Nareth had been standing in the open entryway to the Hospital when Severus and I had found her alone and looking out into the street with a disoriented frown. “I’ve only been gone an hour,” she said over and over again. “It wasn’t snowing….” She began questioning me as though she’d seen me scarce moments before. My shock at seeing her alive, as it were, made little impression in the swirl of confusion that surrounded her.
She’d wanted to return to the Library. Severus and I had walked with her, matching each long stride as her boots crunched through the ice in the frozen streets. She didn’t seem to know Severus. She didn’t seem to know about the changes in the City. And as we walked, she shivered. Nareth was… cold. “Impossible,” I thought to myself, “The undead don’t feel the sting of winter…. “
As we made our way the Library Nareth hesitated, surprised by the large Christmas wreath hanging on the Library’s door. After a moment, she entered and headed directly to the drawing room hearth. She fell straightaway into the armchair to the right of the fire. The myriad conversations surrounding us fell silent, as one by one eyes turned to Nareth, not believing what they were seeing. She was trembling. I’d never seen her tremble; she seemed almost vulnerable. But this couldn’t be, I kept telling myself.
“I was going to the Pit. I didn't go to the Pit.”
“You summoned Labyrinth, Nareth. You went.
“No….”
But she had gone, had been destroyed there, carved into pieces by Pontifex and fed to the Shadows by Lorne in her bid to summon Labyrinth. She didn’t believe it or wouldn’t. And frankly, I didn’t know what to make of this Nareth who was confounded, shaking and near tears. She wasn’t the brutal Nareth I’d known, nor was she the Golem or the small, Vietnamese thief tossed by the sea upon the City’s shore during a late-night torrential downpour.
Nareth murmured, “Something has gone very wrong, I think.”
“Yes, very wrong,” Pontifex replied. “What if the others come back too? We both went to the pit, only I came back.... “
An icy voice. “What is the meaning of this?”
And the Lady had been shocked. Angered. Then…if not accepting… somehow resolved. Lorne had prompted, “Look into her soul, Omega. If she still has it within her, that is one thing, and the nature of a soul to show what it is quite another.” The Lady couldn’t look. But Grrbrool could.
“Realmwalker,” he said, “Not tha Huntress.”
She went to the Pit; she didn’t go. She died there; she lived.
Nareth; not Nareth.
I just don’t know.
Nareth Returns
Showing posts with label Pontifex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pontifex. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Monday, December 29, 2008
The Dark Librarian
I strode briskly along the snow covered Toxian streets, pondering all Pontifex had said about the old clans coming back to the City. The night air was crisper and colder than usual although it had little effect on me, wrapped up as I was in a woolen walking cape that I probably didn’t actually need. I had circled the perimeter of the City in a dark mood, thinking of my early days on the streets where had I walked alone to feed. Strands of incongruous multicolored lights twinkled from a window here, a doorway there, or circled a Christmas tree oddly placed upon the sea wall at the City’s southernmost edge. The sparkling provided mute relief to the grimness of the City. My heart was heavy with worry for Grr, who was not yet in his right mind. Ardere continued to taunt and threaten him. And Denenthorn hadn’t been the same since his descent into hell. Now, if Pontifex was to be believed, the Nightfire clan, the Strykes, and Vulcan, a son of Belial, were returning for some purpose unknown to me.
“Expect more of your family to suddenly arrive,” he had suggested to Devi Nightfire, ”And then expect changes amongst several of the houses…” Pontifex had demurred when accused of scheming, implying that long-ago patterns were, once again, repeating themselves. “Chance favors the prepared mind,” he’d said in a mild tone, the same tone in which he’d earlier suggested that Denenthorn’s past was darker than I’d supposed. My brow furrowed as I considered the possibility that the Dark Librarian could be, as Pontifex had implied, one of the enigmatic Strykes, angelic beings who had ruled the City with duplicity until Lorne’s arrival.
I had just turned the corner of Luxuria Lane and begun heading toward the warmth of the Library when I felt a slight tug… not a summoning… but something. I glanced upward toward the roofline and could just make out a silhouette against the moonlit dark. I began to climb and was unsurprised to see the Dark Librarian standing there alone, staring into the winter sky as the snow drifted and fell on his bare shoulders and chest.
“I felt you calling me,” I said as I walked toward him, my boots crunching against the layer of ice-covered snow beneath my feet. He neither turned nor responded so I laid one hand on his arm, “Sir?” I asked.
“I am feeling Drow tonight,” he responded. Denenthorn barely seemed to acknowledge my presence as he continued to gaze over the City.
I shifted around to get a clearer look at him. “Why the dark mood, sir?”
“I’ve been contemplating my life these past few months,” Denenthorn shrugged, “And I feel that I've lost much, though I have gained much much more....”
I nodded slowly, thinking of his attempt to rescue Picket from hell. “When you were gone, sir, we didn't know... I didn't know if you would be coming back. And when you returned, you didn’t seem yourself.” You are not yourself even now, I thought, though my opinion remained unexpressed.
Denenthorn sighed. “My soul his whole, but the sacrifice cost me Lady Picket.” I watched a look of weary resignation wash over his features as he continued. “I went to the very depths to save her soul, was willing to sacrifice my own…. But she shunned me away, she no longer needs me. Perhaps I remind her of the dark she suffered through,” he shrugged, “Now she wants only that I stay far from her.” His tone was bitter. I stepped back slightly, thinking that he perhaps preferred the solace of his own company to mine at that moment.
Instead Denenthorn sighed and held out his hand to me. “No come closer,” he said quietly. I walked to his side and took his hand in my own. “I have all this power,” he mused, “But now without Reaper and Hatter, I feel empty... they are a part of me, but they cannot truly exist if my soul is not torn.”
I struggled to understand. “And now that your soul is whole yet you feel.... You want them back?” I asked in confusion.
“I miss the insanity,” he sighed, “But no, they take too much from me… my time, my patience… and the constant internal struggle harms me physically... they are why I was so scarred. It was the madness, though, that made me the Denny everyone knew....”
I lay my head against his arm. “And if you could choose now, sir? Which would you choose...whole or torn?” I was hesitant to ask, but I knew that I needed to know his true answer.
“Whole,” Denenthorn replied, turning me around slightly. “Because I have the ability to lead when I am whole.” He gave me a searching look.
“You led when you were torn, Sir...although it was a frightening and chaotic leadership.”
“Exactly,” Denenthorn agreed. I had met his gaze, seeing the sadness in his eyes, when I felt him suddenly begin to pull me toward him. He looked at me deeply for a long moment, then bent to kiss me passionately and without warning. My eyes widened, then closed, as I sank into his embrace. The taste of his lips, though unexpected, was warm and sweet.
As quickly as he had taken me in his arms, he released me. He stepped away and folded his arms across his chest, turning once again to gaze at the wintry night and leaving me in complete surprise.
“That is all for now, Praetor Menjou,” he said evenly. “You may return to your duties in the Library.”
I turned and left without a word.
“Expect more of your family to suddenly arrive,” he had suggested to Devi Nightfire, ”And then expect changes amongst several of the houses…” Pontifex had demurred when accused of scheming, implying that long-ago patterns were, once again, repeating themselves. “Chance favors the prepared mind,” he’d said in a mild tone, the same tone in which he’d earlier suggested that Denenthorn’s past was darker than I’d supposed. My brow furrowed as I considered the possibility that the Dark Librarian could be, as Pontifex had implied, one of the enigmatic Strykes, angelic beings who had ruled the City with duplicity until Lorne’s arrival.
I had just turned the corner of Luxuria Lane and begun heading toward the warmth of the Library when I felt a slight tug… not a summoning… but something. I glanced upward toward the roofline and could just make out a silhouette against the moonlit dark. I began to climb and was unsurprised to see the Dark Librarian standing there alone, staring into the winter sky as the snow drifted and fell on his bare shoulders and chest.
“I felt you calling me,” I said as I walked toward him, my boots crunching against the layer of ice-covered snow beneath my feet. He neither turned nor responded so I laid one hand on his arm, “Sir?” I asked.
“I am feeling Drow tonight,” he responded. Denenthorn barely seemed to acknowledge my presence as he continued to gaze over the City.
I shifted around to get a clearer look at him. “Why the dark mood, sir?”
“I’ve been contemplating my life these past few months,” Denenthorn shrugged, “And I feel that I've lost much, though I have gained much much more....”
I nodded slowly, thinking of his attempt to rescue Picket from hell. “When you were gone, sir, we didn't know... I didn't know if you would be coming back. And when you returned, you didn’t seem yourself.” You are not yourself even now, I thought, though my opinion remained unexpressed.
Denenthorn sighed. “My soul his whole, but the sacrifice cost me Lady Picket.” I watched a look of weary resignation wash over his features as he continued. “I went to the very depths to save her soul, was willing to sacrifice my own…. But she shunned me away, she no longer needs me. Perhaps I remind her of the dark she suffered through,” he shrugged, “Now she wants only that I stay far from her.” His tone was bitter. I stepped back slightly, thinking that he perhaps preferred the solace of his own company to mine at that moment.
Instead Denenthorn sighed and held out his hand to me. “No come closer,” he said quietly. I walked to his side and took his hand in my own. “I have all this power,” he mused, “But now without Reaper and Hatter, I feel empty... they are a part of me, but they cannot truly exist if my soul is not torn.”
I struggled to understand. “And now that your soul is whole yet you feel.... You want them back?” I asked in confusion.
“I miss the insanity,” he sighed, “But no, they take too much from me… my time, my patience… and the constant internal struggle harms me physically... they are why I was so scarred. It was the madness, though, that made me the Denny everyone knew....”
I lay my head against his arm. “And if you could choose now, sir? Which would you choose...whole or torn?” I was hesitant to ask, but I knew that I needed to know his true answer.
“Whole,” Denenthorn replied, turning me around slightly. “Because I have the ability to lead when I am whole.” He gave me a searching look.
“You led when you were torn, Sir...although it was a frightening and chaotic leadership.”
“Exactly,” Denenthorn agreed. I had met his gaze, seeing the sadness in his eyes, when I felt him suddenly begin to pull me toward him. He looked at me deeply for a long moment, then bent to kiss me passionately and without warning. My eyes widened, then closed, as I sank into his embrace. The taste of his lips, though unexpected, was warm and sweet.
As quickly as he had taken me in his arms, he released me. He stepped away and folded his arms across his chest, turning once again to gaze at the wintry night and leaving me in complete surprise.
“That is all for now, Praetor Menjou,” he said evenly. “You may return to your duties in the Library.”
I turned and left without a word.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Celerity
She probably didn’t think I noticed her dancingdancingdancing, hair sticking to her smooth neck, slick with sweat. She probably didn’t realize that I could see the pink tinge of the wetness on her skin as I ascended the stairs of the Library. But I did notice, even though my mind was elsewhere, focused on the golem. And so did Grr, sniffing the air. “I smell Brit’s blood…it’s….” he’d said, then trailed off.
And when she came back into the room, I could see from the corner of my eye that she was freshly washed. I could hear the exchange of whispers between the girl and the coyote, see Brit blushing furiously and Grr patting her arm, then a look of relief and the question, “Promise?” addressed to Grr. One more piece of the puzzle.
In the twilight of the following day, I sat near the Library fire, thinking about Brit and reading a slim, small book I’d uncovered in the stacks. Omega stood gazing out the window. Pontifex worked quietly, scribbling notes. Severus . . . well, Severus sat silently, grim and glowering. I turned the book over in my hand: “Celerity” was stamped neatly in gold script on the leather cover. One passage in particular confused me and I wondered whether to seek clarification from Omega. Omega noticed my expression and asked, “Interesting reading, M'dear?”
"It’s talking about blood dolls,” I replied, “And the effects of vitae. This says a blood doll is ‘A mortal who freely gives her blood to a vampire. Most blood dolls gain a perverse satisfaction from the kiss, and actively seek out vampires who will take their vitae.’” I paused considering how to phrase my question before just blurting it out. “Is Brit a blood doll?”
Omega’s gaze narrowed. “No. she is not. And I would advise you not to use that term around her or Ethan; they believe it to be a disparaging one. Brit is not…bonded to Ethan. In all other ways, perhaps, but not that one.”
I didn’t understand. Brit and Ethan were beloveds, married. They drank deeply from each other. “What do you mean, ‘not bonded’, Lady?”
“Blood bonded, Joah. She is not bound to him in that way. Some mortals find the kiss of a vampire…any vampire, addictive,” Omega replied. “They will seek out any who would give them their desire. That could be classed as a general addiction, I suppose you could say. One who becomes bonded to a particular vampire though, that is somewhat different.”
“But she drinks his blood,” I wondered aloud. “Is she a ghoul then? This says: ‘A ghoul is a minion created by giving a bit of vampirism vitae to a mortal without draining her of blood first.’” Severus began muttering something that I couldn’t quite make out about his own addictive blood.
Omega ignored my question. “Brit is not blood bound to Ethan. Perhaps the question we ought to be asking - is why? Not all humans can be bonded. It is rare…very rare. It would have a certain irony to it though, would it not?” Omega paused, considering her words. “I would think carefully before broaching this subject with them, Joah. I have seen Ethan react very aggressively to the phrase ‘blood doll.’ And suggesting that he has not been able to bond Brit would be insulting on many levels.”
Pontifex chuckled, “How does he react to ‘sex doll’ then?” Severus grinned and made a ribald comment, which I pretended not to hear. I tried to press on. "But Brit's different, Omega. She's been becoming stronger and faster and…more alert. She picked Grr up and threw him once. And the other night she ran after him faster than any human being can run." I looked at the book again. “‘Celerity,’” I began reading. "‘The ability to move at faster-than-human speeds and with uncanny precision.’"
“She is getting the benefit of his blood, undoubtedly,” Omega said.
“But if she's not a blood doll…and she's not a ghoul …what is she?
Omega smiled, “Something else. She is something else.”
“She's married,” Pontifex said in his usual sarcastic manner. “It’s not entirely unusual in many cultures for the wife to suck her husband.”
“Pontifex,” growled Omega. If you have nothing of worth to add to the conversation, please be quiet.” Turning toward me, Omega began to explain, “Celerity is product of consumption, not bonding.”
Pontifex shrugged, “What I mean is, they are of one flesh … yeah … that's it.”
Omega whirled on Pontifex. “Must everything be a jest? A foolish question. Of course it must.” She shook her head, anger and something else unreadable on her face.
“If it's not life or death, then it is jest,” Pontifex demurred. “If not to use, then least to the djinns of fate.”
I studied Pontifex for a moment. “You are a scholar, studying much that is arcane. How does this bonding take place?”
Pontifex turned his gaze toward Omega, though he responded to me. “I have to say, with vampires I know little, except to avoid any fluid transfer.” For a moment silence was thick between the two of them; Omega seemed lost for words. “Those were your words after Myriam attempted to enthrall me, Omega.”
“But Brit and Ethan exchange fluids,” I began, trying to steer the topic away from the rift between Pontifex and Omega.
“Forgive me,” Omega hissed, “For attempting to protect you, Pontifex. How very foolish of me.”
Severus shrugged his broad shoulders slightly and turned toward me. “If it is anything like the addiction of an incubus, then the blood of the vampire binds its victim … or erm … partner. The more she feeds from the vampire, the stronger the bond.”
“I'm merely just stating my sum total of vampirism lore,” Pontifex continued. “No offense implied.” The smirk on his face said otherwise.
Omega acted as though Pontifex had not spoken. “As Severus says,” she began, “That is the usual way of it, yes.”
“So why doesn't it bond Brit?” I asked.
“Brit simply is not blood-bonded,” Omega replied. “In spite of … as Pontifex so eloquently puts it, their fluids transfer. An interesting puzzle, to be sure. But one I would tread delicately in attempting to investigate.”
Severus mused, “She must be unbondable … a rare condition. I wonder if my blood would have no affect on her either … not that I'd try….”
Suddenly, Pontifex interjected, “Am I the only one who sees the obvious?”
“Do, please, enlighten us, Pontifex,” Omega said in an icy tone.
“Brit was already bound to Ethan before blood, before marriage, before even Toxia.” Pontifex spread his hands in explanation. “Their bond isn’t some mere vampire or incubus trick. It is the one of their souls.”
“Seems Brit’s not the only one who can avoid bonds around here,” Omega muttered. “I'd say you've found the expert you were looking for, Joah.”
Omega strode over to the mysterious crate that had been delivered to the Library. Pushing at it, she shoved it a few inches. “About time we moved this damn thing.”
Pontifex smiled, but his mouth held a cruel twist. “You might best speak to Merma, Joah. She's the angel of the family, but, yes, souls are something both our kinds are intimately familiar with.”
I nodded and tucked the book back into my pocket. "Perhaps you are right, Pontifex. But maybe…." I glanced at the crate, at Omega, then stopped myself in mid-sentence. "We do need to move that. Or unpack it."
Pontifex did not relent. “Your book mentions how much the receiver enjoys the kiss. But I suspect the Vampire or Incubus draws pleasure from it as well. If it’s anything like … other releases of fluid, potentially even more so than the receiver. I can definitely tell you that possessing a woman is very pleasurable for me … though her pleasure isn’t really of mine concern....”
"Ownership," I speculated. "So it wouldn't matter to you where there was bonding?"
Severus interrupted. “For us the pleasure of the female is the ultimate concern. Without it, there is nothing to feed upon.”
Omega turned from the crate and spoke in a low, steely voice directed at Pontifex. “If you'll excuse me, I think I've heard quite enough. I would be happy to discuss this matter with you at another time, Joah.”
“Well, I believe I'm finished telling Joah the birds and the bees, ex rudis,” Pontifex smirked. “Though, Joah, if you need more private tutoring, I'm sure I can find someone to help you. I see my work is done; enjoy your day.”
I nodded to Pontifex, a bit confused, and then went to assist with the crate.
And when she came back into the room, I could see from the corner of my eye that she was freshly washed. I could hear the exchange of whispers between the girl and the coyote, see Brit blushing furiously and Grr patting her arm, then a look of relief and the question, “Promise?” addressed to Grr. One more piece of the puzzle.
In the twilight of the following day, I sat near the Library fire, thinking about Brit and reading a slim, small book I’d uncovered in the stacks. Omega stood gazing out the window. Pontifex worked quietly, scribbling notes. Severus . . . well, Severus sat silently, grim and glowering. I turned the book over in my hand: “Celerity” was stamped neatly in gold script on the leather cover. One passage in particular confused me and I wondered whether to seek clarification from Omega. Omega noticed my expression and asked, “Interesting reading, M'dear?”
"It’s talking about blood dolls,” I replied, “And the effects of vitae. This says a blood doll is ‘A mortal who freely gives her blood to a vampire. Most blood dolls gain a perverse satisfaction from the kiss, and actively seek out vampires who will take their vitae.’” I paused considering how to phrase my question before just blurting it out. “Is Brit a blood doll?”
Omega’s gaze narrowed. “No. she is not. And I would advise you not to use that term around her or Ethan; they believe it to be a disparaging one. Brit is not…bonded to Ethan. In all other ways, perhaps, but not that one.”
I didn’t understand. Brit and Ethan were beloveds, married. They drank deeply from each other. “What do you mean, ‘not bonded’, Lady?”
“Blood bonded, Joah. She is not bound to him in that way. Some mortals find the kiss of a vampire…any vampire, addictive,” Omega replied. “They will seek out any who would give them their desire. That could be classed as a general addiction, I suppose you could say. One who becomes bonded to a particular vampire though, that is somewhat different.”
“But she drinks his blood,” I wondered aloud. “Is she a ghoul then? This says: ‘A ghoul is a minion created by giving a bit of vampirism vitae to a mortal without draining her of blood first.’” Severus began muttering something that I couldn’t quite make out about his own addictive blood.
Omega ignored my question. “Brit is not blood bound to Ethan. Perhaps the question we ought to be asking - is why? Not all humans can be bonded. It is rare…very rare. It would have a certain irony to it though, would it not?” Omega paused, considering her words. “I would think carefully before broaching this subject with them, Joah. I have seen Ethan react very aggressively to the phrase ‘blood doll.’ And suggesting that he has not been able to bond Brit would be insulting on many levels.”
Pontifex chuckled, “How does he react to ‘sex doll’ then?” Severus grinned and made a ribald comment, which I pretended not to hear. I tried to press on. "But Brit's different, Omega. She's been becoming stronger and faster and…more alert. She picked Grr up and threw him once. And the other night she ran after him faster than any human being can run." I looked at the book again. “‘Celerity,’” I began reading. "‘The ability to move at faster-than-human speeds and with uncanny precision.’"
“She is getting the benefit of his blood, undoubtedly,” Omega said.
“But if she's not a blood doll…and she's not a ghoul …what is she?
Omega smiled, “Something else. She is something else.”
“She's married,” Pontifex said in his usual sarcastic manner. “It’s not entirely unusual in many cultures for the wife to suck her husband.”
“Pontifex,” growled Omega. If you have nothing of worth to add to the conversation, please be quiet.” Turning toward me, Omega began to explain, “Celerity is product of consumption, not bonding.”
Pontifex shrugged, “What I mean is, they are of one flesh … yeah … that's it.”
Omega whirled on Pontifex. “Must everything be a jest? A foolish question. Of course it must.” She shook her head, anger and something else unreadable on her face.
“If it's not life or death, then it is jest,” Pontifex demurred. “If not to use, then least to the djinns of fate.”
I studied Pontifex for a moment. “You are a scholar, studying much that is arcane. How does this bonding take place?”
Pontifex turned his gaze toward Omega, though he responded to me. “I have to say, with vampires I know little, except to avoid any fluid transfer.” For a moment silence was thick between the two of them; Omega seemed lost for words. “Those were your words after Myriam attempted to enthrall me, Omega.”
“But Brit and Ethan exchange fluids,” I began, trying to steer the topic away from the rift between Pontifex and Omega.
“Forgive me,” Omega hissed, “For attempting to protect you, Pontifex. How very foolish of me.”
Severus shrugged his broad shoulders slightly and turned toward me. “If it is anything like the addiction of an incubus, then the blood of the vampire binds its victim … or erm … partner. The more she feeds from the vampire, the stronger the bond.”
“I'm merely just stating my sum total of vampirism lore,” Pontifex continued. “No offense implied.” The smirk on his face said otherwise.
Omega acted as though Pontifex had not spoken. “As Severus says,” she began, “That is the usual way of it, yes.”
“So why doesn't it bond Brit?” I asked.
“Brit simply is not blood-bonded,” Omega replied. “In spite of … as Pontifex so eloquently puts it, their fluids transfer. An interesting puzzle, to be sure. But one I would tread delicately in attempting to investigate.”
Severus mused, “She must be unbondable … a rare condition. I wonder if my blood would have no affect on her either … not that I'd try….”
Suddenly, Pontifex interjected, “Am I the only one who sees the obvious?”
“Do, please, enlighten us, Pontifex,” Omega said in an icy tone.
“Brit was already bound to Ethan before blood, before marriage, before even Toxia.” Pontifex spread his hands in explanation. “Their bond isn’t some mere vampire or incubus trick. It is the one of their souls.”
“Seems Brit’s not the only one who can avoid bonds around here,” Omega muttered. “I'd say you've found the expert you were looking for, Joah.”
Omega strode over to the mysterious crate that had been delivered to the Library. Pushing at it, she shoved it a few inches. “About time we moved this damn thing.”
Pontifex smiled, but his mouth held a cruel twist. “You might best speak to Merma, Joah. She's the angel of the family, but, yes, souls are something both our kinds are intimately familiar with.”
I nodded and tucked the book back into my pocket. "Perhaps you are right, Pontifex. But maybe…." I glanced at the crate, at Omega, then stopped myself in mid-sentence. "We do need to move that. Or unpack it."
Pontifex did not relent. “Your book mentions how much the receiver enjoys the kiss. But I suspect the Vampire or Incubus draws pleasure from it as well. If it’s anything like … other releases of fluid, potentially even more so than the receiver. I can definitely tell you that possessing a woman is very pleasurable for me … though her pleasure isn’t really of mine concern....”
"Ownership," I speculated. "So it wouldn't matter to you where there was bonding?"
Severus interrupted. “For us the pleasure of the female is the ultimate concern. Without it, there is nothing to feed upon.”
Omega turned from the crate and spoke in a low, steely voice directed at Pontifex. “If you'll excuse me, I think I've heard quite enough. I would be happy to discuss this matter with you at another time, Joah.”
“Well, I believe I'm finished telling Joah the birds and the bees, ex rudis,” Pontifex smirked. “Though, Joah, if you need more private tutoring, I'm sure I can find someone to help you. I see my work is done; enjoy your day.”
I nodded to Pontifex, a bit confused, and then went to assist with the crate.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
But iron, cold iron, is master of men all
Dark luster standing in the dim light of the Library window, eyes empty, mouth closed. Blood, heart, spirit: the golem had none of those things and required them all. Labyrinth watched, opening and closing her hand. She would not help, but she would not hinder. She held in her fist a die with infinite sides, spinning and stopping. Time was short, fragile seconds expiring ever faster as the die spun.
It was time to bring Nareth home. I called on the Outer Gods, the true Ones, and then Omega offered. I would have used Nareth’s blade upon Omega’s wrist, but Jack wanted her throat. A swift, deep cut, and my hand to the wound, then delicate fingertip brushstrokes on the golem’s forehead: EMET. On Labyrinth’s: MET.
I gave the dripping blade to Pontifex, a door only he could open, for he is intimately acquainted with the gift of pain. And pain he did cause, but he did not take it without consent: Abi wept as he prodded, demanded, forced her to remember the taste Jack’s razor, sour and biting cold at the moment of her birth, pulling her screaming into the world. Nareth, the bloody midwife. The pain of losing Nareth and the pain of bringing her back.
And it was enough: Nullam nunc dolor. The blade began to glow black in Pontifex’s hands. Hendrerit nec. A dark violent tendril arced from the blade to Labyrinth. Gravida eu, turpis. Probability and possibility collapsed. The die vanished. Things began to fall apart.
You must speak its purpose, Labyrinth had said to Omega. You are its creator. And the Lady with chilling finality: Nareth must act in accordance with my Will, for the benefit of us all. I shuddered, but it was too late to stop her; Nareth’s purpose had been cast. For the benefit of us all.
With sudden speed, the Watcher attacked. Wolfe, coyote, beast—Grrbrool ripped the heart from Labyrinth’s chest, all razor teeth and claw and blood-matted fur. He placed it, beating, into my hands. Omega lifted them up to her, lips bending close to taste the god’s blood. She gave Abi the choice: Bring her back? Or burn the heart? Abi whispered, Bring her back.
I opened my spirit to Legion, making the thing that should not, be: a beating heart in a chest of iron. Labyrinth’s exoskeleton disintegrated, only a few shards littering the floor. Larissa’s lips on the golem, a kiss, a breath and please live. Nareth’s eyes fluttered open. My bloody thumb on her mouth and speak.
Then Nareth was back. Her green eyes, watching. Her voice, speaking. Wondering why we were assembled. Some one said, We’re mourning. Mourning who? Nareth had asked. You, I replied.
Pontifex did not correct me. But Labyrinth was gone. Eris, Discordia, Azathoth, the Whisperer in the Darkness. Aunt Beast. Pontifex stood still and silent as stone. Artemisia whimpered, lost. We were mourning. But not for Nareth.
I knelt and picked up the few remaining shards of Labyrinth’s exoskeleton and quietly placed them in my pocket. She had walked in the world among us, but it was not the appointed time. Though I knew she went to await the Messenger, I wondered if she had truly gone. For of the many lessons Aunt Beast taught me, the deepest one was this:
She always wins.
It was time to bring Nareth home. I called on the Outer Gods, the true Ones, and then Omega offered. I would have used Nareth’s blade upon Omega’s wrist, but Jack wanted her throat. A swift, deep cut, and my hand to the wound, then delicate fingertip brushstrokes on the golem’s forehead: EMET. On Labyrinth’s: MET.
I gave the dripping blade to Pontifex, a door only he could open, for he is intimately acquainted with the gift of pain. And pain he did cause, but he did not take it without consent: Abi wept as he prodded, demanded, forced her to remember the taste Jack’s razor, sour and biting cold at the moment of her birth, pulling her screaming into the world. Nareth, the bloody midwife. The pain of losing Nareth and the pain of bringing her back.
And it was enough: Nullam nunc dolor. The blade began to glow black in Pontifex’s hands. Hendrerit nec. A dark violent tendril arced from the blade to Labyrinth. Gravida eu, turpis. Probability and possibility collapsed. The die vanished. Things began to fall apart.
You must speak its purpose, Labyrinth had said to Omega. You are its creator. And the Lady with chilling finality: Nareth must act in accordance with my Will, for the benefit of us all. I shuddered, but it was too late to stop her; Nareth’s purpose had been cast. For the benefit of us all.
With sudden speed, the Watcher attacked. Wolfe, coyote, beast—Grrbrool ripped the heart from Labyrinth’s chest, all razor teeth and claw and blood-matted fur. He placed it, beating, into my hands. Omega lifted them up to her, lips bending close to taste the god’s blood. She gave Abi the choice: Bring her back? Or burn the heart? Abi whispered, Bring her back.
I opened my spirit to Legion, making the thing that should not, be: a beating heart in a chest of iron. Labyrinth’s exoskeleton disintegrated, only a few shards littering the floor. Larissa’s lips on the golem, a kiss, a breath and please live. Nareth’s eyes fluttered open. My bloody thumb on her mouth and speak.
Then Nareth was back. Her green eyes, watching. Her voice, speaking. Wondering why we were assembled. Some one said, We’re mourning. Mourning who? Nareth had asked. You, I replied.
Pontifex did not correct me. But Labyrinth was gone. Eris, Discordia, Azathoth, the Whisperer in the Darkness. Aunt Beast. Pontifex stood still and silent as stone. Artemisia whimpered, lost. We were mourning. But not for Nareth.
I knelt and picked up the few remaining shards of Labyrinth’s exoskeleton and quietly placed them in my pocket. She had walked in the world among us, but it was not the appointed time. Though I knew she went to await the Messenger, I wondered if she had truly gone. For of the many lessons Aunt Beast taught me, the deepest one was this:
She always wins.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Iron from the rock
The cliffs leading up to the seawall loom cold and dark above the Toxian Sea. Joah stands considering the rock face, her boots sinking into the wet sand. Extending one hand, she traces the stone with her fingertips before laying a palm on the rock, probing. A fiery light begins to spread from her hand causing the surface to glow, a white-hot ember. Legion’s words echo in her mind, “The song of creation, when sung in its complete harmony….” She begins singing softly as she works, a canticle high and sweet and other.
She steps away from the rock, lifting her hand slightly, but keeping her palm facing the cliff. A spongy mass of dark metal begins to bloom from the cliff’s surface as liquid slag drips down its face pooling in the sand. Joah watches the bloom grow, checking the formed mass against the design in her mind, the diagrams over which she had labored in the Library. As the impurities drip to the ground, the bloom swells: malleable and pure, but strong.
Joah extends both arms as if in prayer, glowing palms open under the bloom. Legion’s many voices whisper over the wind and the bloom bubbles out slightly. A portion separates, flattens and smooths. Joah spreads her fingers, tilting and turning her wrists, and flipping the floating slab over in the air. Etch marks appear at its edges as it curves and begins to take shape. A perfectly formed thigh-shaped plate falls to the ground and settles softly in the sand.
The process is repeated until the bloom is gone: a calf, a foot, the top of a hand, fingers, a jaw…over and over until the sand is littered with plates, pieces of an apparent marionette awaiting assembly. Joah’s hands drift to her side. She feels a stirring in the breeze and turns toward the gate in the seawall, Pontifex’s dark figure approaching silently. Meeting his eyes she says simply, “It is done.” He nods and bends low to lift one plate from the sand, then another. “To the Library,” he directs and Joah kneels to assist him.
She steps away from the rock, lifting her hand slightly, but keeping her palm facing the cliff. A spongy mass of dark metal begins to bloom from the cliff’s surface as liquid slag drips down its face pooling in the sand. Joah watches the bloom grow, checking the formed mass against the design in her mind, the diagrams over which she had labored in the Library. As the impurities drip to the ground, the bloom swells: malleable and pure, but strong.
Joah extends both arms as if in prayer, glowing palms open under the bloom. Legion’s many voices whisper over the wind and the bloom bubbles out slightly. A portion separates, flattens and smooths. Joah spreads her fingers, tilting and turning her wrists, and flipping the floating slab over in the air. Etch marks appear at its edges as it curves and begins to take shape. A perfectly formed thigh-shaped plate falls to the ground and settles softly in the sand.
The process is repeated until the bloom is gone: a calf, a foot, the top of a hand, fingers, a jaw…over and over until the sand is littered with plates, pieces of an apparent marionette awaiting assembly. Joah’s hands drift to her side. She feels a stirring in the breeze and turns toward the gate in the seawall, Pontifex’s dark figure approaching silently. Meeting his eyes she says simply, “It is done.” He nods and bends low to lift one plate from the sand, then another. “To the Library,” he directs and Joah kneels to assist him.
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