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.”

Random snippets

“There are so many strange things in the dark,” she said quietly, her weak grip on him tightening in fear. “I saw you, and the children, so many times—I saw you die, and I saw you alive again—My mother was there, sometimes. I wanted so badly to go to her but my hands were tied down—but they aren't tied down now. But you're dead, so I must be hallucinating—where is my mother?”
“I am alive, Theia,” Bird repeated, sprinting through the town's darkened streets. “I am alive—please, believe me.”
“But I always believe you—I always do, and you never are!” She sobbed. “And in two days the guard will come by and it will all break—break into pieces, and I'll still be in the dark alone and you'll still be dead!”
“In two days you will still be free, and your fever will be gone, and I will still be alive,” he promised. “In two days, I will be by your side, and there will be no guards, and no chains, and there will be light.”
“You promise?” she asked brokenly.
“I do.” He nodded. “I cannot lie to you, Theia. I will bring you a light, in two days, if there is none in the house—I will be with you, and you will not be alone—and as long as I still can protect you, I will never be dead.”
He rounded the corner onto the dirt pathway up the ridge, and she buried her face in the back of his neck. “I wish I could believe you.”
“You can,” he repeated earnestly.
“But the dead ones always lie.”


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“You are different, little one, but I still know what you want.” The story keeper turned her around. The empty hallway was full of light, streaming from crooked windowpanes and catching the light of a thousand motes of dust. Faded flowers sat on a windowsill, the blue glass vase thick with dust. Wooden doors were scattered down the hallway, opening by cracks into rooms that held just a glimpse of mystery; strange things that felt familiar and so alien at once. The room was warm, and yellow, and everything she wanted. “You wish for the old things, the mystery and magic you knew when you did not understand. The brilliance of jewels means nothing to you, nor the transient life of flowers. This hallway leads to your dreams; mystery that cannot be exhausted, a world where there is always more to explore—a world where mystery lives on without uncertainty or danger. Listen to my stories, tell me your own, and I will give you this.”


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“I... I couldn't feel safe.” She looked down, ashamed. “Not like that.”
“Anastasia,” he growled quietly. “You're an idiot if you think I would ever hurt you.”
“You would,” she whispered. “You wouldn't mean to. I know you wouldn't mean to hurt me, but you... you would.”
“I would not,” he argued, taking her hands in his own with less than his usual roughness. “I couldn't. I won't.”
“I'm sorry.” She put her head on his shoulder, taking in the synthetic warmth. “I want to trust you. But...”
“But I left you,” he finished bitterly, dropping her hands to wrap his arms around her body and entwining his fingers in her hair. “So you can't.”
“It's more than that,” Anastasia admitted as she pulled herself closer to him. “You just... It's not even you.” She ducked her eyes away, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “I can't trust. I never could. I'm sorry.”
He let his face soften, if only for a moment, as he held her so closely that he thought his skin might burn. His fingers ran gently through her hair, combing out the small tangles that plagued it, and Casey wanted so badly to do something, anything, anything he could to comfort her.
“Learn,” he finally whispered.


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“She will never be happy in darkness, Spirit!” The rebel drew his sword. “You know that as well as I do.”
“My darkness is less painful than that which you offer her.” The Dead Spirit looked down on him, black cloak swirling around dramatically in the flickering light. “Mine is only a physical darkness—to return with you will sentence her to a hidden life, always watching, always silent.”
“Because she is yours?”
“No, because she was yours,” the Spirit shot back. “She is innocent. Your sin has doomed her. If she returnsss they will take her again, and all will be lost. No, she will not return with you.”
“Then where will she go?” the rebel challenged.
“There are pathsss.” The Spirit circled on the other side of the pond, as if searching for a way across. “I offered you a choice, Fire-bonesss. I offer her the same.”
“She will choose to return to me.”
“Then it will be her choice; I will warn her and protect her if need be. But she is not such a fool as you think—she may leave you yet.” The skull dropped to Paul's level but the shadowy figure still stood tall above him. “You have given her little enough cause to ssstay.”
“You really think she would choose death?” Paul drew his sword with a metallic sssshk. “Enough of you is flesh for me to cut, Spirit!”
“I have never offered death!” The skull rushed back up to where it belonged, and the white bone hands appeared, tense and curled like claws. “She is safe, Fire-bones; safe with me! I am under no obligations to you. Your price will be high if she chooses to return—and I will collect it.” The dark figure leaned over the pond, the beak of the skull inches from Paul's face. “Your ssssoul is not so uninteresting as it once wasss.”
With an angry cry, he swung his sword, aiming for the painted face beneath the skull. The Spirit was too fast, and shot back, out of his reach. Before he could swing again, the skull had vanished, and the shrine was empty once again.

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.

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!”