, don't try!” he said quickly. The glow faded as quickly as it came. “And that's why you did... all that, because you have to grant a wish when someone says your name. You don't have a choice, do you?”
The boy shook his head, the movement barely visible in his exhaustion. Marcus bit his lip, then stumbled, barely catching himself in time to avoid dropping his young friend.
“I'm sorry.” He made his way carefully down the rocky slope. “I... I'm so sorry.”
Christofori didn't respond, shivering in his arms.
“I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have come here. My research—I'm so sorry.” Marcus fought against his own exhaustion as he struggled to get them both back to the cabin. “I didn't realize it would...” He fell silent, contemplating the full meaning of what he'd learned, as he trudged over the barren landscape.
Chris began coughing, prompting Marcus to speed up. A few of the little glowing stars shot up the slope to meet them, circling around Christofori in a panic. Marcus didn't say anything, just kept moving. Not much further to go.
The cabin finally came into sight, and Marcus almost smiled. “Hang on, Chris, we're almost there.” The stars shot to the door, whirling around the knob as they waited for him to arrive and let them in. He very slowly put Christofori down on a patch of clear ground by the cabin wall. The freezing metal of the doorknob stung his hands, and he bit his lip again as he fiddled with the key. The door finally swung open, and he picked the boy up again and brought him inside.
The cabin was warm, luckily. Close to thirty Wishes rushed around him as he carried Chris across to the small bed and wrapped the boy in the thick blankets. Some of them circled around his hands, unsure, and he spoke very quietly, trying not to disturb his young patient.
“He granted too many wishes.” Half true. For all he knew, the Wishes knew the entire story already. “He is exhausted, but I think he will be fine.”
This seemed to comfort the little stars, and they flew back up to near the cabin roof, watching from the ceiling beams as Marcus cared for their young prince. The boy's heartbeat was still strong, and his breathing was fine, though he wasn't responding. Marcus smiled, halfway. At least the kid was finally getting some sleep.
He moved off, leaving the boy exhausted in the too-big bed. Marcus shifted through the cabinets as quietly as he could, looking for something to eat. A can of soup came to hand, and he examined it, checking the expiration date. Close enough. He grabbed the can opener out of the drawer, and as he prepared the soup he watched the little stars circling the boy, unafraid to get too close now that Marcus was out of the way. They darted quickly through his hair, across every inch of exposed skin, trying to see if he was alright. Marcus would have smiled at their concern had it been unwarranted.
After about an hour, the soup was finally ready. He poured a bowl for himself, and one for Chris. What remained he poured into a wider bowl that he set on the small wooden table, waving some of the wishes over with a small motion. Only a few came, as the rest remained around the white-haired boy.
They cleared out quickly enough as he approached, and he shook the boy's shoulder gently. “Wake up, Chris. You need to eat something.”
The boy made a soft, protesting noise, but obeyed, sitting up in the cocoon of blankets. He looked up at Marcus with tired eyes,
“Here.” He handed Chris the soup, along with a spoon. “Eat that.”
Chris obeyed, though Marcus saw a tired tremor in his hands as he held the spoon. “You can go back to sleep once you're done.”
The boy nodded, and continued eating. Marcus looked up to the wishes that resided once more in the rafters. “There's some for you lot on the table.”
The little swarm descended on the bowl, trying the salty broth experimentally. They seemed to like it, and within a few moments the bowl was empty. A few began circling around what remained of his bowl, and with a sigh he surrendered it, watching the tiny stars as they ate.
Chris ate maybe half his bowl before he was too tired to hold the spoon anymore. Marcus took the bowl, rubbing an affectionate hand through the boy's hair. “Go back to sleep. You had a long day, you know.”
Chris nodded wearily, then collapsed again on the bed. The wishes once again conducted their examination of his hair and skin, then, satisfied, they attacked the remains of his food.
“Heh.” Marcus watched them tiredly. “Have to make another pot...” He trailed off, nodding off to sleep in the chair by the little heater. A few of the wishes examined him, though not with the same intimate care that they had their prince, then shot back up to the rafters.

Wrote this in December, and just now got around to posting it. I don't know if I've posted much of this story before, but it's been around for a while. It's not the sort of thing I normally post, mainly because it doesn't have the same sort of emotional power as most of my stuff. Also, the title is lame, I know. Anyway, let me know what you think!

The Everyone Star

New story, again. This one is about crazy people, namely, Frankie, an insane genius who's spent his whole life in an asylum, and Molly, a girl who was sent to the asylum for attacking people who said her imaginary friends weren't real. For some reason, they are friends. Enjoy!


Molly found him nearly an hour later, sitting in the patch of tall grass that the lawnmower always missed next to the gray stone wall of the asylum. He'd gotten his arms free again, and he wrapped them around his knees as he stared up at the sky. He looked sad, almost, but smiled as she approached.
“Hello!” He said brightly, sitting up and dropping his knees into a cross-legged position. “Did you find the unicorn?”
“No, but I found you!”
“I'm a unicorn?” Frankie looked confused. “I thought I was a wombat.”
“No, you're Frankie, silly.” She giggled
“Oh!” he looked relieved. “That's what I normally am.”
“Yep.” She sat down next to him. “What'cha lookin' at?”
“Oh, the uplights. Things. The little bright things, what with the twinkling and what?” He struggled for the word, gesturing upward. “Those.”
“Stars?”
“Yeah!” He nodded vigorously. “Stars, yep!”
“Oh, ok.” She stared at the sky for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. “There sure are a lot of them.”
“There has to be,” said Frankie.
“Why?”
“To look at.”
“..Oh.” She stared at him for a moment, then turned her gaze back to the sky. “They're pretty. Which one is your favorite?”
“That one.” He pointed without a moments hesitation. “See, right between those two trees, above the north gate?”
“It's the north star, isn't it?” Molly looked at her companion with wide eyes. “Sailors used it to find stuff.”
“Not just sailors!” Frankie laughed. “That's the everyone star.”
“The everyone star?”
“Yeah, everyone has a star, you know. That's why there are so many.”
“Oh, ok.” She stared upwards as he continued.
“The everyone star is for everyone. That's why it doesn't move, and the rest do. Cause, see, my star moves a bunch, so I can't always see it. So the everyone star stays there, and I know I'm not alone. That's why it's my favorite.”
“But you're not alone!”
“Not as long as I have a star!” Frankie laughed again, and leaned back against the wall. “Sometimes, I wonder...” he trailed off. “Am I crazy because my star moves so much?”

Amnesia dreams

The smell of fish, faint in the air, draws him onward down the white hallway. He's not sure where he is, or who he is, or even what he is, but he smells fish, and that's enough.
He recognizes the room at the end of the hallway, from half a dream like this one, perhaps something more, and the warm bed with the blue cover is soft beneath him, and he sits, sits and watches, and half-dreams fly by in the cold whiteness from the light with no switch. There is a beanbag, and a picture of a stern man with glasses, and a table with a chair. Flickering ghosts of memory fly around the room, from the door to the table to the bed that he knows is his, like glass butterflies. He feels no need to chase them.
One of the ghosts is the man with glasses, another is a woman with grey hair and soft eyes. The man is angry, they are both angry, and for half a moment he is afraid before they both vanish. But other ghosts are coming and going, and he is sure they all have names, and for a moment he wonders what his is. And he can't remember, can't remember anything, and again he is afraid.
He looks away from the ghosts, into the white corners of the room with no light switch, and stares there for a moment, lost in thoughtless until he sees the book. He recognizes it. But when he moves to touch the blue cover, the letters change, and become something he can't recognize, and this scares him, more than anything before, and he remembers this dream from a thousand nights ago and wakes up, eyes wide.
Cee takes a moment, staring and breathing hard at the darkness in the room without ghosts, until he remembers where he is, and who he is, and almost sort of what he is. His hand brushes a book, and he looks down, startled, but the cover does not change. The soft sound of Lynn's breathing comes from the other room, and there is a light switch, illuminated by the rays of moonlight that fight through the windowpanes onto the soft colors of the walls. He breathes out.
Cee is alright.


Ok, so I wrote this in like, August. But I just realized that I had never posted it, and I still like it, so... Yeah. Enjoy.

The Dragon is Revealed

The lower council chamber was huge, perhaps three times as big as the upper one. High stone arches concealed shadowed chambers from which emerged the members of the elders council, all stone faced and robed in black. They took their seats in polished pews around an immense stone circle, at one end of which sat Master Solun, hands clasped and head bowed. His robes were black, like the rest, but edged in brilliant gold in thin, swirling patterns that she could have sworn were glowing. The sight was unnerving, to say the least. K hesitated.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
“It will be fine.” He took her hand, leading her forward to the edge of the circle opposite Master Solun. “The council does nothing without reason.”
“If their reason is to look scary as all get out, I'd say it's working,” she muttered as she took her place beside him. “What's wrong with the upper chamber?”
“I don't know.” He whispered. “But shh, the last of them are taking their seats.”
The murmur of the elders quieted down as the last of them took his place, leaving the room in a deafening silence for a moment as all eyes fell to them. K glanced around, nervous, but Ryven tightened his grip on her hand reassuringly. Finally, Master Solun stood.
“Ryven of the northern edge, welcome.” He spoke with a full, resounding voice that echoed through the chamber and belied his age. “You have completed your task?”
“I have.” Ryven dropped her hand as he responded, stepping forward into the light of the circle.
“Then this is the child of Kolina, a thousand years gone?”
“She is.”
“Welcome, then, Destined one.” Master Solun bowed slightly, and Ryven motioned for her to come forward. She stepped hesitantly into the stone circle, and the rest of the council bowed from their seats. “We have long awaited your arrival.”
“...Thank you.” she said, glancing to Ryven, who nodded. “I have been told that you know what I must do.”
“We do.” Master Solun sank back into his chair, face still stone. “The darkness has invaded our lands, and even now encroaches further. I am sure you have encountered it—yes, you have already begun to fight. This is good.”
“I fought some.” She nodded. “But Ryven told me about a dragon; I'm supposed to find it before I can defeat the darkness?”
“Yes.” Master Solun nodded. “But that is another matter altogether. And that, my brothers,” he adressed the elders council, standing and motioning to them all, “is why we are gathered.”
“So, then, you know where it is?” She looked almost hopeful. “I was afraid we would have to spend a lot of time looking for it...”
“You have already found it. The dragon has been with you all along.”
“What do you mean?” Ryven started, eyes wide. “the prophecy clearly stated...”
“Exactly what we said, Ryven.” Master Solun spoke again. “The dragon has been with you all along.”
“But we haven't seen it!” K objected. “It's kinda hard to miss that!”
“It will be made clear.” One of the elders moved to K's side, and drew her back. “You must leave.”
“But...” Ryven attempted to follow, but Master Solun's voice held him there.
“You are to stay.”
“But it's my sacred duty, to...” Ryven held out his hands as he spoke, again moving after K.
“Do not move, child of destiny!” Master Solun's voice resonated around the chamber. “All will be made clear.”
The floor suddenly became lit in harsh red lines with the power of a spell. Ryven stared around him at the sealing circle he found himself imprisoned in. “Master Solun, what... What's happening?” He bashed against the edge of the circle, attempting to get out.
K stood at the edge of the chamber, staring. “What's going on?” she demanded. “What did Ryven do?”
“This is not a punishment, child.” The elder that had lead her from the circle stood behind her, watching impassively. “This is destiny.”
“Destiny my foot, let him out of there!”
A slow, melodious chant began to fill the chamber, echoing out of nowhere. Ryven bashed against the circle again and again, shocked back every time by the power it held. Master Solun looked away.
“When this one was but a child, we found him.” He spoke softly.
“We found him.” The rest of the council repeated.
“We took him, raised him, and tested him.”
“We have.”
“He has never known the truth.”
“He has never known the truth.”
“What truth?” Ryven shouted. “Master Solun, please, what's going on?”
“When this one was but a child, there was another spell.”
“We found him.”
“We bespelled him.”
“You what?” Ryven's shout carried over the murmur of the elder council, piercing through the near-deafening chanting.
“And now, by the power of the destined...”
“By her power.”
“We remove this spell.” This last invocation was spoken by all, unified. The chamber resounded with the words as they cut through the chanting like an arrow.
The sudden silence after went unnoticed as K stared, shocked, at the transformation overtaking Ryven. He fell to his knees, his head in his hands, as he began to glow with the same terrible red light that trapped him there. His body seemed to buckle as if under some enormous strain; his back bent unnaturally and his shoulders began to swell. K threw herself forwards to help him, only to be thrown back by the outer circle, hitting hard against a wall. Ryven's hands were changing now; a brilliant blue was winding it's way across his skin, engulfing the red light as it went- and he seemed to be growing.
Wings suddenly exploded from his swollen shoulders, bursting out all at once, tearing through his white shirt. Not those of an angel—more like the wings of a bat, and that same brilliant blue. The sealing circle that bound him suddenly expanded, tainted with that same sapphire color that was overtaking him. The wings fell to his sides as if broken, and the change continued to wind it's way through him. His hands were claws, now. Along his twisted spine scales began to appear, and a wild, black mane shot down his back. He tried to stand, to fight his way out of the circle. Horns twisted out of his skull, and he fell again, lying prone under the weight of his wings.
The blue color finally made it up to his face. He tried to cover his features with one hand-now-claws, trying to stop the change, but his features began to melt away, elongating and changing uncontrollably. He gave one short, sharp cry, and the last recognizable part of him was gone. He was something else now, something bestial—K suddenly understood.
“He's the dragon.”
The transformation continued unchecked. His neck grew longer, arms thicker. The last remains of his clothing fell to the ground as his body continued to grow. He'd gained a tail at some point. His feet and legs no longer resembled their human counterparts. Rows of shining scales ran down his back, down his arms and legs and tail. She bit her lip as she watched him writhe. The transformation was almost complete now; the red of the sealing circle had been almost completely extinguished by the blue.
One final burst of light ran through the circle and through Ryven, and the room fell completely dark. Every candle had been extinguished by the spell. The only sound was the rough, heavy breathing of something huge and inhuman, tinged with the smell of smoke and the sharp, bitter aftertaste of magic.
One by one, the lamps were relit, shining pinpoints of light in the infinite dark of the chamber. K stood from where she'd fallen against the wall, staring hesitantly at what had been her friend. He wasn't moving, save for the rise and fall of his breathing as he lay in the center of the chamber. She moved hesitantly towards him, half afraid that this might not be Ryven after all.
“Ryven?” She kneeled by his head, staring into one of the heavy-lidded blue eyes that roamed the chamber. He didn't respond. She moved a little closer, reaching out to touch him. His scales were cool to the touch, but she could feel a heat beneath them, barely kindled yet. She ran a hand down his neck. “Ryven, talk to me.”
The blue eye focused on her for a moment, then looked away, in something she could have sworn was shame.
“He cannot speak.” Master Solun's voice came from behind her. “You will learn to communicate with him, but not in words. That is lost to him now.”
“What did you do to him?” She stood to face him, angry.
The old man held up his hands, attempting to calm her. “We have only restored him to his natural form. This is how he was always intended to be.”
“But...” She trailed off, glancing down at Ryven-what had been Ryven-as he lay upon the floor. “I thought you cared for him.”
“It was destiny.” Master Solun's words were forced and hollow, and for a moment she almost believed that he hadn't wanted this either. “It had to be done.”
“Why?”
“You'll understand eventually.” He put a hand to her shoulder, and tried to lead her away. “Let him rest now. The worst is over with, but the coming weeks will be hard.”
“I want to stay with him.” Her voice was resolute. “I'm not leaving him here like this.”
“Fine.”

I'm not sure if this is a new story. It's been around for a few years, but I might not have posted from it before. In any case, wrote this a few days ago while practicing being descriptive. I like it, I think.