The violet orb was brilliant.
I lay it in the sun
so it may ask my father
what today the world has done.
From one side to the other
He sees all beneath His sky,
but my beloved Apple Tree
sees even the dead of night.

He was just a boy, and he would fold as soon as he saw happiness. Belena knew this because she had seen boys two years this one's senior brought to tears and made to forsake their desires to serve the Shining One.

It was for the better, after all. If they didn't turn tail before they got their robes, then when? They would likely do it later, when lives might depend o them.

She normally would not even speak with a candidate so young, but Halbeden, that pup himself, had begged her to consider. He was a smiling fool usually, but seemed so sincere that she had become curious what had impressed him so about this scraggly-looking child.

Her quarters were at the top of the cathedral, one whole wall of the room a window of stained glass with the sun's serious eye spread across it. The other side was a wide span of clear glass overlooking the city, laced curtains throw open. Along the other two sides, bookcases stacked with all sorts of papers and writing implements, and proudly displayed on one empty wall, a gold-gilt mace and glittering shield, both showing heavy use but also much care.

When she returned to the room balancing two saucers of tea atop a large, decorated box, this is where she found the boy-- staring at her old tools, not touching, but so close that when he turned to see her, his hair brushed against the surface lightly.

She smiled, a mysterious aura about her. “I used those once,” she said, “A long time ago. They served me well, so I keep them here...”

She set down the tea and the box on the table bidding him to sit.

“Just in case I need them. Or perhaps, one day, I will pass them on, if Pelor's will is such.”

She sipped her tea thoughtfully, examining the boy before her, She looked at the unkempt blond hair, the glittering brown eyes, and the pleasant, sort of round cheeks that suggested a very dear smile. He wasn't smiling at the moment, trying his hardest to look stoic. He did remind her of a young Habeden, perhaps without so many bad jokes.

“What is your name, young man?”

He knew she knew his name. He had been watching Belena drink her tea, too, and was mesmerized by every inch of white-and-yellow robe and every strand of golden hair.

“Elitharius Ouns,” he said, quickly adding, “You can call me Eli if you like.”

She smiled again, nodding. “ Well, you already know that I am High Cleric Belena Amriastas, and although I prefer it to not leave this room, Eli, you may here call me Belena.”

She set down her glass and opened the box at the center of the table, lifting out a silver mirror with a frame in the shape of a sun's rays.

“This mirror was a special gift to our church about thirty years ago, when I took my station here.”

Eli was taken aback for a moment-- though this woman could well be thirty, she could not have had such a high rank for thirty years-- she was far too young.

“That year,” she continued, “We had forty-six candidates for the clergy. Imagine that! Even in such a big church as ours, there is no room to teach so many people the intricacies of priesthood or show them the glory of Pelor in any real way. Imagine the size of our ranks if forty more clerics were born each year. Of course, that sounds like a blessing, but we were also losing men left and right, most only one or two years into their career. Many wanted glory, but few had the dedication to serve our god properly.”

“So,” she said, turning the mirror to face Eli, “This gift from the Shining One is to see where your dedication lies, and how strongly. If you look close into its depth...”

His eyes searched the surface of the mirror, across his own face, and there in his own eyes he began to be drawn in, to see a man with wild blond hair and a shadow of a beard. He was kneeling in front of a fireplace, poking the embers to life, and beside him was a little girl much like him, talking cheerfully.

Slowly he took in scenes of a life that he began to understand could be his; an older Eli who followed the requests of his aunt and uncle and took over their business, who married a girl from the town and had a few sweet daughters and one gentle son, and with the images of happiness in a calm life came the knowledge that none of this could occur should he keep his current course, Once he donned the robes of a holy man, he could very well face a dark fate.

This, too, was shown to him-- Many possible fates of an armored and armed Eli charging into battle, falling trying to reach someone in need of assistance, using his lat bit of strength to bring life back to a comrade.

The final image, a beaten and battered Eli, his head hanging sadly at the foot of a dark figure. The weapon was ready to crush its target.

“You should not have defied me, little man.”

The last words before the tow-headed child was jolted out of his vision by a sudden memory of terrible pain.

Belena watched the boy's reactions as he sat, transfixed on the mirror in her hands. She noted the sudden fierce defiance on his little face before he stood, suddenly, his chair clattering to the floor. She stood calmly and stepped to put her hand on the little one's shoulder, which was trembling.

Another one who had seen some terrible fate and would go back out her door with no further desire to serve as a cleric of Pelor.

“How are you, Eli?” she asked, “What ails you?”

She looked down to his upturned face, and what she saw there was not fear, or a loss of dedication-- in his brown eyes glowed a determined fire.

“That guy” he said, a growl in his tiny voice, “he doesn't know who he's threatening!”

Belena laughed, a sound like bells tinkling in a summer breeze.

“Guy?” She questioned, knowing in some degree what sort of image he had seen and pleased at his reaction.

The young eyes narrowed. “A man in dark armor, with a huge sword. He thinks he can just walk all over me?” his hand balled into a fist and he smacked it against his palm, a righteous fury over his features, “I'll show him the strength of good, the power of right in the light of Pelor!”

He stopped, his face suddenly red from cheek to cheek. Belena was laughing and didn't seem able to stop; he felt silly all of a sudden about going on a tirade about a man he had not met and may never meet.

She was smiling, though, and she had a silly joy growing in her that she hadn't felt in a long time – it made her feel like a little girl again to look at this child, so determined in his service of his god that he would defy death at the hands of some dark warrior-- and at fourteen! There was certainly something heartening about that.

She looked at Eli and nodded, hand on his shoulder to shepherd him through the door.

“I don't even think we have robes so small, young Sir Eli...”



(If you're wondering, I'm moving everything to this journal so it's all together in one place.)

She was a woman who raised her own food in an age where the pills that contained a healthy day's nutrition could be supplied for free. The backyard was small and cultured carefully, not even a hydro-garden – an honest-to-goodness garden with vegetables, herbs and a fruit tree of some kind that scented the wind with its wares.

These were the only plants he had ever seen grown in the barren soil of this sector, not to mention the sparse sunlight that they must have received. When he asked her what the secret was, she smiled and told him simply “I take care of them, every day.”

That couldn't be all, of course. A henhouse was penned into its own little area, the furballs contained therein sqwaking and chattering amongst themselves.

“Would you like some lunch?” she asked. The creature ruffled itself in her hands, black and auburn fur puffing up as if it felt her intent. He searched her face for a joke, a smile, but there was none. He felt a chill wondering how many of these things had been lunch before.

He held his hands up. “No, no, I--”

“What? You look pale all of a sudden,” she said, dropping the thing back into its pen, where it ran helplessly in circles and chittered at its companions, telling its near-death experience.

“Well, I mean, it's a pet, not food, why would you say such a thing?” he finally gasped out.

She looked through him with eyes the color of seaweed, dark and brooding, and shook her head.

“These creatures were only altered three generations ago,” she said, “They are food. Hasn't your grandmother told you of eating them herself when she was a child?”

He stuttered and stopped. His grandmother? He shook his head.

“You've met your grandmother? Mine was transferred when I was only a baby...”

The look of disgust on her face made him feel like a worm. She picked two fruits from her tree, threw one to him, and headed back inside. His feeling of being chastised by this woman was overwhelming, as if her very displeasure was weighty.

The fruit felt cool to the touch, a mottled red and green. He followed her at a quickened pace into the house, trying to catch up to her long-legged gait.

“What is this, now?” he asked, rubbing his hand along the surface. It was smooth, firm. He thought the flesh contained a bit of softness beneath, but there was no way to be sure.

“It's an apple. Jesus, do you really live that much under a rock?”

He reevaluated the fruit. He had never seen an apple, but he'd seen pictures of them in books – and this wasn't one.

“Apples are red,” he said, his brow furrowed.

“Not all of them.” She replied sternly, “Some are yellow, some are green, and they come in all sorts of sizes.” She took a bite from the one in her hand, a trickle of frothed juice running down her chin.

“I thought they were poisonous, anyway” He said, cringing at the sound of her teeth breaking the fruit's flesh. It was a loud pop, as if it were screaming for help. She was walking up the stairs and stood at the top, he hand on the doorknob to the second floor.

“Everything is poisonous if you eat enough of it,” she said, her mouth full of food, flicking beads of moisture onto the door's swirled wood. It looked archaic, like everything in this house did; even the machinery had the tint of age about it. He was used to white and silver, smooth lines and ergonomic design; every hint of old technology, from the lacquered wood flooring to the curtains on the windows, made him worry.

“The little bit of poison in the things around you are what keep you fit to live,” she said, opening the door, “if your body isn't pushed to its limits, you'll never find out what they are.”

From the hallway of the second floor she reached up. There was a panel in the ceiling which she grabbed with her long hands. Her skin stretched golden and tanned over lean muscle as she strained, pulling down the hatch which spread down into a step-ladder, a smell of dust wafting down into the hallway.

“Ladies first,” she said, gesturing, a small grin touching the corners of her mouth. He flushed, a little bit of embarrassment and a little bit of resentment.

“I—You... That's inappropriate,” he finished gently, as he had been taught to do.

She sighed, crossing her arms indignantly. “Just go up. It's a little less than inappropriate, since the only thing separating you from a twelve-year old girl is your size. Go! And eat your apple!”

He almost seemed to lean back from her, obviously nervous of her berating tone. He'd been asked, no, demanded his whole life to avoid conflict at any cost, and he couldn't perceive of anyone having different values. Really, the concept of being passive in every situation was the only thing that made sense – why would anyone do things differently? And yet here she was, the most pushy, demanding, aggressive person he had ever met, and a woman at that! He climbed to the attic hesitantly, being careful not to rub the apple across the steps. He really didn't want to eat the poison thing, but she would probably be angry if he didn't. And, well, the smell of it that was wafting from her was pretty pleasing, too.

The attic was spacious and, although dusty, neatly organized. One side seemed to be all shelves with many jars that were clearly labeled and many books on the shelves beside them that were not so easy to identify. At the other side, a seat before a station that seemed very new and very high-tech, one with multiple screens and input terminals.

She sat down, her hands dancing briefly across one keyboard, then another. The terminal seemed to hum with thought, and he could only assume that it was connecting to some of the other, older, machines that she had spread across the house.

She opened up a small panel and pulled out two long wires with round pads on the end. From the center of each pad protruded a very thin, very sharp needle. She pulled both some distance then offered one to him, standing so that he could take a seat.

He took it, wondering how a simple worker could have the money for such high-tech devices and the licenses that were required to operate them. He tried not to think too much of it, though; she was such a strange woman to begin with, that it was just a drop in the bucket that she had this.

He pushed the needle apparatus into his temple, face scrunching with concentration as the machine put some calibrating noise through each of his senses: he was still aware of his surroundings, but first he saw a bit of snow about him in black and white, as he noticed some noise in his ears. There was the familiar but still panicked moment when he realized that he could not move, and then he sank safely into the machine's virtual experience.

She was there. He knew her immediately, and unlike others that he had met on this side, she looked just the same as she did in person, although she was wearing very different clothes. Her tall figure was wrapped appealingly in tight black corset that ran seamlessly into a black silk skirt, both embroidered with blood-red flowers. He couldn't help but be embarrassed at her shamelessness, but it was still a very attractive get-up.

“I'm pleasantly surprised,” she said, her deep voice inflecting perfectly, “You must be experienced with these machines. I expected you to ask me what you were supposed to do, and you're not even all that bad at Imposing, although you're a little off...”

He blushed, not sure whether he had just been paid a compliment or an insult. Until meeting her, he had always been told that he Imposed better than anyone else, and that his finesse online was second to none. But, now that he saw her, he had the feeling that he wasn't as talented as he'd thought.
__________________

When he came into this office he usually had a sense of ease, confidence and sureness that was granted to him by the fortune of having only had good things given to him in this place.

He was, by nature, a squirming sort of man, constantly changing his posture after thinking that he should maybe sit with his hands out of his pockets, or straighter, or not too straight, lest the person he was talking to think poorly of him or, god forbid, take offense. His hands seemed always busy, and more so now that he was nervous, playing with his buttons, smoothing his hair and taking his little round glasses off and putting them back on over and over. He was supposed to wear them to look at close things, and he kept looking around the room and thinking maybe he needed them, but then, maybe he didn't need them. He just couldn't seem to relax.

And no surprise. Today had been probably the worst day of his life, and now he was concerned what the consequences for his failure would be. Would he be given another chance? Or would he be reassigned, sent off to some far away place where he would never see his friends again?

The Director of Projects came into his office, sweating and red-faced as if he had just run a great distance; or, more likely, had just dealt with being yelled at by a superior. But, in this room, he was the superior. He looked at the young man on the other side of the desk with furrowed brow as he dropped heavily into his chair, looking at the papers before him.

“Klemens, you have no idea the trouble this mistake is causing all the way upstairs,” he said, pulling out a handkerchief and patting his face dry. His breathing was calm, and he looked sincerely concerned for his subordinate director.

“I've been running around all morning trying to take the brunt of the reprimands, because I know how to handle these sort of things. But, although no one is going to punish you directly, and no one else needs to talk to you...

Klemens swallowed hard. He knew what must come next; no failure was without its punishment, just as no success was without reward.

“I, ah... I have been asked to inform you, son, that you've been stripped of your position. They haven't reassigned you to another city or another job, yet... But, your quarters are going to be moved to a new district while you're on probation.”

The Director looked absolutely devastated. Klemens felt a little relieved-- after all, he was still able to say in the city he knew, at least for now. But there must be something else, something terrible, that the Director wasn't telling him, that made him look so sad for his young no-longer subordinate.

“Well, that's... Unfortunate,” Klemens said, trying to sound both remorseful and stoic at once. It came out neither, “Where is my new home?”

“Out of the Core,” the Director said, “In sector 72.”

He had to cover his mouth to keep himself from gasping, but from the look in his eyes it was clear he understood his problem. Unfortunately, it was not to be his biggest one.
__________________________

Her hands were on her wide hips, and she stood with a look of impatience while Klemens shook off the initial stiffness of coming across the gap, meagerly stretching his legs, getting used to the look and feel of his “new” Imposed fingers.

If he had met her online, he would have been sure that she was, intentionally or not, Imposing incorrectly. Now that he saw her on this side, it suddenly hit him that she was very beautiful, even if she was unbearably self-assured and bossy.

His own image was quite himself, carefully groomed light brown hair swept back in a conservative cut, wearing a clean gray suit that was once was his work attire. He smoothed the front of it sadly, thinking about the fact that it was no longer his uniform.

She seemed to notice the error, as well, in her quick sweep over his form.

“You should start thinking of a new outfit,” she said, brushing her hair from her shoulder. The hair fell in a perfect fan down from her hip and swung with a bare momentum; he thought that if he listened he could barely hear the imaginary fibers dance across each other. He often forgot to impose the sounds of his footsteps if there wasn't a program in place to take care of such things, and the lack of apparent attention on her face was almost scary.

It was a white room that they had come into, the main entrance to any avatar contact on the web. It was a simple place with very few features, obviously one that she had not used to keep company in. Instead, it seemed to only be a gateway for entrance into the Internet, which in itself was unusual—usually these rooms held some indication of the person who used them, decorated with bits of nostalgia or personality.

They were still in her system, but just outside there was an entire world. She raised her hand and the empty air in front of her manifested a set of glowing panels, which she pressed in a rapid series before they disintegrated, and before them in the white wall appeared what seemed to be a stainless steel door. She stepped forward and opened it for him, waving him through. There was nothing apparent on the other side, but he stepped in faithfully.

This place wasn't the Internet, technically: it was the “Auranet”. For decades before it's construction, however, the Internet and computers had been a standard way of life, and the general populace still referred to all of Aura co.'s creations with many of the old names for its predecessor. And why not? All of the same features were here, if a little more in-person, although the social climate of the place was different than the one before, or so Klemens had been taught. He would never know for sure, because he had never seen a real 'website,' but from the history books he had read on the subject, he could only guess that this web had been woven of a vastly different material, not to say a vastly better one.

The door had dropped them into an alleyway from which they could hear the bustle of the street beyond. The place was immaculately clean, but this alleyway was still a byway for trash—beside them lay dozens of variously shaped 'information' containers, some in the guise of books and magazines and still others like objects, simple polygons or small mechanical devices with easy-to-access screens. The businesses beside them dumped their trash in this back way, but for some reason they had come in through it.

She walked forward, towards the street, and when they got to the main avenue she touched the wall of the building they had come around, her palm flat against the synthesized white material.

“I'd like to make a call,” she said clearly, concentrating. Klemens blinked and there was, set into the wall, what appeared to be an LCD screen showing a blue background with a very simple white glyph, beneath which was printed clearly AURA CO.

“Please state your user name.” demanded a clear, pleasant female voice that seemed to come from nowhere in particular.

“Cadence Seraphina,” she said slowly, careful to enunciate every syllable.

The network did not respond for a moment. Then, with the same bland certainty, the voice stated, “Voice authentication successful.”

“I noticed that you have a guest with you today,” it asked pleasantly, “Would you like me to mask your conversation, so that you may speak privately?”

“No, thank you.”

“Understood. Who would you like to contact today, Cadence Seraphina?”

“Tantalus Atreus.”

“Please wait. I am now attempting to contact the intended recipient.”

A long pause. Cadence looked to Klemens, half a smile gracing her lips. He noticed that she had a dimple, at least on the side that was smiling. Something else that he would have forgotten to Impose, he thought bitterly.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” the voice returned suddenly, “But Tantalus Atreus has requested a passkey.”

Cadence opened her mouth, and he was aware that she was going to speak, but not only was her voice unheard, but her mouth hung open for a moment, stuck in her look of speaking surely to the logo on the screen. He was barred from being technically present for her password, but once she was done with it, she continued to move normally.

“Thank you. One moment, please.”

The moment was barely anything at all. As soon as the voice faded, an image appeared on the screen, a broad-shouldered man with handfuls of thick black curls and an unshaven face, seemingly bare-chested. He smiled at Cadence, impressively sharp rows of pearly whites giving him a briefly predatory look.

“I was waiting for you to call today, honey. What's up?” He said, his eyes glancing to her companion and looking him over, not bothering to hide his curiosity..

“I wanted you to meet my new friend,” She paused, looking to Klemens. “What's your handle anyway?”

“Klem--”

She held up a hand, and he paused. “I forget, you were employed... We'll get you a new user name along with your new outfit.”

She looked back to Tantalus, who had one eyebrow up in curiosity. “Cadence! You're bringing me an employee?”

“He was fired. He's out of the core now, near me.”

“That's not right,” Klemens corrected gently, “I'm on probation...”

He caught her rolling her eyes from his position to her side, but he tried to ignore it, putting his hands in his pockets and feeling the synthesized material inside.

“So he needs a new outfit, and a new ID. Can you get me those?”

A long pause.

“I guess. I owe you anyway, angel. Come on in.”
_________________________

Klemens arrived in sector 72 in the middle of the day, and no one was around.

It was dirty. It was the remains of the old city, pollution and everything included, trash littered on the sides of the streets and buildings standing staggered to one another. If there was a gap between two buildings, there would be a shack erected in that area, but nothing in the streets.

His guide warned him also not to step into the street, but didn't bother to mention why. It became apparent in a few minutes, when a vehicle zipped by – he couldn't see what sort of car, as it hovered by in a blur, a blast of warm air following it at some distance as if the wind was chasing it.

The man who was guiding him had introduced himself as Baker. He had welcomed Klemens off of the subway and helped him with one of his two bags. Baker was a big man who did not talk much; he welcomed his charge to the sector and from then only spoke to give him important information, like not to walk in the street.

They arrived at a tall building with many windows and fire escapes that seemed to be falling apart, and Baker pushed the door open unceremoniously and led the way through the lobby. This place, like the streets, was quiet and empty. He noticed the doorway of what must have once been an elevator, but there we no doors, and there was no elevator now, either – just an empty shaft with a thick, frayed cord hanging down its center.

Baker glanced at the opening.

“I guess we're taking the stairs,” he said sarcastically. Klemens didn't know what to reply, so he laughed weakly, wondering if someone had been in the elevator on the day it gave out.
________

(This isn't finished because whenever I start to work on it again, something happens to the damn file)

Beatrix found herself breathing deeply, gulping down air like she was starving for it, only to keep herself steady, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.
She was surrounded by darkness, felling as if she was being ripped open and examined on the inside. She struggled, but it felt like a dream—her limbs would not obey, as if a great hand held her flat. She screamed, pain flooding her body and then receding like a wave, leaving behind a tingling numbness.
“You weren't looking for me, were you, little Guard?” The voice sounded sincerely curious. She felt a mind touch hers, and though she tried to fight it, it barreled through her defenses.
Then, while it rifled through her mind, she got what could only be described as a glimpse of it—a sense of its personality.
“No,” she gasped, “you aren't. Let me go, please. I have business with someone...Something else.”
A feeling of humor at her expense filled the air. It didn't laugh, but she felt its derision.
“You have business, do you? You think you can kill a demon of such power?”
Beatrix was silent. She knew that she couldn't, but she had thrown herself through the gate with all the hope she could muster that she could do anything.
“I do not understand your foolishness, little Guard. Why not just do your job and kill the Harbinger?”
She had a sensation that something was very near her face, breathing now very heavily on her, a hot wind blowing over her whole upper body.
“He's innocent,” she said breathlessly, feeling like she was a mouse about to be gobbled up by the world's biggest cat.
“Innocent?” It snorted, wetness sprinkling over her face, “No man is innocent. You all have blood on your hands. Some more than others.”
“Well,” she gasped, feeling it inhale over her, as if it were smelling her. Perhaps it was trying to imply that she was one of those blood-covered individuals. “He doesn't deserve to die.”
“He won't, little Guard. He will have his soul devoured and be a part of the new King of your world.” She thought she heard some distaste in his voice, but he continued.
“Perhaps he will still want you then,” he chuckled, “You could be a little queen. Unfitting of such a rash girl, but love makes humans do all kinds of things, I hear. Because love is the reason, not his worth—am I correct?”
Beatrix grit her teeth. “If you already know, why did you ask?”
“I like to hear you trying to explain.”
“Well, I've had enough explaining!” She said, fury apparent in her voice, “I'm going to have him freed, or--”
Eyes opened before her in the darkness. Hundreds of them. Two stole her attention more than the rest, a pair red as blood and glowing like embers, a gaze that made her feel like her heart had stopped. A primal fear took her body and she trembled, frozen.
“Do not talk back to me.”
She felt as if she was being lifted very high, and then as if she were being inspected from all angles.
“Little Guard, I like you. I can help you, but it will not be free. Do you understand?”
She nodded in the darkness. All the eyes snapped shut at once, and she felt herself put gently to the ground, where she collapsed, legs shaking. In the darkness, she felt a face move past hers, and a mouth whispered from beside her ear.
“I will claim the Guard in you as mine, and both you and the Harbinger can walk free.”
She tried to speak, but was barely able to breathe.
“Do not forget our agreement. I have been kind to let you live, and I will expect my end of the bargain when I have prepared myself here.”
“How long?” she managed to say.
“I'll make my mark now, but there will be time. At least thirteen years.” A slow breath, a hand as big as her caressing over her lightly.
“Alright,” she said slowly.
She felt the joy in its voice filling the air as it responded.
“Wonderful!” it breathed, stretching her down onto the floor.
“This might be very painful. Try not to scream much.”

When she walked into the cathedral, it was raining.

She wondered if this place lay under an endless rain. When she had been not even to her father's hip, it had been raining what seemed to be the same drizzly drops. She remembered the comfort of slipping her tiny hand into the huge one that was her Daddy's, back when she knew he loved her most and could do no wrong.

The doors were not open, but she herself was the key when wide-eyed monks flanked her on each side and held them wide.

She walked down the center aisle, her figure straight and sure as she strode towards the single figure who faced away from her, hands clasped behind dark, somber robes.

The monks had milled around the doors, but when this man turned there was no one to be seen and the door was shut, never a sound issued from wood or hinge.

She, herself, didn't notice. Her small body stood regal against the Bishop's stronger form, unafraid of his authority.

The Bishop's dark eyes were questioning, if only for a moment. They examined the girl who could not have been eighteen, went over the rain-soaked hair and figure. Eyes that finally lit upon the medallion strung over her slight chest. It looked too big, too heavy for her, and in fact it was an emblem of honor and importance which seemed too much for such a little girl.

He backed up a step and bowed gently to her. She returned with a nod.

“Beatrix,” he said, a tint of awe touching his voice, “You have grown... I heard much of you only lately.”

“I bet I'm still the last person you expected to see today,”

A pause. He considered the wet child who had drug herself in from the rain one more time, then shook his head.

“Surely you have not come here lightly. When your father sent word of your running away, I did not think for a moment that this would be your destination.”

Beatrix smiled, a tiny grin that only touched the corners of her lips, suggesting that perhaps this was the last place she had expected to end up, as well. When she began to speak, she did so quietly and with the same formal tone as the Bishop.

“I came to speak with you, Bishop. I have questions that only you can answer.” she said, her eyes locking to his.

He walked her to his own study chamber, silent the whole way. The chamber was small and cluttered, a closet with a desk and bookshelf against a stained glass window. He stood behind the desk, pacing slowly with his hands characteristically clasped behind his back. She stood at the corner of the desk, inspecting its contents.

Open on its surface was a book that she had seen once before, long ago, containing the list of her progenitors, a picture or small painting of each hand placed in the book by the Bishop or his own ancestors.

At the last page, here, was the newest addition-- her, pasted neatly beside her brother. The date of his birth and year of his death beneath his smiling face reminded her of her purpose here.

“I know the day he died,” she said, “the date.”

He looked at her dubiously. “How?”

“I met the man who felled him. But I won't speak of him, for I know the true hand behind the blade.”

He met her eyes, only to be stung by their cold blue steel.

“Surely,” he said, his voice wavering slightly, “you do not mean to blame the church--”

“I blame you, Bishop. I blame Father, as well, but I know now what sort of stress he lived with. One can't be blamed for losing ...something in such an existence. You, however, have no such excuse.”

He found himself unable to break her gaze, examining the cold hatred in her look. He said nothing, wondering what kind of twisted fate had been plotted for him, who had to face that fury.

“He trusted you and your 'destiny' exactly the way you told him it had been planned, and he went out to meet it head first!” She scowled, which on her young face was almost pretty, in a way.

“There is always a risk--”

“Risk is something entirely different! When I first met you, you told me that I would someday be the Guard! How did you know?”

“I knew,” he said, choosing his words carefully and slowly, “Not because of him, but because of you. Your brother grew to be a fine man and a fine guard, but I saw, even in your youth, that you would grow to be exceptional. I knew that destiny would put you in the place you belonged.”

He looked back toward Beatrix, who looked slightly shocked, a little subdued by this surprising reply.

“Have you,” she asked, her voice a tiny breath but still strong beneath the whisper, “Ever taken a picture out of that book?”

“Never. Nor has it ever been done.”

“Well, take out mine,” she said, “I step down. Do you understand? I won't face a fate as the Guard's sacrifice!” Her voice had risen from the whisper and was rising still, coming back from her surprise with more fire than before, “Do you know what it's like to not only know that your spouse has been chosen already --”

“I understand, but--”

“--And that any children your loveless marriage produces could die, simply because some ubiquitous Fate sees one as more worthy than the other!?”

The Bishop paused, shaking his head. What could he say to a complaint that was completely true?

“It's not for us to comprehend, Beatrix. And, for you more than others, the hand of Fate is powerful, and impossible to fight.”

“Take me out of the book, Bishop!”

“No matter what you do, it will be Fate's hand heavy on your shoulders, guiding you to do what you're supposed to. Even if you choose to fight it, in the end that will only lead you to the right place.”

She walked a step towards the Bishop, and he took a step back, his fear of this rebellious guard suddenly showing itself.

“Even if you do none of the things you were told you are supposed to, how do you know it isn't in Fate's plan for you to do so? If you open the gate inadvertently in your travels, can you say you wouldn't be inclined to do what's right? Eventually, you will perhaps find a man other than the boy we betrothed you to, and how are you to know that it wasn't intended for you to add something new and possibly beneficial to the Guards' line?”

She reached for him, gripping him by the collar and twisting the fabric around her long fingers. The Bishop was not a young man, and did not have the benefit of centuries of good breeding or a lifetime of training. She took him up easily, and though he was taller, he thought he felt himself rise from the ground, if only an inch off his heels, as her arm stiffened.

“I want you to remove me.” She said, “To take me out of that book. To forget I ever existed. I want to be free of this Fate, and I will have myself erased from fucking existence if I have to!”

“No matter what you choose to do, your actions will only lead you back to your original Fate.”

She slammed him back suddenly, and with such force that his head cracked against something, hard enough to put him in a daze for a second, feeling the red pain that spread its way all at once through his head and across the back of his scalp, along with what at first he thought was a ringing in his ears that sounded much like tinkling glass. As his head burst through into the sunshine though a shower of colored glass, he realized that it was.

He could feel the tickle of blood running down his neck as he looked straight up into the sky. He strained to raise his head against gravity, to look at her, squinting through the sudden bright daylight. Her pale skin and hair seemed to glow, ethereal, and he believed for a moment that surely he was looking at the visage of an angel; pure, shining and furious.

“Is this what you came here to do?” he gasped, his hands grasping to pull himself up, or perhaps thinking of pulling her down.

“No,” she said, a tiny hint of remorse behind her anger.

Any other man would have latched onto this weakness and pulled themselves up from such a precarious position, played on her sympathy if only for a moment. The Bishop, however, was no other man.

“Your actions, then,” he said, his breath still coming fast and heavy, terror building in him even now.

“...Are truly fate.”

Their eyes locked for only a moment, perhaps not even a second, but it was long enough for him to see the brief gentleness he'd witnessed melt away from her expression as he lifted into the air with some effort, sprinkling fresh shards of glass behind him in his descent from the high window.

Beatrix looked down as he crashed into the ground, knowing that he would never speak of Fate again.

Then she turned and removed her image, and her name, from the Bishop's tome.

The sleeper wakes
With dreaming on her sleeping mind,
And only one she wants to find.
This world is just a dream, she knows,
And transient. With feather in hand she goes.
Black and downy soft, it shivers
As the wind blows.
This is her world; a black feather,
Beautiful, but fragile.
Blown away by one inconsiderate breeze.

His dark wing brings terror 
to she who looks upon it;
trembling, taking sword in milky hand
and gripping hard, blood
running in watery rivulets down
knuckles, fingers, hilt,
down the side of her smooth cheek,
she lifts the blade covered in 
stains
(remains of life 
snuffed for the purpose of right)
and dripping also. her mouth
traces words beyond
blood, beyond death, more than
this dark wing that shudders
in the bane of night's gaze.
She smiles with assurance
of victory to come, and 
he grins in that solemn, knowing way.
It is reflected 
in what little silver
still remains,
that lifts, runs, strikes,
falls beneath the hand of a new master.
She falls as well, to her knees
and finds herself prone, bowing, kissing
the floor beneath one's feet --
fresh drops of blood
gushing from her smooth cheek.

Our girl Pygmalion preferr'd a solitary life,
Abhorr'd the loss of freedoms, and most to be a wife:
So single chose to live, and shunn'd to wed,
Well pleas'd to want a consort of her bed.

Yet fearing boredom, the ill of time,
She sought to paint perfection at it's prime.
And from pencil, pen, brush and constancy,
Brought to bear an idol of elegancy,
A likeness of a man so handsome and divine,
That even Nature'd never made a thing so fine.

Pleas'd with her image, she commends, admires,
Adores; and then, the thing Ador'd, desires.

A powerful master in his face was seen,
And had he mov'd, a living man had been:
One could have thought he only still'd in wait
To bring some foolish prey to it's grim fate.

Art hid in art, so thoroughly perceiv'd,
That even the artist was gravely deceiv'd;
She knew it foolish, but sought always his attention,
And the more love withheld, the more desir'd her invention:
The flesh, or what so seems, she touches more and more,
Which seeming glows with health, the greater to adore.

Fir'd with this thought, at once she strok'd the chest,
And on the lips a burning kiss impress'd.

'Tis true, the chest was insubstantial,
And the lips return'd a kiss most artificial:
But now, stepp'd away, she look'd again,
To think him just a thought, was a thought too mean:
So she'd rather believe he kiss'd, and courting more,
Again put lips to lips, and hand to hand o'er and o'er;
And resting 'gainst her image, came to fear,
Her ceaseless loves had left behind a mark or tear:
Explor'd him inch by inch, and fear'd to find
So fierce a touch had left a smear behind.
So with flatt'ry now she seeks his mind to move,
And so with gifts (the pow'rful bribes of love),
She brings him handsome garb, plates of nectarous food,
On her, perfumes with amorous essence imbu'd;
Music play'd for his clever ears, hush'd,
she begg'd his attentions, her little heart crush'd
To hear no response, no acknowledgment seen;
Thus she retir'd, her sorrow obscene.

The day of Mira came, the cherry sway'd,
And at its foot Pygmalion pray'd:
My loving lady, if all we mortals want,
If all we can require, be yours to grant;
Make me the pet of this strong master, she wou'd have said,
But chang'd her words for shame; and only pray'd,
Give me the likeness my painting portray'd.

The forces that grant, present for each thought,
Heard the words of the pray'rs she brought;
And as a sign of granting her request,
Three cherries dropped for her to test.

The youth, returning to her master, hies,
The scent of fruit on her breath, her prize;
She kiss'd him, her hopes growing ever more:
And to her happy shock, the lips seem'd almost warm.

She would believe, yet is still in pain,
And tries her argument of sense again,
Touches for the pulse, but finds the image still mundane.

Tears from her blue eyes drop'd to the floor,
When to her disdain, sound'd a knock at the door.
She crawled under covers, loathe to see one
Who to her perfect image justice was not done.

The door open'd without her, and she look'd up to survey
Who into her home openly would cause such dismay.
But the man that she saw caused her such a delight,
She hopped from her place, inside to invite.

And with gift, and perfume, and loving caress,
Pygmalion sought her guest to impress:
But nothing his stern countenance moved,
The stern soul of her image he proved.

So with a sad note I end, for no wedding was had;
And no pet was made of our heroine, I'm glad:
For later this one would change the world far and wide:
The Cherry only the first who, to Pygmalion, repli'd.

The sunlight poured through the window, making glittering gold dance across the still wet blood painting the floor.

It was morning, and somehow I was still alive. Barely, though-- a grievous wound tore across my chest, my breathing labored by mouthfuls of blood. My father had no such luck, nor had my elder brothers, motionless across the house where they had died in valor but ultimately in vain.

I didn't have thoughts of this now, though. As morning had come on me, I could think only that if I had to die, I wanted to die outside in the light, in the cool grass beneath the sun's warm eye, not cowering against the floorboards in a pool of mine and my brothers' blood.

I could not stand, but I stood. I didn't just walk outside-- I very nearly made it to the road, perhaps seeking the field nearby where I had played all my years.

And there I was seen, standing mid-field, a boy six-and-a-half but a little short, a blond child in ripped clothes drenched in his own blood.

What, you might wonder, does a very lucky boy say to the armored wanderer who finds him, a concerned and gentle expression on his face? What utterance of thanks as the man reaches out, all the warmth and love of the sunlight in his touch?

“Oh, hi,” I breathed as the glassy pain in my chest faded into a tingling warmth.

Then I fell face first into the cool grass, exhausted.

Cross-posted to http://community.livejournal.com/icarusdown



Quite aside from the drama happening inside the Icarus Down, outside it was still dark, and it was still noisy. The line to get into the club stretched around the block, people arguing with the bouncer as it didn't move. The sound of what may have been hundreds was enough to cover the sound of music from within, ruining all of their chances for at least hearing the band that night.
“Club's full!” He yelled again over the din of waiting fans, “Go home! Fire regulations and all that shit!” A roar of complaint answered him, and he stood stony against it, looking almost bored as people jumped around, some waving money and a few no longer completely clothed, because, as we all know, an unfortunate side affect of desperation is nudity.
From this crawling entity of idiocy separated a comparably small group. Ed saw them coming before he could see the whole lot of them; The catboy dwarfed everyone in the crowd, and that plus his notable fierce expression made his movement through Dark Shadows' fans look like the parting of the red sea. He walked straight to the door, not around the line but straight through it, one very much smaller person in tow. He and the girl following him both wore their cat ears in the open, as well as tails that swung naturally behind them, unashamed and unworried. People in the city saw weirder things, and these particular people had bigger fish to fry.
Kuroneko made eye contact with Ed and motioned a little nod that was almost a tiny bow, and Ed nodded back. It was a very male thing that neither of them spoke as the catboy simply walked past the bouncer into the club. Angry shouts followed him.
“Where's everyone else?” Ed asked, looking down at Tora, the little blue-head. He felt a little flush in his cheeks, remembering something from earlier. He wondered if she noticed.
“Uh, well, Badru's 'working the crowd' ... Of course Megan's with him... Ekisha was home, but I wouldn't be surprised if he showed up anyway. I was surprised he didn't come, loves the band... anyway.” She muttered when she talked, unminding of the noise around her, and Ed found it almost entrancing to try to follow what she said.
She tilted her head in a sort of puppyish motion.
“Is Hyde here? I'mma steal his drinks if he is since Quinn won't let me have anything.”
Ed nodded, “Warrick, too, was with him.”
“Woo! Haven't seen them for a while...” She smiled ear to ear, an expression that didn't often cross her face in sincerity.
Ed opened his mouth to say something, then snapped it shut as she darted away into the dark bustle of the club. Someone was yelling in the crowd, several someones.
“Hey! That kid was barely sixteen! What the fuck gives!?”



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Well, I'm on my way out. Catching the bus at around 7. Thought I'd post this before I forgot it existed... If I wait too long, I'll hate it next time I look at it.