Revelations Cycle Fourteenth Iteration: I Shall Never Be Friends Again With Roses
I dislike LiveJournal's new post formatting. It worries and distresses me, especially since when I try to go back and edit old posts the formatting gets all fucked to hell.
Whatever!! Powering forward. My goal is to finish this goddamned fic by the end of the year if it kills me but that might not be practical. Let's get on with it.
~~~
Wake up.
Everything is, at first hazy, but that's alright. It's as though you're drifting, aloft in a cloud, carried along by the sweet north wind and the vaulted song of the sparrows, swept away by starlight you wish you could have seen, a thousand thousand points of light beneath your feet and your back and all you can feel is relief, every thought joy at the sweet sorrow that is to be bereft of pain. The heavy red ache in your legs, your breast, your arms, your shoulders-- the lead weight that drags you down day to day is gone, lifted, shuttered up and forgotten, set aside like a box of old toys in the attic, out of sight and out of mind, the sickness dragged screaming from your bones to leave you with peace like a sieve, the tension and despair draining away.
You wake to moonlight, and to the crest of the sun coming orange and purple and pink over the distant line of the horizon; to birdsong, the sweetest melody, save for her voice coming in from the east in dulcet tones of silver and gold, twisting on the wind. She waits, just over the hill, across the valley, her song spilling forth like a river, washing over you. Alone in your tent, you allow yourself one thing: a smile, rare as diamonds, rare as her blood (as yours, too, though yours is garbage, swill running through the gutters of the dark cities across the ocean, you think not of it).
You rise, to meet her and the day. Your cowl lies beside you, neglected, for today you are fresh and free and whole, today you can do anything. You feel light as you stand, light as you step forth, and then you are the light and the light is running through you, pure and crystal and singing, clear as bells. You are the light and the light is you and you are a new man, blessed and touched. You walk to her calmly, admiring, the tall grass waving around you in the wind, and there is nothing to fear, nothing to worry. She will not judge. She will not think less of you for dropping your walls a second to let her in. You have given her all of yourself, and she has taken what you offered and more, and crafted from the shell left behind something beautiful. Your rage, always boiling, always present, has evaporated, taken flight with the pain and let you be, and as you catch sight of her in the sunlight, catch her eye, see her smile, you know that you can be happy. Happy here, for a moment, at rest, at long last. No running. No hiding. No slaughter on the run, fleet-footed with her lusus at your side, his teeth in their flesh, your sword finding its mark and fill of blood. Your poisoned heart beats faster as you pause, time frozen. One perfect moment.
"Hey, Dave."
Pain. Pain, like a forest fire, like a flood, speeding through you, ripping, tearing, devouring. You turn from her, your salvation, and meet his eye, red as yours, round-rimmed shades slipped down the steep bridge of his pale nose. Wheat-blond hair in a mop over his eyes, you hate him, loathe him, and the noise you make isn't human-- good. You aim for those eyes, the eyes that mock you, a tidal wave of rage crashing over you, filling you up full until there isn't space inside you for anything else. And worse, the rage is his, too, rage turned inward instead of out towards the world. You see a shadow of it, revealed in his eyes, those eyes, you want to tear them out, stab into them with pins and pluck them out, ruin him and all he loves. A shadow of your pain, your first pain, buried deep down and echoed, and you hate him with a fury unequalled.
"Get out!" You have never screamed. In wakefulness, in slumber, you are composed save for the howling banshee you become in her service, in her name, tilling the battlefield. You are placid as the still surface of a lake in summer, smooth as the flat of a mirror, composed as your lusus always taught you to be to live, to survive. But now you are the rage and the rage is you and you ride it, ride it towards him, allow yourself to drown in the froth of your hate and come out spitting, a new man, an aspect.
He smirks, flickers, disappears. The tide of your anger spills forth impotent, and your scream echoes anew; you look to her for guidance. Not a steadying influence, not anything a moirail could provide, but a rock to batter the brunt of your anger against, a cliff that could never be worn down in a thousand years. She has always seen your rage, looked into the shrieking heart of it, and met it with a kiss to your lips and a hand in your hair and on your heart and pitied you for it. You turn to her, but what you see is ice, a field of ice, and darkness encroached upon the sky, rolling black thunderheads of smoke and lightning. The trees rise up, claws towards the ruined sky, bare of leaves in this late season, the winter of your discontent. Look again and she is there, knelt at the foot of the queen's hoarfrost throne, chin up and eyes to the sky, glowing dim in the low light, a figure at either side.
They are familiar, these wraiths. They have stalked you before, in the depths of the night, in the dark hours, always walking in your shadow, always whispering with the wind in the trees. To her left, a troll, all conical horns and sharp teeth and the teal blood you hate, a grin as soon as a wink or a nod, black lips cracked. To her right, at the right shoulder of your girl, a girl like her, soft and smooth, skin like paper, hair like ebony, and what haunts you are the eyes, green embers like the heat death of the universe, so familiar. The angels of your despair lock hands behind her head, cupping the crown of her skull, sinking to their knees beside her, and you are stuck.
The ice rises up to meet you, catching your feet, and the flames of your rage, tempered now in fear, are worthless to put them out. You watch as the troll girl speaks--
FOR JUST1C3.
The other answers--
for you.
And together they slit her throat, one with knives and one with claws, pulling at dead flesh as her body dissolves, still watching the stars as green blood spills out. Before you can scream, he is behind you, and the sword is through your belly, beating in time, its pulse through yours.
Lub-dub.
Lub-dub.
Lub-dub.
Tick.
---
Wake up.
Daevid Strida woke to a pain that rushed like adrenaline down every nerve, harbored and encamped in his chest just below his heart, which was beating abnormally fast-- that was normal. The tent was empty, and through the canvas spread above him he could see light bleeding through, warm and rich and deep, which meant the sun would be up an hour hence then, at least. With a huff of breath he rolled to his side and sprung to a sitting position, wincing as he grabbed at his side, but the wound there was internal or all in his head, a dull ache grown sharp that throbbed hot when he pushed at it. Generally, he tried not to push at any part of himself but the soles of his feet these days; even the single horn of keratin and living bone that capped his skull seemed to burn when he touched it, which was itself troublesome.
Be cool, he told himself, and it was so, and the pain waned a fraction, shoved aside. Take stock, he told himself, and he did, reaching for socks and shoes, boxer shorts, t-shirt, pulling each on with painstaking effort to make it look effortless, fabric rippling over the planes of his chest and up smooth columns of his thighs. Watch, pants, shades, couldn't forget the shades, they were the most important part, covering up the evidence of what he was, as though anyone wouldn't know just from the sight of him. No blood need be spilled to know he was abnormal, a league apart.
Finally, his phone, a crucial device, filled already with messages. Largely from spambots (he needed a better firewall right fast) or Jawwhn who dared to think of himself as a moirail instead of a mild annoyance that Daevid was inexplicably and secretly fond of, but one flashed in purple that was not quite tyrian, a canker on the festering sore that was his life.
TT: Good morning, Daevid. The night has waned quite late, but in deference to the measures that you and our charming friend miss Harley take to remain out of the public eye, I have adjusted my schedule to accommodate you.
TT: This is hoping, of course, that your most gracious self has deigned to remember our meeting at all, and will be arriving upon the hour, but I would never be so crass as to suggest that, once invited, you would stand me up.
TT: No, only a lowborn lout would leave a lady waiting once called upon.
TT: Or a highborn lout, perhaps? Regardless.
TT: I look forward to your company, and to the service I expect you to provide. Your reward will be as detailed, though that is up for negotiation, as you indicated that you questioned my ability to "come through with the goods".
TT: Oh dear, I appear to have gotten a bit verbose. We shall let it lie, then, with this:
TT: Mr. Strida, you know where I live.
Daevid closed his phone with disgust and hopped to his feet, stooping until he had pushed his way out of the tent and into the clearing, greeted by the scent of gently charred meat.
"It fell in the fire," Jadite told him with a smile and a half shrug, offering up a bowl full of what appeared from the feathers to be blackened chirpbeast, with a side of leeks flambe. "But it's still good! Here, take some before Bec gets it all." Behind his shades, his eyes flicked up over her shoulder to the edge of the encampment where her lusus crouched, serrated teeth and strong jaws tearing at a rack of ribs from yesterday, streamers of shredded, rotting pink flesh dripping from the bones as flies buzzed around his muzzle. Safe behind his impenitrable wall, his pupils dilated, one pointed ear twitching just a fraction at the sound of snapping bone, the radiation green tongue darting out to lap at spongy marrow, and Daevid turned away, accepting the proffered bowl without a word and stepping over to one of the great stones by the fire, an impromptu bench.
The meat tasted like ash on his tongue, and disolved away with single bites, flesh charred and parting seamlessly between his fangs. Chewing further would only force out another gush of flavor, and already the taste was heavy, stifling; he swallowed down chunks whole, another life taken inside himself, feeding his strength. His shoulder throbbed in time, his side, and when he was licking remnants of coal-fire grease from his clawtips he realized that while he'd been absently watching the crackling flame, she'd been watching him, legs crossed primly, hands folded over her knee.
"You're awfully quiet today," she remarked with soft sign of worry, only the insinuation of a smile now.
It was a familiar dance by then, and Daevid knew his steps well, impressed upon him through the necessity of his facade. "Don't worry about me, Harley, worrying about your cooking skills. This cluckbeast is throwing me off my game." Lash out. Intend to hurt, tease, with a sharp edge hidden under silk, a blade wrapped in swaddling cloth. Hidden meaning: Drop it, I don't want to talk.
She knew him too well.
"Well, if you don't like it, cook your own food! Protein is good for you, fuckass." A slight pause, and Daevid considered that he might get off easy, with the particulars of the day. No such luck. "It hurts again, doesn't it? Did you have the dream?" Jadite Harley was never one for fucking around, save for sometimes in the literal sense when the moon was right, and he could always trust her to cut right to the heart of a problem, peeling away the unnecessary clutter.
Backed into a corner, Daevid decided to take the path of least resistance. "The sick fires of my soul are burning as bad as ever," he assured her. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't, but why don't we drop it?
At times when he looked at Jadite, Daevid was reminded intensely of her lusus: merciless, dogged, willing to dig and dig and prod at a matter until it was lain bare and open for her, bare bones and bloodied flesh exposed to her sight. The way she was looking at him now was familiar, frustrated, halfway to fed up, a kernel of concern buried under her short fuse. "So it was the dreams, then. I can't help you with them if you won't tell me what they are, Daevid!"
His movements were always slight, nearly imperceptible to the untrained eye, but Jadite had been trained and he was sure she saw as he stiffened minutely, tension tightening down his shoulders and back, held hot in the pit of his stomach. He sat forward, hunched over himself and took a breath that came scandalously near to rattling in his chest like a pebble in a can, like something had come loose inside of him, careening madcap around his insides, playing a great game of pinball with his organs. "I don't believe all that magic fairy godlusus prophecy stuff," he told her, point-blank. "They're just nightmares. I had one aboout falling down stairs once. They don't mean jack shit."
Help me.
Her gaze was sharp as thorns, shrewd. "An endless staircase?"
Feeling as though he'd been lead around again, guided towards an inevitable conclusion, Daevid scowled, only the general gist of it visible from an outside perspective. "So what if it was?"
"Jawwhn's having them too." Ah, a non-sequitor. This, too, was familiar, and Daevid relaxed some of his tension, a small gust of breath released. "Not the stair one, obviously, but similar."
"So not just endemic to us mutant scumbloods, then?"
Tactfully, she ignored him. "He's coming over today, by the way. I just thought you should know in case he's here when you get back."
"Does he know he's coming over, or are you going to surprise him?"
"Don't be like that!" Jadite snapped, and then flushed slightly. "But no, he doesn't. Where would the fun be in that?"
"Dunno. We're going to just be a pack of fun today, aren't we? Maybe I can bring Lalond back, we can all have a batshit bonfire while the two of you bond over your doom and gloom card games."
"She's not that crazy, honestly. I wish you'd try to get along with her a little better."
Daevid stood, brushing invisible crumbs of ash off the fronts of his trousers. "I'd be a pretty irresponsible matesprit if I went around enabling your dangerous pale crushes on psychopaths, wouldn't I?"
"You'd be minding your own damn business," Jadite grumbled, a bit cross. Good; he'd pushed her off balance. Now she would certainly let the subject die.
"Yeah?" Why don't you mind yours?
Jadite huffed, standing as well. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just don't come crying to me when those visions you've been avoiding come true, mister! I have to get ready to pick up Jawwhn. I'll see you when you get back, and you'd better not be hurt again."
"I'll put my big wiggler shoes on," he told her with confidence, though his blood ran cold.
When those visions you've been avoiding come true.
As she turned from him, for the barest flicker of an instant, he thought he could see a crescent of green hung like a halo around her neck.
---
TG: keep your hat on lalond im coming
The sea stretched on blue and wide and deep before him, windswept crests capped with the glimmer and sparkle of sunlight as the curving line of the coast spread out, fine sands glowing white so harsh that even behind his shades, Daevid was forced to squint. Alone on a clear day, he looked out over the water and saw nothing in the distance, no hint of the mainland that he and Jadite had come from, swimming across the gap on a rainy night with torches and pitchforks in pursuit. Once the sea had swallowed him, swept him down, until teeth fixed in his right arm and brought him back up until his head broke water; a gasp and a crackle of green lightning and four bodies had sprawled on this beach, a short but crucial jump. Somewhere across the water were the spires of the high towers of the city, now sleeping; the ramshackle collective of huts that they had squatted in just past pupation, barely more than a roof of driftwood above their heads as they huddled together at Bec's belly for warmth, his lusus standing watchful guard.
Now he was a man, but the sea was still deep and mysterious and nebulously antagonistic, a world of royalty beneath its waves that he would never have gone near by choice. Sword strapped to his back, Daevid shrugged off his jacket and tossed it to the slope where grass transfigured itself to sand, wading out into the surf with a slim, oak wood box in hand. Cold water drenched him, soaked his pants on the inrush of tide and then attempted to suck him back in, deeper into the expanse of ocean rolling before him. Waist deep, he stopped, feet planted firmly on sand over stone, and opened the box. Red velvet inside cradled two perls that shone lilac in the sun, and he picked one up between his claws, examining the glossy surface before popping it in his mouth. Crushed in his jaws, thick liquid like cough syrup spilled out, an impossibly vast quantity, filling his mouth and sliding slow down his throat, every inch of skin it touched burning like cool mint. He grew short of breath, gasping, lines rising on the side of his neck, flesh fluttering as his stomach twisted, repulsed by the sickly aura of the magic.
Still Daevid looked forward, towards the horizon, until a dab of white popped up, grew larger, towards him. A turtle lusus, the great disk of its shell breaking the surf and ever rising, some lost servant called to her side when its charge had grown and gone or fallen in battle, violet reins wreathed about its beaked head. Beady eyes the size of Becquerel's head stared him down as it coasted in, ever larger, riding to a stop just before him. The box slid back into his pocket, Daevid accepted the reins and swung himself up upon the turtle's back with one smooth movement, feeling as though his raw nerve ends had been burned down, cauterized. His back was straight as he leaned forward, flattened against the beast for the sake of dynamic movement, one hand holding his shades in place as they descended, ignoring the shameful way his heart skipped a beat.
The world below was beautifully stark, empty, sand falling down away to a steep undersea cliff and darkness below where the light couldn't quite reach. The turtle sank to ride the border between light and dark, and they skimmed out into emptiness, leaving shore behind as icy water sank into his skin and pulled at his clothes, tiny currents teasing his hair as it fanned out behind him. Water rushed over newly minted gills, flowing inside him like blood, and breathing was as simple as letting the current rush around him. He felt nearly weightless even as his hands shook, and he kept an eye around him, seeking any sign of habitation, of anything at all. No fish swam here in these dead waters, no seals darted across their path, and it was somewhat of a shock when at last another cliff rose up, reaching towards the surface in vain.
Carved into its facade was a sprawling structure hewn by no trollish hands, a cathedral plated in gold and brass that glimmered near the top and sunk to dull obscurity further down, all points and harsh edges and vaulted arches, high windows to nowhere and bas reliefs above the grand front doors. Demons in marble and metal capped every corner, scaled every pillar, a mass of tentacle artistry curling over the rafters and sharp angled sills, and the front stairs led up to the black cave of a foyer, sailed into without a pause. It was pitch dark inside, save for a lone spot of light what looked like meters above and before him, a play of rippled light over the walls guiding them.
The turtle tipped upward, and Daevid clenched his knees against the sides of its domed shell, holding on as it swam for the light, towards warmth and air, and when they surfaced Daevid needed a moment to slick back his sodden curtain of hair before looking around. He had come up in a square of water, surrounded still by gold and fabric draperies in rich red and tyrian purple. It was a small room, that emptied into and faced towards the promise of a grander space, a golden staircase leading steeply up and out of his sight. The walls were fitted with ornate iron sconces, and in them torches that burned ever bright, a low, oily light spilling out and giving everything a tarnished gleam. And then, when he had casually finished taking in the overblown grandeur of the room, he turned his attentions to the woman standing before him, one hand on her hip, a cruel smile tugging up one corner of her plump black lips.
"Fashionably late as ever, Mister Strida."
She was devastatingly beautiful, in the most literal sense. Elegant horns curved up and back, a full set from hatching that Daevid could only envy. Tall and thin, she looked nearly brittle, a blown glass impliment of long lines that terminated in points and corners. Daevid himself was almost awkwardly tall, and not counting the horns she was a few inches shorter than him, but more intimidating was the way her dark, hooded robes flowed around her, tugged by a current unseen and unfelt, hems dragging lightly along the floor; she appeared to be floating.
"Took a wrong turn at Albaquerque," he told her smoothly, keeping his face to hers as he slid off the turtle and found even footing. "Sorry about dripping all over your floors. Must be hell to clean."
"We have people for that," she told him with a sweeping gesture, the wide cuff of her robe trailing after her arm, and he found himself with a mental picture of dozens of lusii, called to her side as the turtle had been, sea iguanas and manatees and great white sharks buzzing about the place with mops and rags, polishing until it shone.
Now she bent her arm towards him, beckoning. "No matter. The day has worn late already. Come, follow me to my chambers."
"Do you plan on talking like a period novel this whole time, or what?" Daevid asked, annoyed, following as she turned from him and mounted the staircase, his hands shoved sullenly in sodden pockets.
"I find it adds atmosphere to the weighted topic we are about to discuss, but fine, if you would prefer: hello again, Daevid, it's been awhile." He could practically feel her smirking at him, though she stared straight ahead. "How've you been?"
"Fine. You still in possession of exactly zero of your marbles, or did you manage to borrow a cup of sanity off some poor stiff since the last time I saw you?"
"Oh, don't be like that. It was nothing personal."
"You tried to kill me. But hey, it's not like anyone's counting right?"
They had reached the top of the stair, with hidden effort on Daevid's part. The room they came out in was indeed spacious, torch-lit, with a marble floor inlaid with smoothly cut gemstones and layers of colored stone and coral, a mural in the shape of a sphere that stretched on to fill nearly the space available, a series of concentric circles intersperced with odd symbols. At the center, a stylized sun. Daevid didn't bother to fixate on it, or give it more than a passing glance.
"I was testing you," she corrected, heading across the room towards the lone dark passage beyond, no hint of candlelight to reassure him. Creeping dread was welling up, unable to be fully quashed by the deep fire of his anger or the ice he layered carefully above it, and his hand twitched, instinct begging him to reach for the sword, to have it find its rightful, comfortable place at his side at the very least. "What sort of servant would you be if you failed to pass the most rudimentary of tests?"
"Not yours," he grumped back, back prickling as their footsteps echoed across stone and gold. "And hey, look at that, I'm not! Guess you'll have to find someone else to prawn this job off on."
"Please, no fish puns," she sighed, put upon, carefully stepping around the substance of his statement. "I get enough of those at court."
Surprised, he raised an eyebrow. "They're still inviting you? I thought they exiled you to the ass-end of nowhere for a reason."
"Of course they did. Fear." She shrugged, and did so elegantly. Daevid could have torn her open, though the loathing was accompanied by a spark of honest, if grudging, fondness, smothered down deep in the muck and mire of his soul. "And fear compells them to invite me back. An enemy is best served in a place where you can watch her, after all. And moreso if you can make him uncomfortable. Being below the water makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?"
"Never cared for anything below sea level much." Does that make us enemies now? "I'm not bothered."
She brushed him off. "You are a creature of the air, Daevid. You want to fly, and the sea is oppressive. In addition, we are meeting on my... 'turf', as it were, and that naturally puts you on edge-- and at a disadvantage. After all, our last arena was on dry land, and your lusus was still required to moderate."
"I thought we weren't talking about that?" Don't tell me what I am. Daevid's glower was full-fledged, eyes wild behind the barrier of his glasses, and still she would not look at him. The hallway was narrow, claustrophobic, with only room to walk single-file; through the darkness, opressive even to a creature of the night, he could hear the ticking of many clocks, and when he reached out a hand, he could feel that the wall was filthy with them, set into the deep metal without seam or ridge, as though they had grown from the gold, a naturally occurring organism.
"How tactless of me," and her words were dripping condescension. Daevid seethed. "Regardless, a moment of your time and then you may be on your way. I'm sure that we would both be better served if you didn't linger here too long. Jawwhn and Jadite will be eagerly awaiting your arrival."
"Not to be crass, but what the fuck did you want, anyway?" Daevid asked, attempting to skip to the point. "I know you didn't just call me over here for shits and giggles, so what did her royal condescension require of me that was so damn urgent?"
The hallway went on forever, as did the bare second spent waiting for her to speak again. "I would like you to deliver a package for me. Two packages, actually; one for Jawwhn, and one for Miss Harley. I daresay it shouldn't be much trouble to you, and in reward, you will receive a present of your own, from me to you, to be opened after your bloodrite tomorrow."
"Why the specific timing?"
"Your gift, as well as Jadite's and Jawwhn's, are part of a puzzle, to which I have the second piece. You can think of them like keys in a lock; each key must be twisted in order, or the lock will remain shut tight. You'll see soon enough, I imagine. A little patience, please."
At last, she stopped, so fast that Daevid nearly ran smack into her back. A click, and a door swung wide, bathing them in deep purple light, etherial. This room was circular, and carved of stone. Daevid heaved a huge shiver that he could no more have turned back than the tide, a chord plucked inside his breast, something deep and instinctive resonating. This room too was hung in lilac draperies-- four of them, each with an eldritch symbol. One looked to be a gear, one to be a sun, one like waves and one as a spiral of energy. He stepped after her into the room and turned cold, each puff of breath exhaled as a cloud of steam. In the center sat a table, round, covered in violet cloth, and above it hung the source of the light, a series of globes suspended in the air that seemed to hum as they spun-- two outer rings surrounding a larger globe, four and eleven respectively, and each a different color and pattern, a planet in relief. When he stood still, Daevid swayed in time to the music of the spheres.
Hung too were mirrors, were the walls, and Rosace stepped before one, whispering to herself, stroking the frame. When Daevid peered in one, darkness flickered before his reflection came up, and in the reflection of his shades he swore he saw the face of his other self, the man from his dream. Heart pounding, he backed away, bumping into one of the miniature planets and sending it slightly out of alignment; it was warm to the touch, and when he peered at it, the surface appeared to flow, like magma.
"Did you make these?" he asked, poking at the dark globe to its right, and Rosace shook her head.
"They were always here. Many mysterious things are, if you only care to look for them." The spell seemingly broken, she turned from the glass and marched up to the table, folding up its protective cloth and opening a hidden drawer beneath, drawing out three boxes-- one wrapped in blue, one green, one red, each the color of their intended recipient's blood. "Take these; keep them safe. Our future happiness rests on your task being carried out successfully and to the letter. Our happiness, mind you, not my own. I trust you not to mortgage the future of your moirail or matesprit based on petty spite for me alone."
Daevid reached out and took the packages, stacked one atop the other, tucking them away in his sylladex and out of sight. Out of mind, too, though her exhortation not to open his yet was still niggling at him, directing his thoughts back towards pure curiosity. "I--" he opened his mouth to say, but was interrupted by a muted screech that reverberated through the floors.
"Oh, damn," his companion sighed, pulling from the sleeve of her robe a long strip of wood, dark with runes in ink and blood. "Time to check on Mother, I see. It was lovely seeing you again, Daevid, but for the time being, you are dismissed."
She disappeared in a poof of smoke that left Daevid coughing. "Flashy snipebeast," he snarled, and blinking, found that the smoke had resolved itself into a two airy words: Vulgar cad.
It was with grace and dignity that he resisted the urge to storm out, instead calmly and collectedly stalking back to his tortoise guide, teeth clenched. The boxes weighed heavy in his sylladex, prodding at him even as he swallowed the second perl, preparing for the journey back. The darkness of the sea below them seemed deeper this time, the light more wanted and saught after, and when he was back to shore he gave the turtle a kindly pat, finding that the day had indeed waned, sun dipping slowly towards the horizon. He stooped to pick up his jacket, holding it at arm's length to keep it dry, and dropped it again, cursing under his breath as he opened his sylladex one more, drawing forth the box promised to him.
It couldn't hurt to open it, he thought. Rosace was always full of rules and restrictions and procedures, chains to bind him and draw him in and hold him. He wrenched off the scarlet ribbon with violence, tipped the box open onto the sand. Four objects fell out: two CD cases, familiar, and two scrolls of paper, one fresh and the other gone yellow and thin with age. Carefully, the paper cracking, he unrolled the former, breath cought in his chest at the words, printed dead center:
this time how about we dont fuck this up
Suspecting that he had slipped into some sort of fugue state, Daevid perused the second letter, and found it similar, but more enraging than terrifying.
I did tell you not to open it early, Daevid. We reap what we sow.
The walk home was a blur. Daevid had the vague recollection afterward of tripping, stumbling through thorns and briars, sharp points tearing at his face, his clothes as his feet found purchase in mud, slipping over slick earth and the forest's carpet of fallen leaves. It wasn't until he was falling over his own sword, propped against a friendly beech tree, going knees-first into the dirt, that he came to, and then he swore, hoping that Jadite hadn't gone to retrieve Jawwhn yet. Only one buckfanged troll emerged from her tent, which was promising as she bustled over to pat his shoulder and help him up, concern evident.
"Daevid--"
"Fine," he nearly barked, cutting her off, and then Jawwhn was pushing the tent flap open in return, his blue-gold eyes wide and shaken as well.
"You okay there, bro?" he asked, and Daevid nodded as he pushed his way past.
"Fine," he repeated, and had the presence of mind to shove Jawwhn's gift at him before retreating fully. "Happy Wriggling Day, bulgeknot." Jawwhn looked stunned, and the last thing he saw of either of them before entering his tent and shutting himself away was a look exchanged, worry naked and exposed. Kneeling on his bed roll, Daevid tossed the first note out of his sylladex, spilling his travel bag out over the ground and sifting through it, claws picking at leather thongs and stone knives, flint stones for fire lighting and whetstones for keeping his weapons keen, the remnants of a hard, hardscrabble life. At last he found what he sought: the same paper, the same handwriting, the same mocking red ink, and alone in his tent, he allowed himself to tremble.
remember me
---
The stars were up, the moon round and yellow and full. Jawwhn was seated by the fire, Jadite across from him, a wide smile splitting her face; his own was smeared with beast gristle and flecks of a delicious cream of mushroom sauce that his meal had been slathered in. A third bowl, full, sat waiting for Daevid to emerge, but after hours of ignoring their pleas for him to come out and join them, both had given up much hope.
"Come on, open it!" Jadite prompted him with a wave of her hands, excited. "I want to see. What did she get you?"
Jawwhn laughed, tugging at the cerulean ribbon. "Hold your hoofbeasts, I'm working on it!"
"It's from a highblood, so it'll be good," she pronounced, confident. "And Rosace is pretty fond of you. I'm sure you'll love it, but we won't know until you open the thing!"
Heaving a faked sigh, Jawwhn pulled at the paper, which gave a satisfying tear under his claws. "If you insist," he told her, lifting off the lid and staring curiously at the contents. "There's no note. Just... CDs?"
"Oooh, a game, maybe!" Jadite exclaimed, eyes sparkling. "That calls for cake. You want a slice?"
"Did you make it?" Jawwhn asked, dubious. "I mean... I don't want to offend, but I can't stand it, really."
Jadite shrugged. "More for me! And Daevid, if he ever-- oh." Her head turned, and Jawwhn followed her gaze to where Daevid was emerging from his tent, placid and emotionless as ever. "Well, look who decided to show up after all!"
"Yeah, late to the party, whatever," Daevid remarked, unusually subdued as he took a seat between them, shades pointed towards the fire. "What's this about cake, Harley? Don't hold out on us, now."
She rolled her eyes affectionately, but her smile was clear and true as she cut him a large slice and passed it over. "Your dinner's there too, if you want. It's good, right, Jawwhn?"
Jawwhn smacked his lips enthusiastically, giving them both a grin. "Like ambrosia."
"Well if Egbert says so, I guess it's safe for consumption. Not like I've seen him eat a three day-old quackbeast raw or anything."
Jadite laughed, Jawwhn sniggered, and amiable silence reigned, save for the crackle of the fire as it spat embers upward and the wind through the trees. The sky was clear above them, and when Jawwhn looked up, he could see trails of flame blazing across the sky. "Look up," he breathed, enraptured.
Daevid was unimpressed. "Yeah, meteor shower. They happen all the time out here in the sticks."
Jadite huffed at him. "It's pretty, though. Why don't you make a wish, Jawwhn?"
He considered it a moment, the smell of woodsmoke all around, solid dirt beneath his feet. He felt more real, more alive than he had in sweeps. "I think I wish for--"
"Don't tell us, silly! Then it won't come true."
Jawwhn looked down at the box, tossed aside, and then back up at Jadite, standing at Daevid's side, her hand at his shoulder, his hand casually set atop hers. Alone in his thoughts, he had never felt more singular, lost, broken.
Clutching the disk labelled SGRUB to his chest, Jawwhn Egbert wished with all his heart to become whole.
And the universe listened.
Whatever!! Powering forward. My goal is to finish this goddamned fic by the end of the year if it kills me but that might not be practical. Let's get on with it.
~~~
Wake up.
Everything is, at first hazy, but that's alright. It's as though you're drifting, aloft in a cloud, carried along by the sweet north wind and the vaulted song of the sparrows, swept away by starlight you wish you could have seen, a thousand thousand points of light beneath your feet and your back and all you can feel is relief, every thought joy at the sweet sorrow that is to be bereft of pain. The heavy red ache in your legs, your breast, your arms, your shoulders-- the lead weight that drags you down day to day is gone, lifted, shuttered up and forgotten, set aside like a box of old toys in the attic, out of sight and out of mind, the sickness dragged screaming from your bones to leave you with peace like a sieve, the tension and despair draining away.
You wake to moonlight, and to the crest of the sun coming orange and purple and pink over the distant line of the horizon; to birdsong, the sweetest melody, save for her voice coming in from the east in dulcet tones of silver and gold, twisting on the wind. She waits, just over the hill, across the valley, her song spilling forth like a river, washing over you. Alone in your tent, you allow yourself one thing: a smile, rare as diamonds, rare as her blood (as yours, too, though yours is garbage, swill running through the gutters of the dark cities across the ocean, you think not of it).
You rise, to meet her and the day. Your cowl lies beside you, neglected, for today you are fresh and free and whole, today you can do anything. You feel light as you stand, light as you step forth, and then you are the light and the light is running through you, pure and crystal and singing, clear as bells. You are the light and the light is you and you are a new man, blessed and touched. You walk to her calmly, admiring, the tall grass waving around you in the wind, and there is nothing to fear, nothing to worry. She will not judge. She will not think less of you for dropping your walls a second to let her in. You have given her all of yourself, and she has taken what you offered and more, and crafted from the shell left behind something beautiful. Your rage, always boiling, always present, has evaporated, taken flight with the pain and let you be, and as you catch sight of her in the sunlight, catch her eye, see her smile, you know that you can be happy. Happy here, for a moment, at rest, at long last. No running. No hiding. No slaughter on the run, fleet-footed with her lusus at your side, his teeth in their flesh, your sword finding its mark and fill of blood. Your poisoned heart beats faster as you pause, time frozen. One perfect moment.
"Hey, Dave."
Pain. Pain, like a forest fire, like a flood, speeding through you, ripping, tearing, devouring. You turn from her, your salvation, and meet his eye, red as yours, round-rimmed shades slipped down the steep bridge of his pale nose. Wheat-blond hair in a mop over his eyes, you hate him, loathe him, and the noise you make isn't human-- good. You aim for those eyes, the eyes that mock you, a tidal wave of rage crashing over you, filling you up full until there isn't space inside you for anything else. And worse, the rage is his, too, rage turned inward instead of out towards the world. You see a shadow of it, revealed in his eyes, those eyes, you want to tear them out, stab into them with pins and pluck them out, ruin him and all he loves. A shadow of your pain, your first pain, buried deep down and echoed, and you hate him with a fury unequalled.
"Get out!" You have never screamed. In wakefulness, in slumber, you are composed save for the howling banshee you become in her service, in her name, tilling the battlefield. You are placid as the still surface of a lake in summer, smooth as the flat of a mirror, composed as your lusus always taught you to be to live, to survive. But now you are the rage and the rage is you and you ride it, ride it towards him, allow yourself to drown in the froth of your hate and come out spitting, a new man, an aspect.
He smirks, flickers, disappears. The tide of your anger spills forth impotent, and your scream echoes anew; you look to her for guidance. Not a steadying influence, not anything a moirail could provide, but a rock to batter the brunt of your anger against, a cliff that could never be worn down in a thousand years. She has always seen your rage, looked into the shrieking heart of it, and met it with a kiss to your lips and a hand in your hair and on your heart and pitied you for it. You turn to her, but what you see is ice, a field of ice, and darkness encroached upon the sky, rolling black thunderheads of smoke and lightning. The trees rise up, claws towards the ruined sky, bare of leaves in this late season, the winter of your discontent. Look again and she is there, knelt at the foot of the queen's hoarfrost throne, chin up and eyes to the sky, glowing dim in the low light, a figure at either side.
They are familiar, these wraiths. They have stalked you before, in the depths of the night, in the dark hours, always walking in your shadow, always whispering with the wind in the trees. To her left, a troll, all conical horns and sharp teeth and the teal blood you hate, a grin as soon as a wink or a nod, black lips cracked. To her right, at the right shoulder of your girl, a girl like her, soft and smooth, skin like paper, hair like ebony, and what haunts you are the eyes, green embers like the heat death of the universe, so familiar. The angels of your despair lock hands behind her head, cupping the crown of her skull, sinking to their knees beside her, and you are stuck.
The ice rises up to meet you, catching your feet, and the flames of your rage, tempered now in fear, are worthless to put them out. You watch as the troll girl speaks--
FOR JUST1C3.
The other answers--
for you.
And together they slit her throat, one with knives and one with claws, pulling at dead flesh as her body dissolves, still watching the stars as green blood spills out. Before you can scream, he is behind you, and the sword is through your belly, beating in time, its pulse through yours.
Lub-dub.
Lub-dub.
Lub-dub.
Tick.
---
Wake up.
Daevid Strida woke to a pain that rushed like adrenaline down every nerve, harbored and encamped in his chest just below his heart, which was beating abnormally fast-- that was normal. The tent was empty, and through the canvas spread above him he could see light bleeding through, warm and rich and deep, which meant the sun would be up an hour hence then, at least. With a huff of breath he rolled to his side and sprung to a sitting position, wincing as he grabbed at his side, but the wound there was internal or all in his head, a dull ache grown sharp that throbbed hot when he pushed at it. Generally, he tried not to push at any part of himself but the soles of his feet these days; even the single horn of keratin and living bone that capped his skull seemed to burn when he touched it, which was itself troublesome.
Be cool, he told himself, and it was so, and the pain waned a fraction, shoved aside. Take stock, he told himself, and he did, reaching for socks and shoes, boxer shorts, t-shirt, pulling each on with painstaking effort to make it look effortless, fabric rippling over the planes of his chest and up smooth columns of his thighs. Watch, pants, shades, couldn't forget the shades, they were the most important part, covering up the evidence of what he was, as though anyone wouldn't know just from the sight of him. No blood need be spilled to know he was abnormal, a league apart.
Finally, his phone, a crucial device, filled already with messages. Largely from spambots (he needed a better firewall right fast) or Jawwhn who dared to think of himself as a moirail instead of a mild annoyance that Daevid was inexplicably and secretly fond of, but one flashed in purple that was not quite tyrian, a canker on the festering sore that was his life.
TT: Good morning, Daevid. The night has waned quite late, but in deference to the measures that you and our charming friend miss Harley take to remain out of the public eye, I have adjusted my schedule to accommodate you.
TT: This is hoping, of course, that your most gracious self has deigned to remember our meeting at all, and will be arriving upon the hour, but I would never be so crass as to suggest that, once invited, you would stand me up.
TT: No, only a lowborn lout would leave a lady waiting once called upon.
TT: Or a highborn lout, perhaps? Regardless.
TT: I look forward to your company, and to the service I expect you to provide. Your reward will be as detailed, though that is up for negotiation, as you indicated that you questioned my ability to "come through with the goods".
TT: Oh dear, I appear to have gotten a bit verbose. We shall let it lie, then, with this:
TT: Mr. Strida, you know where I live.
Daevid closed his phone with disgust and hopped to his feet, stooping until he had pushed his way out of the tent and into the clearing, greeted by the scent of gently charred meat.
"It fell in the fire," Jadite told him with a smile and a half shrug, offering up a bowl full of what appeared from the feathers to be blackened chirpbeast, with a side of leeks flambe. "But it's still good! Here, take some before Bec gets it all." Behind his shades, his eyes flicked up over her shoulder to the edge of the encampment where her lusus crouched, serrated teeth and strong jaws tearing at a rack of ribs from yesterday, streamers of shredded, rotting pink flesh dripping from the bones as flies buzzed around his muzzle. Safe behind his impenitrable wall, his pupils dilated, one pointed ear twitching just a fraction at the sound of snapping bone, the radiation green tongue darting out to lap at spongy marrow, and Daevid turned away, accepting the proffered bowl without a word and stepping over to one of the great stones by the fire, an impromptu bench.
The meat tasted like ash on his tongue, and disolved away with single bites, flesh charred and parting seamlessly between his fangs. Chewing further would only force out another gush of flavor, and already the taste was heavy, stifling; he swallowed down chunks whole, another life taken inside himself, feeding his strength. His shoulder throbbed in time, his side, and when he was licking remnants of coal-fire grease from his clawtips he realized that while he'd been absently watching the crackling flame, she'd been watching him, legs crossed primly, hands folded over her knee.
"You're awfully quiet today," she remarked with soft sign of worry, only the insinuation of a smile now.
It was a familiar dance by then, and Daevid knew his steps well, impressed upon him through the necessity of his facade. "Don't worry about me, Harley, worrying about your cooking skills. This cluckbeast is throwing me off my game." Lash out. Intend to hurt, tease, with a sharp edge hidden under silk, a blade wrapped in swaddling cloth. Hidden meaning: Drop it, I don't want to talk.
She knew him too well.
"Well, if you don't like it, cook your own food! Protein is good for you, fuckass." A slight pause, and Daevid considered that he might get off easy, with the particulars of the day. No such luck. "It hurts again, doesn't it? Did you have the dream?" Jadite Harley was never one for fucking around, save for sometimes in the literal sense when the moon was right, and he could always trust her to cut right to the heart of a problem, peeling away the unnecessary clutter.
Backed into a corner, Daevid decided to take the path of least resistance. "The sick fires of my soul are burning as bad as ever," he assured her. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't, but why don't we drop it?
At times when he looked at Jadite, Daevid was reminded intensely of her lusus: merciless, dogged, willing to dig and dig and prod at a matter until it was lain bare and open for her, bare bones and bloodied flesh exposed to her sight. The way she was looking at him now was familiar, frustrated, halfway to fed up, a kernel of concern buried under her short fuse. "So it was the dreams, then. I can't help you with them if you won't tell me what they are, Daevid!"
His movements were always slight, nearly imperceptible to the untrained eye, but Jadite had been trained and he was sure she saw as he stiffened minutely, tension tightening down his shoulders and back, held hot in the pit of his stomach. He sat forward, hunched over himself and took a breath that came scandalously near to rattling in his chest like a pebble in a can, like something had come loose inside of him, careening madcap around his insides, playing a great game of pinball with his organs. "I don't believe all that magic fairy godlusus prophecy stuff," he told her, point-blank. "They're just nightmares. I had one aboout falling down stairs once. They don't mean jack shit."
Help me.
Her gaze was sharp as thorns, shrewd. "An endless staircase?"
Feeling as though he'd been lead around again, guided towards an inevitable conclusion, Daevid scowled, only the general gist of it visible from an outside perspective. "So what if it was?"
"Jawwhn's having them too." Ah, a non-sequitor. This, too, was familiar, and Daevid relaxed some of his tension, a small gust of breath released. "Not the stair one, obviously, but similar."
"So not just endemic to us mutant scumbloods, then?"
Tactfully, she ignored him. "He's coming over today, by the way. I just thought you should know in case he's here when you get back."
"Does he know he's coming over, or are you going to surprise him?"
"Don't be like that!" Jadite snapped, and then flushed slightly. "But no, he doesn't. Where would the fun be in that?"
"Dunno. We're going to just be a pack of fun today, aren't we? Maybe I can bring Lalond back, we can all have a batshit bonfire while the two of you bond over your doom and gloom card games."
"She's not that crazy, honestly. I wish you'd try to get along with her a little better."
Daevid stood, brushing invisible crumbs of ash off the fronts of his trousers. "I'd be a pretty irresponsible matesprit if I went around enabling your dangerous pale crushes on psychopaths, wouldn't I?"
"You'd be minding your own damn business," Jadite grumbled, a bit cross. Good; he'd pushed her off balance. Now she would certainly let the subject die.
"Yeah?" Why don't you mind yours?
Jadite huffed, standing as well. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Just don't come crying to me when those visions you've been avoiding come true, mister! I have to get ready to pick up Jawwhn. I'll see you when you get back, and you'd better not be hurt again."
"I'll put my big wiggler shoes on," he told her with confidence, though his blood ran cold.
When those visions you've been avoiding come true.
As she turned from him, for the barest flicker of an instant, he thought he could see a crescent of green hung like a halo around her neck.
---
TG: keep your hat on lalond im coming
The sea stretched on blue and wide and deep before him, windswept crests capped with the glimmer and sparkle of sunlight as the curving line of the coast spread out, fine sands glowing white so harsh that even behind his shades, Daevid was forced to squint. Alone on a clear day, he looked out over the water and saw nothing in the distance, no hint of the mainland that he and Jadite had come from, swimming across the gap on a rainy night with torches and pitchforks in pursuit. Once the sea had swallowed him, swept him down, until teeth fixed in his right arm and brought him back up until his head broke water; a gasp and a crackle of green lightning and four bodies had sprawled on this beach, a short but crucial jump. Somewhere across the water were the spires of the high towers of the city, now sleeping; the ramshackle collective of huts that they had squatted in just past pupation, barely more than a roof of driftwood above their heads as they huddled together at Bec's belly for warmth, his lusus standing watchful guard.
Now he was a man, but the sea was still deep and mysterious and nebulously antagonistic, a world of royalty beneath its waves that he would never have gone near by choice. Sword strapped to his back, Daevid shrugged off his jacket and tossed it to the slope where grass transfigured itself to sand, wading out into the surf with a slim, oak wood box in hand. Cold water drenched him, soaked his pants on the inrush of tide and then attempted to suck him back in, deeper into the expanse of ocean rolling before him. Waist deep, he stopped, feet planted firmly on sand over stone, and opened the box. Red velvet inside cradled two perls that shone lilac in the sun, and he picked one up between his claws, examining the glossy surface before popping it in his mouth. Crushed in his jaws, thick liquid like cough syrup spilled out, an impossibly vast quantity, filling his mouth and sliding slow down his throat, every inch of skin it touched burning like cool mint. He grew short of breath, gasping, lines rising on the side of his neck, flesh fluttering as his stomach twisted, repulsed by the sickly aura of the magic.
Still Daevid looked forward, towards the horizon, until a dab of white popped up, grew larger, towards him. A turtle lusus, the great disk of its shell breaking the surf and ever rising, some lost servant called to her side when its charge had grown and gone or fallen in battle, violet reins wreathed about its beaked head. Beady eyes the size of Becquerel's head stared him down as it coasted in, ever larger, riding to a stop just before him. The box slid back into his pocket, Daevid accepted the reins and swung himself up upon the turtle's back with one smooth movement, feeling as though his raw nerve ends had been burned down, cauterized. His back was straight as he leaned forward, flattened against the beast for the sake of dynamic movement, one hand holding his shades in place as they descended, ignoring the shameful way his heart skipped a beat.
The world below was beautifully stark, empty, sand falling down away to a steep undersea cliff and darkness below where the light couldn't quite reach. The turtle sank to ride the border between light and dark, and they skimmed out into emptiness, leaving shore behind as icy water sank into his skin and pulled at his clothes, tiny currents teasing his hair as it fanned out behind him. Water rushed over newly minted gills, flowing inside him like blood, and breathing was as simple as letting the current rush around him. He felt nearly weightless even as his hands shook, and he kept an eye around him, seeking any sign of habitation, of anything at all. No fish swam here in these dead waters, no seals darted across their path, and it was somewhat of a shock when at last another cliff rose up, reaching towards the surface in vain.
Carved into its facade was a sprawling structure hewn by no trollish hands, a cathedral plated in gold and brass that glimmered near the top and sunk to dull obscurity further down, all points and harsh edges and vaulted arches, high windows to nowhere and bas reliefs above the grand front doors. Demons in marble and metal capped every corner, scaled every pillar, a mass of tentacle artistry curling over the rafters and sharp angled sills, and the front stairs led up to the black cave of a foyer, sailed into without a pause. It was pitch dark inside, save for a lone spot of light what looked like meters above and before him, a play of rippled light over the walls guiding them.
The turtle tipped upward, and Daevid clenched his knees against the sides of its domed shell, holding on as it swam for the light, towards warmth and air, and when they surfaced Daevid needed a moment to slick back his sodden curtain of hair before looking around. He had come up in a square of water, surrounded still by gold and fabric draperies in rich red and tyrian purple. It was a small room, that emptied into and faced towards the promise of a grander space, a golden staircase leading steeply up and out of his sight. The walls were fitted with ornate iron sconces, and in them torches that burned ever bright, a low, oily light spilling out and giving everything a tarnished gleam. And then, when he had casually finished taking in the overblown grandeur of the room, he turned his attentions to the woman standing before him, one hand on her hip, a cruel smile tugging up one corner of her plump black lips.
"Fashionably late as ever, Mister Strida."
She was devastatingly beautiful, in the most literal sense. Elegant horns curved up and back, a full set from hatching that Daevid could only envy. Tall and thin, she looked nearly brittle, a blown glass impliment of long lines that terminated in points and corners. Daevid himself was almost awkwardly tall, and not counting the horns she was a few inches shorter than him, but more intimidating was the way her dark, hooded robes flowed around her, tugged by a current unseen and unfelt, hems dragging lightly along the floor; she appeared to be floating.
"Took a wrong turn at Albaquerque," he told her smoothly, keeping his face to hers as he slid off the turtle and found even footing. "Sorry about dripping all over your floors. Must be hell to clean."
"We have people for that," she told him with a sweeping gesture, the wide cuff of her robe trailing after her arm, and he found himself with a mental picture of dozens of lusii, called to her side as the turtle had been, sea iguanas and manatees and great white sharks buzzing about the place with mops and rags, polishing until it shone.
Now she bent her arm towards him, beckoning. "No matter. The day has worn late already. Come, follow me to my chambers."
"Do you plan on talking like a period novel this whole time, or what?" Daevid asked, annoyed, following as she turned from him and mounted the staircase, his hands shoved sullenly in sodden pockets.
"I find it adds atmosphere to the weighted topic we are about to discuss, but fine, if you would prefer: hello again, Daevid, it's been awhile." He could practically feel her smirking at him, though she stared straight ahead. "How've you been?"
"Fine. You still in possession of exactly zero of your marbles, or did you manage to borrow a cup of sanity off some poor stiff since the last time I saw you?"
"Oh, don't be like that. It was nothing personal."
"You tried to kill me. But hey, it's not like anyone's counting right?"
They had reached the top of the stair, with hidden effort on Daevid's part. The room they came out in was indeed spacious, torch-lit, with a marble floor inlaid with smoothly cut gemstones and layers of colored stone and coral, a mural in the shape of a sphere that stretched on to fill nearly the space available, a series of concentric circles intersperced with odd symbols. At the center, a stylized sun. Daevid didn't bother to fixate on it, or give it more than a passing glance.
"I was testing you," she corrected, heading across the room towards the lone dark passage beyond, no hint of candlelight to reassure him. Creeping dread was welling up, unable to be fully quashed by the deep fire of his anger or the ice he layered carefully above it, and his hand twitched, instinct begging him to reach for the sword, to have it find its rightful, comfortable place at his side at the very least. "What sort of servant would you be if you failed to pass the most rudimentary of tests?"
"Not yours," he grumped back, back prickling as their footsteps echoed across stone and gold. "And hey, look at that, I'm not! Guess you'll have to find someone else to prawn this job off on."
"Please, no fish puns," she sighed, put upon, carefully stepping around the substance of his statement. "I get enough of those at court."
Surprised, he raised an eyebrow. "They're still inviting you? I thought they exiled you to the ass-end of nowhere for a reason."
"Of course they did. Fear." She shrugged, and did so elegantly. Daevid could have torn her open, though the loathing was accompanied by a spark of honest, if grudging, fondness, smothered down deep in the muck and mire of his soul. "And fear compells them to invite me back. An enemy is best served in a place where you can watch her, after all. And moreso if you can make him uncomfortable. Being below the water makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it?"
"Never cared for anything below sea level much." Does that make us enemies now? "I'm not bothered."
She brushed him off. "You are a creature of the air, Daevid. You want to fly, and the sea is oppressive. In addition, we are meeting on my... 'turf', as it were, and that naturally puts you on edge-- and at a disadvantage. After all, our last arena was on dry land, and your lusus was still required to moderate."
"I thought we weren't talking about that?" Don't tell me what I am. Daevid's glower was full-fledged, eyes wild behind the barrier of his glasses, and still she would not look at him. The hallway was narrow, claustrophobic, with only room to walk single-file; through the darkness, opressive even to a creature of the night, he could hear the ticking of many clocks, and when he reached out a hand, he could feel that the wall was filthy with them, set into the deep metal without seam or ridge, as though they had grown from the gold, a naturally occurring organism.
"How tactless of me," and her words were dripping condescension. Daevid seethed. "Regardless, a moment of your time and then you may be on your way. I'm sure that we would both be better served if you didn't linger here too long. Jawwhn and Jadite will be eagerly awaiting your arrival."
"Not to be crass, but what the fuck did you want, anyway?" Daevid asked, attempting to skip to the point. "I know you didn't just call me over here for shits and giggles, so what did her royal condescension require of me that was so damn urgent?"
The hallway went on forever, as did the bare second spent waiting for her to speak again. "I would like you to deliver a package for me. Two packages, actually; one for Jawwhn, and one for Miss Harley. I daresay it shouldn't be much trouble to you, and in reward, you will receive a present of your own, from me to you, to be opened after your bloodrite tomorrow."
"Why the specific timing?"
"Your gift, as well as Jadite's and Jawwhn's, are part of a puzzle, to which I have the second piece. You can think of them like keys in a lock; each key must be twisted in order, or the lock will remain shut tight. You'll see soon enough, I imagine. A little patience, please."
At last, she stopped, so fast that Daevid nearly ran smack into her back. A click, and a door swung wide, bathing them in deep purple light, etherial. This room was circular, and carved of stone. Daevid heaved a huge shiver that he could no more have turned back than the tide, a chord plucked inside his breast, something deep and instinctive resonating. This room too was hung in lilac draperies-- four of them, each with an eldritch symbol. One looked to be a gear, one to be a sun, one like waves and one as a spiral of energy. He stepped after her into the room and turned cold, each puff of breath exhaled as a cloud of steam. In the center sat a table, round, covered in violet cloth, and above it hung the source of the light, a series of globes suspended in the air that seemed to hum as they spun-- two outer rings surrounding a larger globe, four and eleven respectively, and each a different color and pattern, a planet in relief. When he stood still, Daevid swayed in time to the music of the spheres.
Hung too were mirrors, were the walls, and Rosace stepped before one, whispering to herself, stroking the frame. When Daevid peered in one, darkness flickered before his reflection came up, and in the reflection of his shades he swore he saw the face of his other self, the man from his dream. Heart pounding, he backed away, bumping into one of the miniature planets and sending it slightly out of alignment; it was warm to the touch, and when he peered at it, the surface appeared to flow, like magma.
"Did you make these?" he asked, poking at the dark globe to its right, and Rosace shook her head.
"They were always here. Many mysterious things are, if you only care to look for them." The spell seemingly broken, she turned from the glass and marched up to the table, folding up its protective cloth and opening a hidden drawer beneath, drawing out three boxes-- one wrapped in blue, one green, one red, each the color of their intended recipient's blood. "Take these; keep them safe. Our future happiness rests on your task being carried out successfully and to the letter. Our happiness, mind you, not my own. I trust you not to mortgage the future of your moirail or matesprit based on petty spite for me alone."
Daevid reached out and took the packages, stacked one atop the other, tucking them away in his sylladex and out of sight. Out of mind, too, though her exhortation not to open his yet was still niggling at him, directing his thoughts back towards pure curiosity. "I--" he opened his mouth to say, but was interrupted by a muted screech that reverberated through the floors.
"Oh, damn," his companion sighed, pulling from the sleeve of her robe a long strip of wood, dark with runes in ink and blood. "Time to check on Mother, I see. It was lovely seeing you again, Daevid, but for the time being, you are dismissed."
She disappeared in a poof of smoke that left Daevid coughing. "Flashy snipebeast," he snarled, and blinking, found that the smoke had resolved itself into a two airy words: Vulgar cad.
It was with grace and dignity that he resisted the urge to storm out, instead calmly and collectedly stalking back to his tortoise guide, teeth clenched. The boxes weighed heavy in his sylladex, prodding at him even as he swallowed the second perl, preparing for the journey back. The darkness of the sea below them seemed deeper this time, the light more wanted and saught after, and when he was back to shore he gave the turtle a kindly pat, finding that the day had indeed waned, sun dipping slowly towards the horizon. He stooped to pick up his jacket, holding it at arm's length to keep it dry, and dropped it again, cursing under his breath as he opened his sylladex one more, drawing forth the box promised to him.
It couldn't hurt to open it, he thought. Rosace was always full of rules and restrictions and procedures, chains to bind him and draw him in and hold him. He wrenched off the scarlet ribbon with violence, tipped the box open onto the sand. Four objects fell out: two CD cases, familiar, and two scrolls of paper, one fresh and the other gone yellow and thin with age. Carefully, the paper cracking, he unrolled the former, breath cought in his chest at the words, printed dead center:
this time how about we dont fuck this up
Suspecting that he had slipped into some sort of fugue state, Daevid perused the second letter, and found it similar, but more enraging than terrifying.
I did tell you not to open it early, Daevid. We reap what we sow.
The walk home was a blur. Daevid had the vague recollection afterward of tripping, stumbling through thorns and briars, sharp points tearing at his face, his clothes as his feet found purchase in mud, slipping over slick earth and the forest's carpet of fallen leaves. It wasn't until he was falling over his own sword, propped against a friendly beech tree, going knees-first into the dirt, that he came to, and then he swore, hoping that Jadite hadn't gone to retrieve Jawwhn yet. Only one buckfanged troll emerged from her tent, which was promising as she bustled over to pat his shoulder and help him up, concern evident.
"Daevid--"
"Fine," he nearly barked, cutting her off, and then Jawwhn was pushing the tent flap open in return, his blue-gold eyes wide and shaken as well.
"You okay there, bro?" he asked, and Daevid nodded as he pushed his way past.
"Fine," he repeated, and had the presence of mind to shove Jawwhn's gift at him before retreating fully. "Happy Wriggling Day, bulgeknot." Jawwhn looked stunned, and the last thing he saw of either of them before entering his tent and shutting himself away was a look exchanged, worry naked and exposed. Kneeling on his bed roll, Daevid tossed the first note out of his sylladex, spilling his travel bag out over the ground and sifting through it, claws picking at leather thongs and stone knives, flint stones for fire lighting and whetstones for keeping his weapons keen, the remnants of a hard, hardscrabble life. At last he found what he sought: the same paper, the same handwriting, the same mocking red ink, and alone in his tent, he allowed himself to tremble.
remember me
---
The stars were up, the moon round and yellow and full. Jawwhn was seated by the fire, Jadite across from him, a wide smile splitting her face; his own was smeared with beast gristle and flecks of a delicious cream of mushroom sauce that his meal had been slathered in. A third bowl, full, sat waiting for Daevid to emerge, but after hours of ignoring their pleas for him to come out and join them, both had given up much hope.
"Come on, open it!" Jadite prompted him with a wave of her hands, excited. "I want to see. What did she get you?"
Jawwhn laughed, tugging at the cerulean ribbon. "Hold your hoofbeasts, I'm working on it!"
"It's from a highblood, so it'll be good," she pronounced, confident. "And Rosace is pretty fond of you. I'm sure you'll love it, but we won't know until you open the thing!"
Heaving a faked sigh, Jawwhn pulled at the paper, which gave a satisfying tear under his claws. "If you insist," he told her, lifting off the lid and staring curiously at the contents. "There's no note. Just... CDs?"
"Oooh, a game, maybe!" Jadite exclaimed, eyes sparkling. "That calls for cake. You want a slice?"
"Did you make it?" Jawwhn asked, dubious. "I mean... I don't want to offend, but I can't stand it, really."
Jadite shrugged. "More for me! And Daevid, if he ever-- oh." Her head turned, and Jawwhn followed her gaze to where Daevid was emerging from his tent, placid and emotionless as ever. "Well, look who decided to show up after all!"
"Yeah, late to the party, whatever," Daevid remarked, unusually subdued as he took a seat between them, shades pointed towards the fire. "What's this about cake, Harley? Don't hold out on us, now."
She rolled her eyes affectionately, but her smile was clear and true as she cut him a large slice and passed it over. "Your dinner's there too, if you want. It's good, right, Jawwhn?"
Jawwhn smacked his lips enthusiastically, giving them both a grin. "Like ambrosia."
"Well if Egbert says so, I guess it's safe for consumption. Not like I've seen him eat a three day-old quackbeast raw or anything."
Jadite laughed, Jawwhn sniggered, and amiable silence reigned, save for the crackle of the fire as it spat embers upward and the wind through the trees. The sky was clear above them, and when Jawwhn looked up, he could see trails of flame blazing across the sky. "Look up," he breathed, enraptured.
Daevid was unimpressed. "Yeah, meteor shower. They happen all the time out here in the sticks."
Jadite huffed at him. "It's pretty, though. Why don't you make a wish, Jawwhn?"
He considered it a moment, the smell of woodsmoke all around, solid dirt beneath his feet. He felt more real, more alive than he had in sweeps. "I think I wish for--"
"Don't tell us, silly! Then it won't come true."
Jawwhn looked down at the box, tossed aside, and then back up at Jadite, standing at Daevid's side, her hand at his shoulder, his hand casually set atop hers. Alone in his thoughts, he had never felt more singular, lost, broken.
Clutching the disk labelled SGRUB to his chest, Jawwhn Egbert wished with all his heart to become whole.
And the universe listened.