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The Entries
Long ago when the world was young, there were many coins ahead of me. Though I tried to collect them, truth be told I.. really wasn't very good at it. So each time I grabbed at them, a few pennies and even some nickels slipped through my clutches. One could posit this is an advanced metaphor for some abstract concept but they would be wrong. Dead wrong. No, I really couldn't get hold of those suckers try as I might. And I did. Oh I did. Time and time again.
Putting my fists on my hips, I declared "That's it! I'm gonna show this Coinstar® what is what!" And proceeded to stop with the amateur hour of just reaching my hand around in the metal coin return tray. It was around noon so the lunch hour rush of folks coming and going from the grocery store really began to pick up the pace. Which may in hindsight explain why nobody had called the police just yet. That was a good thing to be certain. I didn't want interrupted while in the middle of my grand scheme.
You see, if I collected enough coins, I could go to one of them machines at another grocery store and redeem them for like, at the very least a good hundred dollars or so. It was the month of December after all and, I figured if I went to one of them bulk stores and bought energy drinks 4 for $8, quickly doing my times tables -- that was a whomping 50 energy drinks. Well, let's not get absurd, perhaps 45 or so given the stupid can deposit fee. I just call it what it is: tyranny. Anyway the place was packed, so getting the baseball bat in wasn't too much trouble.
WACRACK! I had to be fast, the eyes were on me now. WABOW! A few old ladies screamed in horror but, that's okay, this was probably at least partially their coin based currency after all. Though one must admit, not for long. Not at the rate I was going. SLAM!!! That one got it going good. It turns out as shocking as this may sound, electronic devices aren't particularly compatible with metal baseball bats. A regrettable design defect to be sure but hey, that's not my job to fix. That's uh... whoever owns Coinstar®'s problem I wager. Well. I'm not really wagering anything, I don't gamble. Waste of money.
Finally, my eye was on the prize. Amidst the annihilated display panel and advertisement cover was a canister full of bronze and silver gold. Well there was no gold at all, it's United States currency in denominations of under $1 USD, let's not get silly. Throwing the baseball bat aside as I no longer required its services, I took hold of the canister and began running out into the streets to buy no less than 40 something ROCKST☆R®s. If you didn't know, that's how they officially stylize their brand for drinks. I don't particularly care for it but, the "Recovery® Lemonade" variant is surprisingly high on flavor and low on the induction of cancer.
Fate had a strange sense of humor, if it had any at all given it's something of an immaterial and dubious force and not so much a human being. Assuming it did though, fate was laughing it up pretty hard that day. Because as I rounded the street corner to count out my bounty -- a poor old man was encountered. Holding a cardboard sign and wearing worn winter garb despite it being 72° Fahrenheit outside, I couldn't help but take notice of his penmanship's message. "Money please. I'll be honest, I'm gonna buy a drink."
Like a lightning bolt from the blue, I was struck by the gravity of destiny. //I// was going to buy a drink. Or like, 42 of them. The point was, while I had all the opportunity in the world now, my new friend had none. Yet we weren't so different, he and I. A common goal if one will. Feeling guilty at my excess and hubris, I dumped half the canister onto the sidewalk in front of him. Mind you the canister was rather heavy, easily 20+ pounds.
"What the fuck?" He queried with confusion but, I'm certain concealed glee!
"Merry Christmas-wait I don't know if you celebrate that uh, Merry Nonspecific Winter Timed Holiday my friend." I smiled, walking away from the man as he used strange terminology I hadn't heard before to express his gratitude like "fucking crazy" -- I think that's new hip slang for gracious.
Putting my fists on my hips, I declared "That's it! I'm gonna show this Coinstar® what is what!" And proceeded to stop with the amateur hour of just reaching my hand around in the metal coin return tray. It was around noon so the lunch hour rush of folks coming and going from the grocery store really began to pick up the pace. Which may in hindsight explain why nobody had called the police just yet. That was a good thing to be certain. I didn't want interrupted while in the middle of my grand scheme.
You see, if I collected enough coins, I could go to one of them machines at another grocery store and redeem them for like, at the very least a good hundred dollars or so. It was the month of December after all and, I figured if I went to one of them bulk stores and bought energy drinks 4 for $8, quickly doing my times tables -- that was a whomping 50 energy drinks. Well, let's not get absurd, perhaps 45 or so given the stupid can deposit fee. I just call it what it is: tyranny. Anyway the place was packed, so getting the baseball bat in wasn't too much trouble.
WACRACK! I had to be fast, the eyes were on me now. WABOW! A few old ladies screamed in horror but, that's okay, this was probably at least partially their coin based currency after all. Though one must admit, not for long. Not at the rate I was going. SLAM!!! That one got it going good. It turns out as shocking as this may sound, electronic devices aren't particularly compatible with metal baseball bats. A regrettable design defect to be sure but hey, that's not my job to fix. That's uh... whoever owns Coinstar®'s problem I wager. Well. I'm not really wagering anything, I don't gamble. Waste of money.
Finally, my eye was on the prize. Amidst the annihilated display panel and advertisement cover was a canister full of bronze and silver gold. Well there was no gold at all, it's United States currency in denominations of under $1 USD, let's not get silly. Throwing the baseball bat aside as I no longer required its services, I took hold of the canister and began running out into the streets to buy no less than 40 something ROCKST☆R®s. If you didn't know, that's how they officially stylize their brand for drinks. I don't particularly care for it but, the "Recovery® Lemonade" variant is surprisingly high on flavor and low on the induction of cancer.
Fate had a strange sense of humor, if it had any at all given it's something of an immaterial and dubious force and not so much a human being. Assuming it did though, fate was laughing it up pretty hard that day. Because as I rounded the street corner to count out my bounty -- a poor old man was encountered. Holding a cardboard sign and wearing worn winter garb despite it being 72° Fahrenheit outside, I couldn't help but take notice of his penmanship's message. "Money please. I'll be honest, I'm gonna buy a drink."
Like a lightning bolt from the blue, I was struck by the gravity of destiny. //I// was going to buy a drink. Or like, 42 of them. The point was, while I had all the opportunity in the world now, my new friend had none. Yet we weren't so different, he and I. A common goal if one will. Feeling guilty at my excess and hubris, I dumped half the canister onto the sidewalk in front of him. Mind you the canister was rather heavy, easily 20+ pounds.
"What the fuck?" He queried with confusion but, I'm certain concealed glee!
"Merry Christmas-wait I don't know if you celebrate that uh, Merry Nonspecific Winter Timed Holiday my friend." I smiled, walking away from the man as he used strange terminology I hadn't heard before to express his gratitude like "fucking crazy" -- I think that's new hip slang for gracious.
Snow drifted across the sleeping city, covering over the cracked streets, and adding a sting to the midnight air. Clouds obscured the heathered colored skies, reflecting the lights of the downtown skyscrapers, like an eerie futuristic world; bright, imposing, and untouchable. Mother Nature had gone to hibernate, and the winter deity gave her own gift to the world, purity. As though the white drifts could erase every imperfection, hide the multitude of disgraces, and make the town an image of magnificence. One could lose themselves in the created paradise, forget the months that recently transpired, and carry on until the season repeated in blissful ignorance.
December’s merriment added its own impression; light poles were wrapped with garland and tinsel, wreaths hung at every corner, and shops with store fronts displayed their own versions of Christmas, complete with tiny villages set on fake snow. There was an energy this time of year, made cheerful by the knowledge that a day of gift exchanges and family dinners was around the corner. People sang carols from the park gazebo, adorned with bells, red scarves, and Santa hats. Every evening they gathered and serenaded the masses that mingled among the vendors, who provided hot chocolate and cookies at reasonable prices. Those with children were able to leave them at the puppet show, then shop for last minute gifts in preparation for the day. The stories were always the same; Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and his saving of Christmas, Frosty the Snowman coming to life to spread cheer, and a rendition of how the Grinch stole Christmas, only to grow a heart at the end. It was a holiday lover’s dream.
Once the shops closed and the streets emptied, a beautiful hush fell over the square, and those that could brave the elements walked the city streets in search of safety. Perhaps a retailer forgot to lock the dumpster, a backyard shed door was left ajar, the hotel neglected to bar the back entrance, or the local churches were kind enough to let a poor patron spend the night on a pew to avoid the bitter elements. Often, these sanctuaries stayed open through the night to provide respite; a hot bowl of soup, a mug of cocoa, and a blanket to wrap up in while they rested in the warmth.
How times had changed.
Dark boots made dents in the newly fallen snow and the black, fleece lined cloak fluttered around her while she traversed those same walks, watching the weary congregation flock to the chapel. In her time, Alona could never remember a kirk that catered to people in need. Every door was bolted, lights off, and the faithful were at home in their beds. Donations were few and far between as the economy took a downturn, and the funds they managed to put away were then used on gifts and a dinner for visiting family. There came a point when people were so self-centered, serving, and seeking, that they cared more for being Tik Tok famous than using the platform for good deeds. It was scary to witness the slip society had taken, and the destination they were headed, a real-life purge. The homeless would be the first to go, as though they were issue. Formerly, she would happily have joined in, though adding a few more bodies to the pile. Following her life’s collapse, however, she counted herself among their numbers.
Blue eyes scanned the vicinity for signs of danger. Despite the metropolis altering during her absence, crime was ever present, and you needed to be watchful for attempts on your life. The harsh season made people desperate for what they didn’t have and would take something as small as a ring if it filled their empty wallets. She couldn’t blame them. Before her departure, her parents had taken everything her job paid, and she was left to sell her artwork in secret, spiriting the funds into a hidden account. It was enough to get her through until the dance started again. Her thoughts had only been for money, and it led to the greatest change her life had taken.
The cemetery had been her haven, for what normal person willingly visited without attending a funeral? Some went to remember, others in observance of the holidays, but most stayed away. Legends of hauntings and demon activity were splattered across virtual pages, and they weren’t willing to risk their safety for internet views. The architecture was stunning; the entrance was a double, wrought iron gate, six feet in height, and beautifully welded with fleur-de-lis. They opened into a tunnel of trees that rounded into an arch above. A doorway to the right led to five rotund burial places, spread throughout the rectangle grounds. Separating each were smaller foliage alcoves, and towering evergreen shrubs. Each contained memorial plaques, statues, and gas lit lamp posts that rivaled the Pere Lachaise in France. At the end of the globed burrow was an open field, situated on vast acreage, and where most of the burials occurred. The barren trees stood mournfully, waiting for their chance to blossom once again.
Every night after work in the cafe, Alona would wind her way to the hell hole that was her parent’s home and change from the standard barista uniform into her gothic attire. When the weather permitted, she sported comfortable, yet stand out dresses, or simple skirts with long sleeved shirts. At the change, leggings and heavier cloaks became a must. With her art bag on her shoulder, she traversed the roadways, bypassing the glaring eyes, until she reached the familiar. There, she’d walk the pathways, taking time to unwind from the dreaded day, and shedding the stresses of home like rainwater off feathers. Always, she’d cycle back to the center, and the statue of a weeping woman in a mourning shroud that greeted her like a lost mother. She had been the subject of her earlier pieces, and she owed much of her success in the community to the nights she spent in her presence. Her existence was like a puzzle yet unsolved; whom was she created for? Was it a child she was grieving? Perhaps it was a mother now gone, and this was their way of remembering her? There was no headstone beneath that suggested anything more than she was a mere decoration, but it didn’t stop her imagination from carrying itself away.
The stone bench seated across the gravel walkway became her perch, and the angle from which she created the fantastical macrocosm that graced the black and white pages; apocalyptic scenes with broken buildings, the suicide of a dejected lover, and the meeting of souls from the living and spirit; an intimacy that was destined never to cross the spaces and ended with their meeting after the passing years. It was these that gave her hope when the nights were lonely; even a soul could find devotion from another and escape the nightmares that surrounded them in a vortex of fear and pain.
That single portrait, that she’d devoted many a frostbitten hour to create, finished with her signature, and a pull from the universe. Her gaze lifted to the vegetation, expecting a police officer to chase her away with a tired wave of the hand and a look of disdain. It was a man, however, that stood in the passageway, prompting her to rise, and the air to disappear.
“Having your head in the clouds is going to get you killed one day”, her father had told her, while he’d stood in a similar fashion in her doorway until she’d noticed and nearly leapt out of her skin. For a wild moment she thought he’d been right, and she would eventually be set in the bushes to decompose, but those eyes, silver, bold, yet restrained, told a different story. His stance was nonchalant, curious, but giving her space. His nerves were jumpy, and she could sense his unwillingness to be there. Between them, the space became charged, and instinct told her to run, yet not away.
‘Go to him’, it called, and her body took an involuntary step forward.
‘Closer, he’s yours’.
The war inside him spilled into her own. It was a dance only they could step to, and both were rooted to their respective grounds. Several moments passed before the freeze lifted. She hurriedly packed up her bag and fled; out the open gate and, throwing caution to the winds, took off for home at a sprint. The winds pushed against her, urging her to return where she was needed, but fear outweighed fate. Only when she made it home did she collapse and ride the waves until the burning in her heart ceased.
‘It was an illusion’, she told herself countless times the next day, and she desperately wanted it to be true. It was impossible that someone could make you come alive with their presence and ache to be within their hold. As her mother said, ‘You’re being silly. There’s work to focus on, and a paycheck to bring home. Money is all you need to strive for’. It’s why they could never know her secret, or those funds would disappear into their black hole.
Another night of walking, thinking, silent raging, and she chose a new creation, an ivy-covered angel on a newly buried individual. The date of birth and death was that of a child, and she’d remembered reading in the paper of her death at the hands of a man that wanted her for pleasure. He’d taken his fun and ended her life to hide his crime. Her killer was still unknown. The raw hatred brought a desire for vengeance. If she saw this man on the street, whomever he may be, she wouldn’t hesitate. It would never bring the toddler back, but the family would be at peace. The prospect of murder was gratifying, yet terrifying in the same breath. The circumstances didn’t matter to a jury that was bound by law to exact punishment. She’d always held a fear of death, and her own was linked. A life behind bars she could endure, but the looming prospect of a death sentence sent ice through her veins, and she shrugged off the ire. Someone would turn him in, and justice would be carried out. Besides, men like him never lasted long in prison.
A scent caught on the winds, and she turned to find the source. The man again, attired in a black suit. He leaned against Mother as he watched, and the familiar ache renewed. This meeting was different, however. Earlier in the day her mother had accosted her outside of work and demanded the paycheck. A rough shove against the building reminded her of her place, and she gave it over without a glance. His aura had been in the vicinity. No doubt he watched it play out, and came to check in. Why, though?
Their following meeting finally yielded his name, simply put ‘Rem’. His gaze beckoned her to go to him, and she followed slowly. His own emotions left no room for argument. It was a ‘business deal’, as he called it. She needed money they couldn’t take, and he had room at his business for someone good with accounting. Humorous it was that his calling was a funeral home. Ironic given their location, but she nonetheless accepted. Perhaps the greater income would mean more for her savings? Then again, her mother would hound her for the pay when she returned home. No dice. Still, they’d be happy about this. More time out with their rich friends to expensive places, and they could afford their own cover for a change.
She met him the next day, and realization hit home. They were something called, “bonded”, or so he put it. There had been an argument during the night, and her mother had slapped her. An ice pack brought down the swelling, makeup covered the bruise, but still he turned head, as if he could see the damage. No remark was made, yet the feeling was strong enough. They could never be false with the other. If something went awry, it would always be known. No inquiry was made. She was given the uniform, shown to her office, and left to perform her duties. Home sweet home.
He came to her at lunch, offered a good meal at his expense, and drove to a five-star restaurant where they knew him by name. They feasted on snow crab legs, deviled eggs, and a little wine. It wasn’t a date, by any means. She was the new girl, and he was taking her out for her first day. Besides, it was office knowledge that he and the girl nicknamed, “Red”, were an item. Screwing each other, at the least. Bond or no, they belonged to themselves, though there was a mild pain with this discovery. He was everything she could have hoped for, but there were lines you didn’t cross. He was unwilling, and she returned to the office to finish the day.
The end of the first week saw her payday, and it was more than she’d imagined. He said it was only, “Half of your salary”. That she would, “Get the rest later”. Understanding came when she arrived home, and her mother held her hostage until she turned over the funds, *all* of them. They’d discovered her secret account and demanded its yield. Back to square one, or so she believed. He met her in her office, adjacent to his, and put a card in her hand.
“This is yours. As I promised”.
“I don’t see why you care”, she responded, though put the card in her wallet. “You’ve only been out for yourself. What does this do for you?”
He didn’t answer. Merely turned and walked back to his desk.
For weeks they played this game; meetings in the cemetery, texts after incidents with her parents, even a close call with food poisoning where he broke into her house and took her to the hospital. He followed up by taking her to his home and putting her into a guest room. That night, clarity came to his household, and it was terrifying.
Her eyes had focused on the eggshell wall, swathed in darkness, then she was waking up on a terracotta mountain, dressed in a gown of the purest black, and her feet bare on the stone. The sky was a void, no stars, or clouds to break the monotony, and in the world beyond lay a wasteland of gravel, boulders, and jagged peaks. It was an empty nothingness, with steep drop offs and bitter winds that cut the skin like broken glass. How did she get here? What was this place? Unforgiving, desolate, devoid of any plant life, and no signs of water. There was a smell in the air, sulfur, death, and blood? She took in her body, feeling a slick dampness that added to the chill. She wore a dress of the purest black, elbow length gloves of a matching color, but bare feet touching upon the earth. She’d never owned a set of clothes as fine as this. Curiosity was momentary as shock and fear rose to the surface. Stab wounds littered her chest, cuts on her upper arms, and a puncture to her neck. The lesions were fresh and gaping, smeared with dried blood. Had her illness been a dream, or was this the fever at play? How could it be when the environment affected her deeply?
Impulse told her to run, there had to be safety close by, but where? She wasn’t familiar with the territory, and the path ahead mirrored that behind her. The plane had no beginning or end. Even if she found refuge, how did she escape? Unlike Oblivion, there was no portal to step through, and if she leapt off the ledge, would she perish in truth?
“Rem?” Was he here as well? If this was a dream that she was trapped in, could she manipulate her body into calling out? He said he could feel her emotions and when underwent pain, could he sense her here?
“Rem!” Her cry echoed, and she had hope. If she called out enough, he’d come running. Relief was only fleeting. The utterance returned with force, reverberating around her in a vortex of sound so shrill that covering her ears did nothing to protect her. She was forced to her knees and curled in to hide. For ten minutes she was trapped in its hold, but once the pressure faded, she rose and sprinted into the darkness.
The pounding of her heart remained strangely absent, and save for her panicked state, her breathing never lessened. She was dead. This was purgatory. Rem would find her body and give her a proper burial. She was free from her parents, the likely killers, and their control, but there was a cost; she was trapped here forever.
A figure just ahead, a black silhouette that was sprinting her direction. The height and stance were average, it had to be another human, but what kind of person would they be? Murderers usually went straight to hell. If this was purgatory, they couldn’t be a horrible person, and if she was already dead, what harm could they do?
Raven hair, pale skin, and black clothing, with silver eyes framed in a serious face; it was Rem. Was he murdered as well? Did her parents find them together and finally make good on their threats? He was whole, though, skin as perfect as she remembered when he brought her to the car and held her against him. It was her one thought before she’d passed out in his arms.
In moments he’d closed the gap and embraced her. She began to fade, warmth pulling her from the darkness, and back to reality. Shadows of branches on the ceiling, swaying in the night’s breeze, and moonlight shining against the bed covers. Rem’s home. The guest room was just as she remembered it. He’d lifted her body to rest against him, and gentle fingers combed through her hair. It took a moment to acclimate and understand what had happened, but he made it clear.
“We’re home. It’s safe now”.
It wasn’t a dream, then. Purgatory had brought her into its midst, and he’d come to the rescue.
Later that night, as they lay together in a gentle embrace, she dreamed again, and she came to wonder if they weren’t simply visions of a better time to come, or had her contentment in that moment made her lust for comfort?
A fire in a red brick hearth, dark oak floors and walls, the makeup of a comfortable, yet sparse, living room. Beyond it was the kitchen, small, but with the comforts of home. The window showed a city beyond covered in snow, with smoke rising from the neighboring buildings. To the right a hallway stretched in a gentle darkness, then curved left out of sight. Halfway down was a white tiled bathroom. A flickering candle reflected the light and swayed, nearly hypnotic. She was fascinated and wanted to see the room at the end, but an invisible barrier kept her from progressing. Why was she here, and what secrets was she not allowed to witness?
Strong arms enveloped and Rem’s scent poured over like a hot bath. His earlier gesture was meant to console her terrified heart. This was intimate. He guided her back to his chest and lay his head over her shoulder. For some time, she’d noted that he’d been watching her, even attempting to court her in a gentlemanly fashion, but she’d spurned those advances and thought of leaving when she was shown proof of his dealings with the office receptionist. It had culminated in an argument, and she’d left for the rest of the day. Red had stared at her the other day, all the while tapping harshly on her keyboard. He must have been done with her, and the girl was furious. She’d told him to make a choice, for she would never agree to be the other woman in a party meant for two. Was this him coming to her to express regret?
Lips at her neck, he whispered a muffle apology and asked for forgiveness.
“I hadn’t thought of the situation as you described. I don’t want to rush this and end up hurting you”.
She’d heard rumors that after he’d broken someone’s heart, the girl ended up killing herself, and he’d had to perform her autopsy. He never made heartfelt connections, only sating his physical needs. If he was giving that up for her, then he was willing to break his own code to be with her. In essence, she was more important.
Her hand rested lightly atop his head, and she sighed in a mixture of relief and exhaustion. The whole matter had been wearing her down, and she’d been using her off hours to job search. Add her mother’s attempts to push her into a music career by scheduling time at a local studio, and she ran ragged from dawn to dusk. She hadn’t intended to scare him, or even force him to decide. There was a minor guilt about how it ended, but he seemed content with his choice.
“You won’t”, she whispered and turned to face him. “Because you’ve more than proven I matter to you”.
She hadn’t expected the kiss when it came, nor the events that followed. Their coupling solidified the strength of their connection, and each day that they worked on building trust, and a true relationship, she could see the fear in him relent. He was comfortable with her, and she could release herself from the box she tried to hide in.
Six months passed in a haze, and Spring came to the city. “The time of love”, it was called, and that much was true for them. They worked their jobs, kept her their families happy, not that his was an issue. She’d spent Christmas with them when her own abandoned her for Martha’s Vineyard, and she knew that fate had pulled her in the right direction. When they weren’t at his house or the coffee shop, it was the cemetery. It was her muse, and when she finally allowed love to conquer, her art took on a new form. They sold within the hour rather than the week, and her savings grew exponentially. Their talks turned to where she would be living, and as they sat together before the statue of the woman, he proposed an idea.
“Come live with me. My home has room for both of us, and it’s far enough away that they won’t come looking”. He’d agreed never to press charges for their abuse, but as they came together, he knew the time had come.
“And if they do?” When cutting off a diseased limb, infection could spread and claim you. As an undertaker, he’d seen this in many an autopsy. It was an uncomfortable truth they couldn’t avoid.
“Then we leave here and be done with it”. So simple, and she’d believed him. The plan was made for the following month, and they were careful to keep the details under wraps.
It was her own stupidity that brought it light.
She’d written a list of instructions and schemes to get away in the night. They’d found it by rummaging in her trash. A verbal argument ensued, and before she could run for the stairs, her mother took a knife and struck at her shoulder. One followed the other, her chest, arms, neck, and legs. Everywhere they could reach, the blows pummeled her once pristine form, and when the rage burned out, they left her to bleed out on her bedroom floor. She remembered panicking and trying to crawl to the door, but her Achilles tendons had been severed. She couldn’t roll or push her way to freedom. The light of the moon shone down through the partially open curtains, and she sent a prayer to Hekate, the goddess of moon and night, to keep her safe. Darkness enveloped. She woke to sirens of both police and medical. Many hands at once lifted and carried her out. She was floating. The lights of the ambulance became her last conscious sight before the end came on the winds.
Those same mountains she’d once traversed greeted her for a second time. The ice-cold winds pushed her down the paths, and she took slow steps on a passage that was endless. Time pressed on, and her spirits dimmed. She called out for Rem, prayed for release, even climbed the peaks to search for an escape, but her efforts were in vain. Death had claimed her for his own, and she was here until her fate was decided.
When she grew weary, she would rest in caves or under rock shelves. Hunger never touched home, and she spent her time in contemplation of him. Had he found someone new and been able to move on? Had he been able to make the funeral arrangements, and gone to court to ensure her parents were never released? Was he happy? She ached for him when she lay down to sleep and dreamed of their nights at his home. Overtime sadness became anger, and she wore that if ever she were freed from this cage, she would take her revenge for the years of suffering she’d endured.
Morning or night, she couldn’t recall, Alona crossed a peak and down the slope, another mountain in the scape, and was stalled by a warming wind. The scent of sandalwood and lilies blew on the breeze and wrapped her in a loving embrace. Down the path, a man stalked and kicked a rock from his path, dark hair, Armani suit, and eyes the color of the moon. She froze. Rem. How was he here? Suicide, or had the threats in the mail come to fruition? Impossible, yet not.
He'd stopped when that gaze swept her direction, and the silence seemed to stretch. A heartbeat, a breath, and he ran. Arms opened as he closed the gap, and heated lips pressed to her own. United, in every sense of the world, their worlds entwined again.
The truth came clean from both; where her parents had killed her, an uncle that had tried to oust him from the business had paid a visit and used a revolver to blow his brains against the office wall. They both wanted justice for the wrongs that had befallen them, and their combined strength forged a pathway that had previously been absent. A peak led straight to what looked like a ceiling, and they climbed. Cool dirt touched their fingertips above, and they used the momentum to continue the journey. Wet and cold, it was only minutes before they broke the surface, and took a breath in the world of the living.
Familiar streets greeted their return, snow falling. They wound their way through the city, and noted the subtle, but powerful changes. There were no homeless on the streets or trash cluttering the gutters. Abandoned buildings had been repurposed for use, and there was an ease in the atmosphere. Crime, however, was still rampant. Papers spoke of murders unsolved, and unspeakable atrocities committed to the innocent. Different, yet similar elements, and the world continued to turn.
An unseen pull guided their steps to a large building in the distance. Red brick exterior, art deco designs of white concrete, and beautifully kept lawns around. Inside, a simple lobby, no one on duty, but they weren’t finished yet. Up the stairs, polished, smelling of simpler times, to the fifth floor, and a sturdy door marked 513. No lock. They entered the small entranceway and stepped into living room. Dark oak floors and paneled walls, a kitchen off the back with a window, hallway to the right that curved left at the end, and a bathroom in the middle. The dream was now reality. It ended with a bedroom, decked in black, and a wall of windows that showed the city beyond. They held each other that night, and pondered their future, if they would be so lucky.
It was when they woke the next day that plans were made, and their promises in the hellscape would find a resolution. While they searched archives for their stories and addresses of the criminals, they made a separate vow. Crime would meet punishment, and due process would be the reward. Violence, it seemed, had brought change sweeping home. Their meeting in the snow had never been a coincidence. Destiny brought them together to be the other's shield, and every night they sat by the fire in the arms of the other, tampering the flames. They learned to keep the blood lust for the night and keep the days for themselves. Life, it seemed, could continue after death, and they were finally where they’d fought to be.
The ivy-covered angel, swathed in snow, had eroded due to time, but her family, still living one day after the next, was working to replace it. Her name, Lizabeta Evangeline Rietvald, shown bright on the marble headstone. Her killer, nameless and faceless to those that sought his capture, had recently been found, and she’d left a note on his pretty little sports car to meet her here. Where once she would have given the information, anonymously, to the detectives of the case, she knew that time had passed. That one December had forever altered her identity, and an Eidolon of Death and Creed stood now in her place.
As footsteps sounded on the pathway, she smiled and pulled the sword from its sheath, waiting now for the end.
Merry Christmas to those that had been waiting for this day and may flights of devils wing this bastard to his place in hell’s eternal fire.
“Live free in the beauty of the world”.
-The Eidolon Protector
December’s merriment added its own impression; light poles were wrapped with garland and tinsel, wreaths hung at every corner, and shops with store fronts displayed their own versions of Christmas, complete with tiny villages set on fake snow. There was an energy this time of year, made cheerful by the knowledge that a day of gift exchanges and family dinners was around the corner. People sang carols from the park gazebo, adorned with bells, red scarves, and Santa hats. Every evening they gathered and serenaded the masses that mingled among the vendors, who provided hot chocolate and cookies at reasonable prices. Those with children were able to leave them at the puppet show, then shop for last minute gifts in preparation for the day. The stories were always the same; Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and his saving of Christmas, Frosty the Snowman coming to life to spread cheer, and a rendition of how the Grinch stole Christmas, only to grow a heart at the end. It was a holiday lover’s dream.
Once the shops closed and the streets emptied, a beautiful hush fell over the square, and those that could brave the elements walked the city streets in search of safety. Perhaps a retailer forgot to lock the dumpster, a backyard shed door was left ajar, the hotel neglected to bar the back entrance, or the local churches were kind enough to let a poor patron spend the night on a pew to avoid the bitter elements. Often, these sanctuaries stayed open through the night to provide respite; a hot bowl of soup, a mug of cocoa, and a blanket to wrap up in while they rested in the warmth.
How times had changed.
Dark boots made dents in the newly fallen snow and the black, fleece lined cloak fluttered around her while she traversed those same walks, watching the weary congregation flock to the chapel. In her time, Alona could never remember a kirk that catered to people in need. Every door was bolted, lights off, and the faithful were at home in their beds. Donations were few and far between as the economy took a downturn, and the funds they managed to put away were then used on gifts and a dinner for visiting family. There came a point when people were so self-centered, serving, and seeking, that they cared more for being Tik Tok famous than using the platform for good deeds. It was scary to witness the slip society had taken, and the destination they were headed, a real-life purge. The homeless would be the first to go, as though they were issue. Formerly, she would happily have joined in, though adding a few more bodies to the pile. Following her life’s collapse, however, she counted herself among their numbers.
Blue eyes scanned the vicinity for signs of danger. Despite the metropolis altering during her absence, crime was ever present, and you needed to be watchful for attempts on your life. The harsh season made people desperate for what they didn’t have and would take something as small as a ring if it filled their empty wallets. She couldn’t blame them. Before her departure, her parents had taken everything her job paid, and she was left to sell her artwork in secret, spiriting the funds into a hidden account. It was enough to get her through until the dance started again. Her thoughts had only been for money, and it led to the greatest change her life had taken.
The cemetery had been her haven, for what normal person willingly visited without attending a funeral? Some went to remember, others in observance of the holidays, but most stayed away. Legends of hauntings and demon activity were splattered across virtual pages, and they weren’t willing to risk their safety for internet views. The architecture was stunning; the entrance was a double, wrought iron gate, six feet in height, and beautifully welded with fleur-de-lis. They opened into a tunnel of trees that rounded into an arch above. A doorway to the right led to five rotund burial places, spread throughout the rectangle grounds. Separating each were smaller foliage alcoves, and towering evergreen shrubs. Each contained memorial plaques, statues, and gas lit lamp posts that rivaled the Pere Lachaise in France. At the end of the globed burrow was an open field, situated on vast acreage, and where most of the burials occurred. The barren trees stood mournfully, waiting for their chance to blossom once again.
Every night after work in the cafe, Alona would wind her way to the hell hole that was her parent’s home and change from the standard barista uniform into her gothic attire. When the weather permitted, she sported comfortable, yet stand out dresses, or simple skirts with long sleeved shirts. At the change, leggings and heavier cloaks became a must. With her art bag on her shoulder, she traversed the roadways, bypassing the glaring eyes, until she reached the familiar. There, she’d walk the pathways, taking time to unwind from the dreaded day, and shedding the stresses of home like rainwater off feathers. Always, she’d cycle back to the center, and the statue of a weeping woman in a mourning shroud that greeted her like a lost mother. She had been the subject of her earlier pieces, and she owed much of her success in the community to the nights she spent in her presence. Her existence was like a puzzle yet unsolved; whom was she created for? Was it a child she was grieving? Perhaps it was a mother now gone, and this was their way of remembering her? There was no headstone beneath that suggested anything more than she was a mere decoration, but it didn’t stop her imagination from carrying itself away.
The stone bench seated across the gravel walkway became her perch, and the angle from which she created the fantastical macrocosm that graced the black and white pages; apocalyptic scenes with broken buildings, the suicide of a dejected lover, and the meeting of souls from the living and spirit; an intimacy that was destined never to cross the spaces and ended with their meeting after the passing years. It was these that gave her hope when the nights were lonely; even a soul could find devotion from another and escape the nightmares that surrounded them in a vortex of fear and pain.
That single portrait, that she’d devoted many a frostbitten hour to create, finished with her signature, and a pull from the universe. Her gaze lifted to the vegetation, expecting a police officer to chase her away with a tired wave of the hand and a look of disdain. It was a man, however, that stood in the passageway, prompting her to rise, and the air to disappear.
“Having your head in the clouds is going to get you killed one day”, her father had told her, while he’d stood in a similar fashion in her doorway until she’d noticed and nearly leapt out of her skin. For a wild moment she thought he’d been right, and she would eventually be set in the bushes to decompose, but those eyes, silver, bold, yet restrained, told a different story. His stance was nonchalant, curious, but giving her space. His nerves were jumpy, and she could sense his unwillingness to be there. Between them, the space became charged, and instinct told her to run, yet not away.
‘Go to him’, it called, and her body took an involuntary step forward.
‘Closer, he’s yours’.
The war inside him spilled into her own. It was a dance only they could step to, and both were rooted to their respective grounds. Several moments passed before the freeze lifted. She hurriedly packed up her bag and fled; out the open gate and, throwing caution to the winds, took off for home at a sprint. The winds pushed against her, urging her to return where she was needed, but fear outweighed fate. Only when she made it home did she collapse and ride the waves until the burning in her heart ceased.
‘It was an illusion’, she told herself countless times the next day, and she desperately wanted it to be true. It was impossible that someone could make you come alive with their presence and ache to be within their hold. As her mother said, ‘You’re being silly. There’s work to focus on, and a paycheck to bring home. Money is all you need to strive for’. It’s why they could never know her secret, or those funds would disappear into their black hole.
Another night of walking, thinking, silent raging, and she chose a new creation, an ivy-covered angel on a newly buried individual. The date of birth and death was that of a child, and she’d remembered reading in the paper of her death at the hands of a man that wanted her for pleasure. He’d taken his fun and ended her life to hide his crime. Her killer was still unknown. The raw hatred brought a desire for vengeance. If she saw this man on the street, whomever he may be, she wouldn’t hesitate. It would never bring the toddler back, but the family would be at peace. The prospect of murder was gratifying, yet terrifying in the same breath. The circumstances didn’t matter to a jury that was bound by law to exact punishment. She’d always held a fear of death, and her own was linked. A life behind bars she could endure, but the looming prospect of a death sentence sent ice through her veins, and she shrugged off the ire. Someone would turn him in, and justice would be carried out. Besides, men like him never lasted long in prison.
A scent caught on the winds, and she turned to find the source. The man again, attired in a black suit. He leaned against Mother as he watched, and the familiar ache renewed. This meeting was different, however. Earlier in the day her mother had accosted her outside of work and demanded the paycheck. A rough shove against the building reminded her of her place, and she gave it over without a glance. His aura had been in the vicinity. No doubt he watched it play out, and came to check in. Why, though?
Their following meeting finally yielded his name, simply put ‘Rem’. His gaze beckoned her to go to him, and she followed slowly. His own emotions left no room for argument. It was a ‘business deal’, as he called it. She needed money they couldn’t take, and he had room at his business for someone good with accounting. Humorous it was that his calling was a funeral home. Ironic given their location, but she nonetheless accepted. Perhaps the greater income would mean more for her savings? Then again, her mother would hound her for the pay when she returned home. No dice. Still, they’d be happy about this. More time out with their rich friends to expensive places, and they could afford their own cover for a change.
She met him the next day, and realization hit home. They were something called, “bonded”, or so he put it. There had been an argument during the night, and her mother had slapped her. An ice pack brought down the swelling, makeup covered the bruise, but still he turned head, as if he could see the damage. No remark was made, yet the feeling was strong enough. They could never be false with the other. If something went awry, it would always be known. No inquiry was made. She was given the uniform, shown to her office, and left to perform her duties. Home sweet home.
He came to her at lunch, offered a good meal at his expense, and drove to a five-star restaurant where they knew him by name. They feasted on snow crab legs, deviled eggs, and a little wine. It wasn’t a date, by any means. She was the new girl, and he was taking her out for her first day. Besides, it was office knowledge that he and the girl nicknamed, “Red”, were an item. Screwing each other, at the least. Bond or no, they belonged to themselves, though there was a mild pain with this discovery. He was everything she could have hoped for, but there were lines you didn’t cross. He was unwilling, and she returned to the office to finish the day.
The end of the first week saw her payday, and it was more than she’d imagined. He said it was only, “Half of your salary”. That she would, “Get the rest later”. Understanding came when she arrived home, and her mother held her hostage until she turned over the funds, *all* of them. They’d discovered her secret account and demanded its yield. Back to square one, or so she believed. He met her in her office, adjacent to his, and put a card in her hand.
“This is yours. As I promised”.
“I don’t see why you care”, she responded, though put the card in her wallet. “You’ve only been out for yourself. What does this do for you?”
He didn’t answer. Merely turned and walked back to his desk.
For weeks they played this game; meetings in the cemetery, texts after incidents with her parents, even a close call with food poisoning where he broke into her house and took her to the hospital. He followed up by taking her to his home and putting her into a guest room. That night, clarity came to his household, and it was terrifying.
Her eyes had focused on the eggshell wall, swathed in darkness, then she was waking up on a terracotta mountain, dressed in a gown of the purest black, and her feet bare on the stone. The sky was a void, no stars, or clouds to break the monotony, and in the world beyond lay a wasteland of gravel, boulders, and jagged peaks. It was an empty nothingness, with steep drop offs and bitter winds that cut the skin like broken glass. How did she get here? What was this place? Unforgiving, desolate, devoid of any plant life, and no signs of water. There was a smell in the air, sulfur, death, and blood? She took in her body, feeling a slick dampness that added to the chill. She wore a dress of the purest black, elbow length gloves of a matching color, but bare feet touching upon the earth. She’d never owned a set of clothes as fine as this. Curiosity was momentary as shock and fear rose to the surface. Stab wounds littered her chest, cuts on her upper arms, and a puncture to her neck. The lesions were fresh and gaping, smeared with dried blood. Had her illness been a dream, or was this the fever at play? How could it be when the environment affected her deeply?
Impulse told her to run, there had to be safety close by, but where? She wasn’t familiar with the territory, and the path ahead mirrored that behind her. The plane had no beginning or end. Even if she found refuge, how did she escape? Unlike Oblivion, there was no portal to step through, and if she leapt off the ledge, would she perish in truth?
“Rem?” Was he here as well? If this was a dream that she was trapped in, could she manipulate her body into calling out? He said he could feel her emotions and when underwent pain, could he sense her here?
“Rem!” Her cry echoed, and she had hope. If she called out enough, he’d come running. Relief was only fleeting. The utterance returned with force, reverberating around her in a vortex of sound so shrill that covering her ears did nothing to protect her. She was forced to her knees and curled in to hide. For ten minutes she was trapped in its hold, but once the pressure faded, she rose and sprinted into the darkness.
The pounding of her heart remained strangely absent, and save for her panicked state, her breathing never lessened. She was dead. This was purgatory. Rem would find her body and give her a proper burial. She was free from her parents, the likely killers, and their control, but there was a cost; she was trapped here forever.
A figure just ahead, a black silhouette that was sprinting her direction. The height and stance were average, it had to be another human, but what kind of person would they be? Murderers usually went straight to hell. If this was purgatory, they couldn’t be a horrible person, and if she was already dead, what harm could they do?
Raven hair, pale skin, and black clothing, with silver eyes framed in a serious face; it was Rem. Was he murdered as well? Did her parents find them together and finally make good on their threats? He was whole, though, skin as perfect as she remembered when he brought her to the car and held her against him. It was her one thought before she’d passed out in his arms.
In moments he’d closed the gap and embraced her. She began to fade, warmth pulling her from the darkness, and back to reality. Shadows of branches on the ceiling, swaying in the night’s breeze, and moonlight shining against the bed covers. Rem’s home. The guest room was just as she remembered it. He’d lifted her body to rest against him, and gentle fingers combed through her hair. It took a moment to acclimate and understand what had happened, but he made it clear.
“We’re home. It’s safe now”.
It wasn’t a dream, then. Purgatory had brought her into its midst, and he’d come to the rescue.
Later that night, as they lay together in a gentle embrace, she dreamed again, and she came to wonder if they weren’t simply visions of a better time to come, or had her contentment in that moment made her lust for comfort?
A fire in a red brick hearth, dark oak floors and walls, the makeup of a comfortable, yet sparse, living room. Beyond it was the kitchen, small, but with the comforts of home. The window showed a city beyond covered in snow, with smoke rising from the neighboring buildings. To the right a hallway stretched in a gentle darkness, then curved left out of sight. Halfway down was a white tiled bathroom. A flickering candle reflected the light and swayed, nearly hypnotic. She was fascinated and wanted to see the room at the end, but an invisible barrier kept her from progressing. Why was she here, and what secrets was she not allowed to witness?
Strong arms enveloped and Rem’s scent poured over like a hot bath. His earlier gesture was meant to console her terrified heart. This was intimate. He guided her back to his chest and lay his head over her shoulder. For some time, she’d noted that he’d been watching her, even attempting to court her in a gentlemanly fashion, but she’d spurned those advances and thought of leaving when she was shown proof of his dealings with the office receptionist. It had culminated in an argument, and she’d left for the rest of the day. Red had stared at her the other day, all the while tapping harshly on her keyboard. He must have been done with her, and the girl was furious. She’d told him to make a choice, for she would never agree to be the other woman in a party meant for two. Was this him coming to her to express regret?
Lips at her neck, he whispered a muffle apology and asked for forgiveness.
“I hadn’t thought of the situation as you described. I don’t want to rush this and end up hurting you”.
She’d heard rumors that after he’d broken someone’s heart, the girl ended up killing herself, and he’d had to perform her autopsy. He never made heartfelt connections, only sating his physical needs. If he was giving that up for her, then he was willing to break his own code to be with her. In essence, she was more important.
Her hand rested lightly atop his head, and she sighed in a mixture of relief and exhaustion. The whole matter had been wearing her down, and she’d been using her off hours to job search. Add her mother’s attempts to push her into a music career by scheduling time at a local studio, and she ran ragged from dawn to dusk. She hadn’t intended to scare him, or even force him to decide. There was a minor guilt about how it ended, but he seemed content with his choice.
“You won’t”, she whispered and turned to face him. “Because you’ve more than proven I matter to you”.
She hadn’t expected the kiss when it came, nor the events that followed. Their coupling solidified the strength of their connection, and each day that they worked on building trust, and a true relationship, she could see the fear in him relent. He was comfortable with her, and she could release herself from the box she tried to hide in.
Six months passed in a haze, and Spring came to the city. “The time of love”, it was called, and that much was true for them. They worked their jobs, kept her their families happy, not that his was an issue. She’d spent Christmas with them when her own abandoned her for Martha’s Vineyard, and she knew that fate had pulled her in the right direction. When they weren’t at his house or the coffee shop, it was the cemetery. It was her muse, and when she finally allowed love to conquer, her art took on a new form. They sold within the hour rather than the week, and her savings grew exponentially. Their talks turned to where she would be living, and as they sat together before the statue of the woman, he proposed an idea.
“Come live with me. My home has room for both of us, and it’s far enough away that they won’t come looking”. He’d agreed never to press charges for their abuse, but as they came together, he knew the time had come.
“And if they do?” When cutting off a diseased limb, infection could spread and claim you. As an undertaker, he’d seen this in many an autopsy. It was an uncomfortable truth they couldn’t avoid.
“Then we leave here and be done with it”. So simple, and she’d believed him. The plan was made for the following month, and they were careful to keep the details under wraps.
It was her own stupidity that brought it light.
She’d written a list of instructions and schemes to get away in the night. They’d found it by rummaging in her trash. A verbal argument ensued, and before she could run for the stairs, her mother took a knife and struck at her shoulder. One followed the other, her chest, arms, neck, and legs. Everywhere they could reach, the blows pummeled her once pristine form, and when the rage burned out, they left her to bleed out on her bedroom floor. She remembered panicking and trying to crawl to the door, but her Achilles tendons had been severed. She couldn’t roll or push her way to freedom. The light of the moon shone down through the partially open curtains, and she sent a prayer to Hekate, the goddess of moon and night, to keep her safe. Darkness enveloped. She woke to sirens of both police and medical. Many hands at once lifted and carried her out. She was floating. The lights of the ambulance became her last conscious sight before the end came on the winds.
Those same mountains she’d once traversed greeted her for a second time. The ice-cold winds pushed her down the paths, and she took slow steps on a passage that was endless. Time pressed on, and her spirits dimmed. She called out for Rem, prayed for release, even climbed the peaks to search for an escape, but her efforts were in vain. Death had claimed her for his own, and she was here until her fate was decided.
When she grew weary, she would rest in caves or under rock shelves. Hunger never touched home, and she spent her time in contemplation of him. Had he found someone new and been able to move on? Had he been able to make the funeral arrangements, and gone to court to ensure her parents were never released? Was he happy? She ached for him when she lay down to sleep and dreamed of their nights at his home. Overtime sadness became anger, and she wore that if ever she were freed from this cage, she would take her revenge for the years of suffering she’d endured.
Morning or night, she couldn’t recall, Alona crossed a peak and down the slope, another mountain in the scape, and was stalled by a warming wind. The scent of sandalwood and lilies blew on the breeze and wrapped her in a loving embrace. Down the path, a man stalked and kicked a rock from his path, dark hair, Armani suit, and eyes the color of the moon. She froze. Rem. How was he here? Suicide, or had the threats in the mail come to fruition? Impossible, yet not.
He'd stopped when that gaze swept her direction, and the silence seemed to stretch. A heartbeat, a breath, and he ran. Arms opened as he closed the gap, and heated lips pressed to her own. United, in every sense of the world, their worlds entwined again.
The truth came clean from both; where her parents had killed her, an uncle that had tried to oust him from the business had paid a visit and used a revolver to blow his brains against the office wall. They both wanted justice for the wrongs that had befallen them, and their combined strength forged a pathway that had previously been absent. A peak led straight to what looked like a ceiling, and they climbed. Cool dirt touched their fingertips above, and they used the momentum to continue the journey. Wet and cold, it was only minutes before they broke the surface, and took a breath in the world of the living.
Familiar streets greeted their return, snow falling. They wound their way through the city, and noted the subtle, but powerful changes. There were no homeless on the streets or trash cluttering the gutters. Abandoned buildings had been repurposed for use, and there was an ease in the atmosphere. Crime, however, was still rampant. Papers spoke of murders unsolved, and unspeakable atrocities committed to the innocent. Different, yet similar elements, and the world continued to turn.
An unseen pull guided their steps to a large building in the distance. Red brick exterior, art deco designs of white concrete, and beautifully kept lawns around. Inside, a simple lobby, no one on duty, but they weren’t finished yet. Up the stairs, polished, smelling of simpler times, to the fifth floor, and a sturdy door marked 513. No lock. They entered the small entranceway and stepped into living room. Dark oak floors and paneled walls, a kitchen off the back with a window, hallway to the right that curved left at the end, and a bathroom in the middle. The dream was now reality. It ended with a bedroom, decked in black, and a wall of windows that showed the city beyond. They held each other that night, and pondered their future, if they would be so lucky.
It was when they woke the next day that plans were made, and their promises in the hellscape would find a resolution. While they searched archives for their stories and addresses of the criminals, they made a separate vow. Crime would meet punishment, and due process would be the reward. Violence, it seemed, had brought change sweeping home. Their meeting in the snow had never been a coincidence. Destiny brought them together to be the other's shield, and every night they sat by the fire in the arms of the other, tampering the flames. They learned to keep the blood lust for the night and keep the days for themselves. Life, it seemed, could continue after death, and they were finally where they’d fought to be.
The ivy-covered angel, swathed in snow, had eroded due to time, but her family, still living one day after the next, was working to replace it. Her name, Lizabeta Evangeline Rietvald, shown bright on the marble headstone. Her killer, nameless and faceless to those that sought his capture, had recently been found, and she’d left a note on his pretty little sports car to meet her here. Where once she would have given the information, anonymously, to the detectives of the case, she knew that time had passed. That one December had forever altered her identity, and an Eidolon of Death and Creed stood now in her place.
As footsteps sounded on the pathway, she smiled and pulled the sword from its sheath, waiting now for the end.
Merry Christmas to those that had been waiting for this day and may flights of devils wing this bastard to his place in hell’s eternal fire.
“Live free in the beauty of the world”.
-The Eidolon Protector
It plummeted.
Whistling through the air, spinning slowly as the wind batted it back and forth into a clockwise roll. Where it had come from was unimportant. Its destination lay before it, rapidly approaching as it fell through the clouds with all speed.
Far below, the fields of Gossenland spread across the land like a flood. Wheat and cotton and breen grain was ripe for picking. Peasants tilled the fields and picked them clean for harvest as lords oversaw their progress. But not all serfs worked the fields. Some scraped from a living off the rocks, finding flowers or loose sediment and salt to give to the local manorial tithe. Gaul was such a man, and on this day, he crawled amid the wild brush and crags, bending down and moving roots and kicking aside stones.
Where the Gossenland fields ended, the stout Daggerfork Mountains began, wheat fields shoving against the stony slopes like crashing waves. Gaul had lived here for ten years, having been released from his service to his old manor-lord in a trade, being leased to the local lord of Hrufken in exchange for an old mare, with Gaul's consent and writ. He lived a hard life in the small mining town, but he preferred it here. The man had found love, wedding a local girl named Mary. Together they made a home and had a daughter they named Trinity in honor of the triarchy of Gods that watched over their kingdom and had blessed Gaul's home with warmth.
The toil had reduced his fingernails to naught but stubs, dirtying his face and giving him the smell of soil. But it was honest work. He knocked aside a fallen branch with his staff, peering through the jumble of leaves to see if they hid any slate or travertine for the miners to dig at. Instead, the limb revealed a viper. Gaul blanched and stepped back, but the creature hissed, coiled like a spring. As Gaul stepped back, he tripped on what must have been a stone and hit the ground, the snake's hiss loud in his ears. His skin felt clammy as he anticipated the bite that would freeze his blood and kill him in moments, until something strange happened.
Gaul flinched when a flash cut through his vision; a glint of the sun on something smooth. He heard a queer noise, like a knife running along the edge of another, and he gasped when he beheld what stood before him. A sword, glimmering in the sunlight. Its blade, polished like a mirror and made of glass or a deep, scarlet crystal, had sliced through not only the snake, but the stone! It stood aloft, cobalt iron hilt absorbing the light like a pit of endless nothingness. He looked to his left and right, and then upwards.
"Hello!?" He cried, wondering who threw such a dangerous thing. No answer came, and he wondered where it had come from. Silent moments passed, but eventually he realized he would get no answers. Rather, he got to his feet and brushed the leaves and dirt from him, regarding the weapon and the bisected snake. He knelt down and gingerly picked up the front half of the serpent, knowing its venom would fetch a fine price with the apothecary. But the sword? He did not know what material it was truly made of, but it looked very expensive. He did not own a sword, but as there were wolves and cave-beasts in the region, he knew he needed something to protect his family.
Gingerly he reached forward and grasped the hilt of the sword. It felt somehow familiar, comfortable, and yet somehow deathly cold. He pulled at it, wondering if the action would break the blade. To his surprise, it slid out of the rock like a sheath. The blade was razor sharp, so sharp he wondered if it could pierce the veil between worlds.
He simply had to show Mary.
Gaul opened the door, careful to keep his hands from the keen edge of the blade. As he heard the raised voice of his daughter, he kicked the door closed and called out.
"Mary! I've got something!"
"Hmmm?" Came the reply. Her voice was like honey to his ears, as if the last seven years had been only a week. Walking through the hall, he stepped into the dining room. The fact they even had one was a miracle. The house had belonged to the alderman until he was given quarters in the local lord's estate, and Gaul had bought it cheaply, though he had a few debts to pay even to this day.
Mary busied herself, placing plates down for later that night, shimmying between the chairs and a cabinet. She had long brown hair, tied at its end, with a smile that could warm the coldest heart.
"You're back early," she commented.
"Look what I found," Gaul said, presenting the sword in front of her. His wife's eyes glanced his way, and then they locked onto him and the blade. Her jaw dropped.
"Where did you get that?" She asked incredulously.
"I found it in the brush. Don't look at me like that, I looked for the owner. There was no one out there but me, it... it fell."
"Fell?" She asked, blinking.
"Maybe from the tree, I don't know. But just look at it. It's gorgeous. How do you think it would look on the wall?"
"The wall? Gaul, you need to sell that thing. We need money, not a sword." She reminded him with a shake of her head, though a smile was still on her face. Gaul sighed and hesitated. He knew she was right, but still. It pained him to part with the thing.
"I don't know, finding a sword? Made me feel like I was one of those men in the tales. But you're right, of course. I'll grab a bite and head to town. I love you."
They shared a quick kiss, and she placed a tender hand on his cheek.
"And I you."
Hrufken was technically the entire area, ranging miles around. But the town itself was located at the center; a crossroads between the outer fields of the Gossenland estates and the mining camps up on the foothills and crags of the mountain base.
Gaul walked along the dirt road, tradesmen, fishwives, and day laborers passed him by. He kept a good grip on the sword, now swathed in cloth to hide its shiny and ornate appearance. Not to mention it was illegal to be armed inside the town save for men-at-arms and those of noble blood.
He didn't know where he would take the thing. Perhaps the smith, or a traveling merchant selling exotic goods. He wished he could take the weapon to Grimaffen and get a fair price for it. Gaul didn't want to go back and argue with Mary, however. He clutched the sword tighter, sad to see it go.
Caught in his contemplation, he didn't notice the clear threat walking through the crowd. Suddenly Gaul felt a shove and a snicker, the man stumbling back and catching himself roughly on the side of a cart.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there." The scoundrel said, Gaul recognized him as Adrian.
Gaul didn't speak. He simply continued to move up the road, before three men barred his way. They were big men, one in particular. Gaul stepped back, only for the sword to get ripped out of his hands from behind. He cried out, but Adrian yanked it away and opened the cloth.
"What do you have here, Gaul?" He asked before his breath was taken away. Adrian whistled, shaking his head in awe. "Where did a deadbeat like you find this?"
"I'm...I'm bringing it to Harmen, to square my debt." He lied, though perhaps it was best if the sword went there. He didn't want his wife to know he had borrowed from a local cartel to pay for their home.
"Smart man," Adrian admitted, admiring the blade. "This might be a good payment. Why don't I take it off your hands and see what Harmen says, yeah?"
"I want to give it to him, myself. Good faith, you know." Gaul reasoned, holding his hand out. Adrian didn't hand it over, rather he shook his head and clutched the blade himself. Fortunately, before he could protest, he yelped and dropped the sword. Blood dripped from his palm into the road, courtesy from gripping the naked steel.
Gaul went for the sword as Adrian did, Gaul grabbing its blade while Adrian took the hilt. Gaul felt the bite of the blade, but he kicked the leg of the footpad and yanked it out of his bleeding hand.
"Get the sword!" Adrian called, and the street toughs took out cudgels and knives, advancing on him. The crowd that noticed parted, but most didn't, too preoccupied with their own errands. Gaul could not look at all four at once, and when his head swiveled to the other three, Adrian drew his own long knife. Gaul stepped back, looking for a way to run, but he stepped in line for the thrust Adrian launched with a deftness born of practice. The other three closed in as well.
Gaul twisted and cried out, and his blade flashed like the glare of the sun. Crimson and brown and screams followed. Blood curdling screams that rent the air like a scythe through wheat. Gaul didn't recall what happened, really. But when he came to his senses, he noticed a small boy looking at him from across the road. A woman grabbed the boy and moved him along, her eyes wide with fear. Other eyes watched him, and the calls of the marketplace were replaced by hushed whispers of fear and awe. Gaul looked down slowly, and saw Adrian and his men. Some parts of them were at his feet, and others were strides away.
Gaul felt bile rise up in his throat. He didn't know what to do, and he couldn't even find the cloth he had brought to clean the blade. Instead, he had only one option.
He ran.
Gaul had never been so scared in his life. He felt exhilaration, but it was mixed with horror. How had that happened? He remembered none of it, he... he had never used a sword in his life. He let the miles under his feet pass under him as he ran, going home. He knew of nowhere else to go. It was likely going to be a justified defense of his life, but he should not have had a sword. And even so, Harmen would bribe the magistrate and make sure Gaul's home was taken before the winter. Yet somehow, he didn't feel crushing anxiety about the future. He just felt adrenaline.
He rounded the corner of the road, passing by a mule-led cart loaded with ore and ran up to his door. As he reached for the handle, he noticed a bright gold sigil glinting in the light of the day, going northward up the road. He recognized it, but didn't quite comprehend its significance. He walked into the house, calling for his wife.
"Mary!"
No answer. Gaul walked past their empty room and passed by Trinity who played with two wooden toys on the floor Gaul had carved himself. He went to speak to her, but up ahead he heard soft weeping. He stepped into the kitchen and found Mary wiping tears from her eyes on the floor, lifting her head off her legs.
"Mary, what's the matter?" Gaul asked, kneeling down and placing a comforting hand on her. She looked at him in confusion.
"Honey...No, what? Why do you have that sword still?" She asked breathlessly.
He hesitated. "...There was a problem in town..."
"You need to sell it, Gaul. The tax collector he...he just came by. He took double what we were meant to pay. Said its interest for the lord. Some new law, I don't.... Gaul, we have nothing." Mary looked distraught, shaking her head. It was physically painful to see her so lost.
"I'll go see the meaning of this," He told her softly. "And I have a few things to sell to the apothecary. Don't worry, things will be different. Things will change. Why don't you get dinner ready, ok? Keep yourself busy."
When she nodded, he helped her up and, gripping the sword in one hand, stalked out the door. As he moved, he heard Trinity marveling at the sword as he passed her room. He hadn't even noticed there was no longer blood on the crystalline blade, and could not wonder where it had gone.
Gaul made his way up the road, passing by another three homes before reaching the tax collector a few dozen strides from the crossroads leading to the mines. The gold sigil shined proudly, and when he called, the collector turned. He was a weaselly man, with a thin mustache and a sharp nose. His eyes were heavily lidded, and they did not make him seem the agreeable type. They widened when he saw an armed man waving him to stop.
"What is the meaning of this new law!?" Gaul called out to him.
From under his robes, the tax collector produced a loaded hand-crossbow. Gaul skidded to a halt just a few strides from him, holding a hand up to stay the man's ire. He wondered why he had felt so threatened, and then glanced down at his left hand holding the sword. Why had he even brought it?
"Do not halt me in my duties, serf. Go back to your home and be happy I did not take that as well." He sneered, looking down at Gaul passed his piercing nose. "The lord wages war, and sometimes he is in need of more coin to protect this realm. Are you questioning our liege?"
"We should have been warned," Gaul replied gruffly, taking a step forward. "We need to feed ourselves and prepare for winter. We have heard no missives of this."
"If you had properly prepared, you would not be in such wanting as to threaten me."
"I am not threatening you," Gaul said evenly, taking another step. "Even so, I wish for an extension. Take the normal tax and we will double it in a month." His tone was even, but the tax collector's eyes were on his feet.
"No! And do not take another step or I will end your life. No leave me!" He warned, showing rat-like teeth.
Gaul nodded, knowing that to challenge a gang was one thing. The lord or his representative was an entirely different matter. The iron bolt was aimed just at his heart, and if he died here, who would take care of Mary or Trinity? He thought of them, of his wife weeping. He would go to her empty handed all because of this wretch. Gaul looked down, and wondered why he stood frozen, and the words of the tax collector were coming back to him.
"Leave and begone!" The weaselly man ordered. The words fell heavily from his mouth, as if an unseen force had kept them from carrying across the air. Gaul looked at him, anger in his eyes. The money this man had. Stolen money.
Gaul was caught in a whirlwind of emotion, and he knew what he should do. But all of his ire broke through, and he took another step forward despite his judgement.
The crossbow clicked, and the bolt flew straight and true. Gaul pulled at his sword, and there was a loud clang that rang in the air like a gong. The two men looked aghast, the crossbow bolt bouncing harmlessly off the flat of the sword blade. Somehow it had intercepted the missile. An impossible block.
Gaul's eyes were wide with shock, and the tax collector, as flabbergasted as he was, moved first. Hastily he began reloading his crossbow, placing his foot in the front pedal to help pull the string back. Unfortunately for him, his movement caught the attention of Gaul, stirring him from his shock as well. Gaul knew he couldn't let the man reload.
He took another step forward... and another.
Then he raised his new sword.
Mary hummed to herself, rolling the flour with her trusty rolling pin, flattening it across the table. She had lost herself in her cooking, the worries not leaving her entirely, and those that did ebbing out slowly. Still, she felt better. Gaul was a dunce sometimes, but he was a good man and more capable than many gave him credit for. He would get them through the winter, and she smiled at the thought. Despite it all, she was a lucky woman.
"Mommy, when's dinner ready?" Trinity called from the hall.
"Soon, sweetheart. Daddy will be back in a moment and then once I'm done cooking, we'll eat." She said warmly.
"Daddy's already back," came the reply. Mary blinked and looked up, and she saw Gaul stepping into the kitchen with the sword and a sack in his hands. He looked tired and worn, his face wizened but not far different at first glance. There was an odd glint in his eyes. He looked pleased, at least. She tilted her head, confused at his sudden appearance.
"You got our money back?" She asked, surprised.
"And a bit more," Gaul said happily, placing the sack down on the table. It was far larger than the one that had been taken from their stash. She lifted it up, and it was heavy indeed. She shook her head, laughing in disbelief.
"Wait, where did you get this? The tax man would not have given you this. You didn't promise the house, did you?"
"No," Gaul chuckled, watching his wife gazing at the coin in awe. Her eyes flicked to him as he continued speaking. "Today has been one weird day, but I'm getting happier as it goes by. I think everything will turn out all right."
"Is this blood?" She asked, noticing a stain on the purse. Gaul told her 'no,' and her eyes flickered up to him, confusion on her face. She reached forward and gently tugged at his collar, running her thumb along it. When she pulled it back, a red streak was on her fair skin. Her lips moved, but no noise came out for a few brief moments. "Gaul, what happened today?" She asked slowly.
"I had to uh, defend myself in town." He reluctantly admitted. "Adrian and his guys tried to take the sword from me. There are witnesses..."
"And the tax man? You did speak to him, right?" She asked cautiously, letting his careful wording sink in. She saw his trepidation, and there was silence for many moments.
"...At first."
Her eyes darted to the sword, the blade as clean and crisp as ever. For the first time did she really look at it, at its pommel and hilt. Something about it seemed baroque and wicked, and terribly old. The blade itself had strange, hooked waves at the weak and the strong of the blade. Had they always been there? She tried to control her breathing.
"Well, what matters is that you're home safe and sound," She said with a smile. "Why don't you put the sword down and I'll cook you something nice? You've earned it after a hard day."
He seemed relieved at that, but looked at the sword. He blinked slowly. "Put it down?" He asked.
"You can't eat with one hand. You going to use it as a fork?" She chuckled.
He chuckled back, shaking his head as if to ward off some fog. "You're right. I'm...I'm just tired. I ran a lot today, you know? So many weird things happening all day. I knew I needed a change, but I wasn't expecting so many occurrences." Gaul turned and walked over to the wall, gingerly leaning the sword against the wall, blade down and hilt by a cabinet hanging a stride above the floor that held various dishes.
"I love you," he heard Mary say, and the creaking of floorboards as she approached him, doubtless for a kiss.
"I love.." He began, and glanced at the glass that held the extra plates. He saw his wife's form, holding aloft the rolling pin just behind him.
Gaul lurched to the side, the rolling pin hitting him on the shoulder rather than the head. His hand moved and he whirled, Mary and his eyes meeting just a step from one another. Her eyes, so blue like the sea, were wide with horror. Then they moved. Not from side to side, but fell with from his level along with her head. His wife's decapitated body hit the floor with it, and it was only then that he saw the sword in his hand.
Gaul was, once again, frozen. Not out of caution, but pain, fried, and loss. Confusion and lament welled up in him, and his eyes wet for a moment as he realized what he had done. Despair took him, and his pain was replaced by a hollow feeling he couldn't fill with anything he had left.
Save the sword.
He gripped it tighter and turned, looking in the glass once more. He saw a new face there. One that looked scarred, with red and black streaks across it. Small, blunt horns had burst from his scalp, and he ran his tongue over newly sharpened teeth. Glancing down at the sword, he noticed it looked different. Sleeker, with a longer hilt and a shorter crossguard. At the butt of its hilt, another blade was even then slowly protruding out of it to mirror the first blade.
"Mommy, is dinner ready yet?" a small girl's voice asked from her room.
Gaul, or the being that was once Gaul, left the kitchen with his sword, and followed the voice.
by @POOHEAD189
Whistling through the air, spinning slowly as the wind batted it back and forth into a clockwise roll. Where it had come from was unimportant. Its destination lay before it, rapidly approaching as it fell through the clouds with all speed.
Far below, the fields of Gossenland spread across the land like a flood. Wheat and cotton and breen grain was ripe for picking. Peasants tilled the fields and picked them clean for harvest as lords oversaw their progress. But not all serfs worked the fields. Some scraped from a living off the rocks, finding flowers or loose sediment and salt to give to the local manorial tithe. Gaul was such a man, and on this day, he crawled amid the wild brush and crags, bending down and moving roots and kicking aside stones.
Where the Gossenland fields ended, the stout Daggerfork Mountains began, wheat fields shoving against the stony slopes like crashing waves. Gaul had lived here for ten years, having been released from his service to his old manor-lord in a trade, being leased to the local lord of Hrufken in exchange for an old mare, with Gaul's consent and writ. He lived a hard life in the small mining town, but he preferred it here. The man had found love, wedding a local girl named Mary. Together they made a home and had a daughter they named Trinity in honor of the triarchy of Gods that watched over their kingdom and had blessed Gaul's home with warmth.
The toil had reduced his fingernails to naught but stubs, dirtying his face and giving him the smell of soil. But it was honest work. He knocked aside a fallen branch with his staff, peering through the jumble of leaves to see if they hid any slate or travertine for the miners to dig at. Instead, the limb revealed a viper. Gaul blanched and stepped back, but the creature hissed, coiled like a spring. As Gaul stepped back, he tripped on what must have been a stone and hit the ground, the snake's hiss loud in his ears. His skin felt clammy as he anticipated the bite that would freeze his blood and kill him in moments, until something strange happened.
Gaul flinched when a flash cut through his vision; a glint of the sun on something smooth. He heard a queer noise, like a knife running along the edge of another, and he gasped when he beheld what stood before him. A sword, glimmering in the sunlight. Its blade, polished like a mirror and made of glass or a deep, scarlet crystal, had sliced through not only the snake, but the stone! It stood aloft, cobalt iron hilt absorbing the light like a pit of endless nothingness. He looked to his left and right, and then upwards.
"Hello!?" He cried, wondering who threw such a dangerous thing. No answer came, and he wondered where it had come from. Silent moments passed, but eventually he realized he would get no answers. Rather, he got to his feet and brushed the leaves and dirt from him, regarding the weapon and the bisected snake. He knelt down and gingerly picked up the front half of the serpent, knowing its venom would fetch a fine price with the apothecary. But the sword? He did not know what material it was truly made of, but it looked very expensive. He did not own a sword, but as there were wolves and cave-beasts in the region, he knew he needed something to protect his family.
Gingerly he reached forward and grasped the hilt of the sword. It felt somehow familiar, comfortable, and yet somehow deathly cold. He pulled at it, wondering if the action would break the blade. To his surprise, it slid out of the rock like a sheath. The blade was razor sharp, so sharp he wondered if it could pierce the veil between worlds.
He simply had to show Mary.
Gaul opened the door, careful to keep his hands from the keen edge of the blade. As he heard the raised voice of his daughter, he kicked the door closed and called out.
"Mary! I've got something!"
"Hmmm?" Came the reply. Her voice was like honey to his ears, as if the last seven years had been only a week. Walking through the hall, he stepped into the dining room. The fact they even had one was a miracle. The house had belonged to the alderman until he was given quarters in the local lord's estate, and Gaul had bought it cheaply, though he had a few debts to pay even to this day.
Mary busied herself, placing plates down for later that night, shimmying between the chairs and a cabinet. She had long brown hair, tied at its end, with a smile that could warm the coldest heart.
"You're back early," she commented.
"Look what I found," Gaul said, presenting the sword in front of her. His wife's eyes glanced his way, and then they locked onto him and the blade. Her jaw dropped.
"Where did you get that?" She asked incredulously.
"I found it in the brush. Don't look at me like that, I looked for the owner. There was no one out there but me, it... it fell."
"Fell?" She asked, blinking.
"Maybe from the tree, I don't know. But just look at it. It's gorgeous. How do you think it would look on the wall?"
"The wall? Gaul, you need to sell that thing. We need money, not a sword." She reminded him with a shake of her head, though a smile was still on her face. Gaul sighed and hesitated. He knew she was right, but still. It pained him to part with the thing.
"I don't know, finding a sword? Made me feel like I was one of those men in the tales. But you're right, of course. I'll grab a bite and head to town. I love you."
They shared a quick kiss, and she placed a tender hand on his cheek.
"And I you."
Hrufken was technically the entire area, ranging miles around. But the town itself was located at the center; a crossroads between the outer fields of the Gossenland estates and the mining camps up on the foothills and crags of the mountain base.
Gaul walked along the dirt road, tradesmen, fishwives, and day laborers passed him by. He kept a good grip on the sword, now swathed in cloth to hide its shiny and ornate appearance. Not to mention it was illegal to be armed inside the town save for men-at-arms and those of noble blood.
He didn't know where he would take the thing. Perhaps the smith, or a traveling merchant selling exotic goods. He wished he could take the weapon to Grimaffen and get a fair price for it. Gaul didn't want to go back and argue with Mary, however. He clutched the sword tighter, sad to see it go.
Caught in his contemplation, he didn't notice the clear threat walking through the crowd. Suddenly Gaul felt a shove and a snicker, the man stumbling back and catching himself roughly on the side of a cart.
"Sorry, I didn't see you there." The scoundrel said, Gaul recognized him as Adrian.
Gaul didn't speak. He simply continued to move up the road, before three men barred his way. They were big men, one in particular. Gaul stepped back, only for the sword to get ripped out of his hands from behind. He cried out, but Adrian yanked it away and opened the cloth.
"What do you have here, Gaul?" He asked before his breath was taken away. Adrian whistled, shaking his head in awe. "Where did a deadbeat like you find this?"
"I'm...I'm bringing it to Harmen, to square my debt." He lied, though perhaps it was best if the sword went there. He didn't want his wife to know he had borrowed from a local cartel to pay for their home.
"Smart man," Adrian admitted, admiring the blade. "This might be a good payment. Why don't I take it off your hands and see what Harmen says, yeah?"
"I want to give it to him, myself. Good faith, you know." Gaul reasoned, holding his hand out. Adrian didn't hand it over, rather he shook his head and clutched the blade himself. Fortunately, before he could protest, he yelped and dropped the sword. Blood dripped from his palm into the road, courtesy from gripping the naked steel.
Gaul went for the sword as Adrian did, Gaul grabbing its blade while Adrian took the hilt. Gaul felt the bite of the blade, but he kicked the leg of the footpad and yanked it out of his bleeding hand.
"Get the sword!" Adrian called, and the street toughs took out cudgels and knives, advancing on him. The crowd that noticed parted, but most didn't, too preoccupied with their own errands. Gaul could not look at all four at once, and when his head swiveled to the other three, Adrian drew his own long knife. Gaul stepped back, looking for a way to run, but he stepped in line for the thrust Adrian launched with a deftness born of practice. The other three closed in as well.
Gaul twisted and cried out, and his blade flashed like the glare of the sun. Crimson and brown and screams followed. Blood curdling screams that rent the air like a scythe through wheat. Gaul didn't recall what happened, really. But when he came to his senses, he noticed a small boy looking at him from across the road. A woman grabbed the boy and moved him along, her eyes wide with fear. Other eyes watched him, and the calls of the marketplace were replaced by hushed whispers of fear and awe. Gaul looked down slowly, and saw Adrian and his men. Some parts of them were at his feet, and others were strides away.
Gaul felt bile rise up in his throat. He didn't know what to do, and he couldn't even find the cloth he had brought to clean the blade. Instead, he had only one option.
He ran.
Gaul had never been so scared in his life. He felt exhilaration, but it was mixed with horror. How had that happened? He remembered none of it, he... he had never used a sword in his life. He let the miles under his feet pass under him as he ran, going home. He knew of nowhere else to go. It was likely going to be a justified defense of his life, but he should not have had a sword. And even so, Harmen would bribe the magistrate and make sure Gaul's home was taken before the winter. Yet somehow, he didn't feel crushing anxiety about the future. He just felt adrenaline.
He rounded the corner of the road, passing by a mule-led cart loaded with ore and ran up to his door. As he reached for the handle, he noticed a bright gold sigil glinting in the light of the day, going northward up the road. He recognized it, but didn't quite comprehend its significance. He walked into the house, calling for his wife.
"Mary!"
No answer. Gaul walked past their empty room and passed by Trinity who played with two wooden toys on the floor Gaul had carved himself. He went to speak to her, but up ahead he heard soft weeping. He stepped into the kitchen and found Mary wiping tears from her eyes on the floor, lifting her head off her legs.
"Mary, what's the matter?" Gaul asked, kneeling down and placing a comforting hand on her. She looked at him in confusion.
"Honey...No, what? Why do you have that sword still?" She asked breathlessly.
He hesitated. "...There was a problem in town..."
"You need to sell it, Gaul. The tax collector he...he just came by. He took double what we were meant to pay. Said its interest for the lord. Some new law, I don't.... Gaul, we have nothing." Mary looked distraught, shaking her head. It was physically painful to see her so lost.
"I'll go see the meaning of this," He told her softly. "And I have a few things to sell to the apothecary. Don't worry, things will be different. Things will change. Why don't you get dinner ready, ok? Keep yourself busy."
When she nodded, he helped her up and, gripping the sword in one hand, stalked out the door. As he moved, he heard Trinity marveling at the sword as he passed her room. He hadn't even noticed there was no longer blood on the crystalline blade, and could not wonder where it had gone.
Gaul made his way up the road, passing by another three homes before reaching the tax collector a few dozen strides from the crossroads leading to the mines. The gold sigil shined proudly, and when he called, the collector turned. He was a weaselly man, with a thin mustache and a sharp nose. His eyes were heavily lidded, and they did not make him seem the agreeable type. They widened when he saw an armed man waving him to stop.
"What is the meaning of this new law!?" Gaul called out to him.
From under his robes, the tax collector produced a loaded hand-crossbow. Gaul skidded to a halt just a few strides from him, holding a hand up to stay the man's ire. He wondered why he had felt so threatened, and then glanced down at his left hand holding the sword. Why had he even brought it?
"Do not halt me in my duties, serf. Go back to your home and be happy I did not take that as well." He sneered, looking down at Gaul passed his piercing nose. "The lord wages war, and sometimes he is in need of more coin to protect this realm. Are you questioning our liege?"
"We should have been warned," Gaul replied gruffly, taking a step forward. "We need to feed ourselves and prepare for winter. We have heard no missives of this."
"If you had properly prepared, you would not be in such wanting as to threaten me."
"I am not threatening you," Gaul said evenly, taking another step. "Even so, I wish for an extension. Take the normal tax and we will double it in a month." His tone was even, but the tax collector's eyes were on his feet.
"No! And do not take another step or I will end your life. No leave me!" He warned, showing rat-like teeth.
Gaul nodded, knowing that to challenge a gang was one thing. The lord or his representative was an entirely different matter. The iron bolt was aimed just at his heart, and if he died here, who would take care of Mary or Trinity? He thought of them, of his wife weeping. He would go to her empty handed all because of this wretch. Gaul looked down, and wondered why he stood frozen, and the words of the tax collector were coming back to him.
"Leave and begone!" The weaselly man ordered. The words fell heavily from his mouth, as if an unseen force had kept them from carrying across the air. Gaul looked at him, anger in his eyes. The money this man had. Stolen money.
Gaul was caught in a whirlwind of emotion, and he knew what he should do. But all of his ire broke through, and he took another step forward despite his judgement.
The crossbow clicked, and the bolt flew straight and true. Gaul pulled at his sword, and there was a loud clang that rang in the air like a gong. The two men looked aghast, the crossbow bolt bouncing harmlessly off the flat of the sword blade. Somehow it had intercepted the missile. An impossible block.
Gaul's eyes were wide with shock, and the tax collector, as flabbergasted as he was, moved first. Hastily he began reloading his crossbow, placing his foot in the front pedal to help pull the string back. Unfortunately for him, his movement caught the attention of Gaul, stirring him from his shock as well. Gaul knew he couldn't let the man reload.
He took another step forward... and another.
Then he raised his new sword.
Mary hummed to herself, rolling the flour with her trusty rolling pin, flattening it across the table. She had lost herself in her cooking, the worries not leaving her entirely, and those that did ebbing out slowly. Still, she felt better. Gaul was a dunce sometimes, but he was a good man and more capable than many gave him credit for. He would get them through the winter, and she smiled at the thought. Despite it all, she was a lucky woman.
"Mommy, when's dinner ready?" Trinity called from the hall.
"Soon, sweetheart. Daddy will be back in a moment and then once I'm done cooking, we'll eat." She said warmly.
"Daddy's already back," came the reply. Mary blinked and looked up, and she saw Gaul stepping into the kitchen with the sword and a sack in his hands. He looked tired and worn, his face wizened but not far different at first glance. There was an odd glint in his eyes. He looked pleased, at least. She tilted her head, confused at his sudden appearance.
"You got our money back?" She asked, surprised.
"And a bit more," Gaul said happily, placing the sack down on the table. It was far larger than the one that had been taken from their stash. She lifted it up, and it was heavy indeed. She shook her head, laughing in disbelief.
"Wait, where did you get this? The tax man would not have given you this. You didn't promise the house, did you?"
"No," Gaul chuckled, watching his wife gazing at the coin in awe. Her eyes flicked to him as he continued speaking. "Today has been one weird day, but I'm getting happier as it goes by. I think everything will turn out all right."
"Is this blood?" She asked, noticing a stain on the purse. Gaul told her 'no,' and her eyes flickered up to him, confusion on her face. She reached forward and gently tugged at his collar, running her thumb along it. When she pulled it back, a red streak was on her fair skin. Her lips moved, but no noise came out for a few brief moments. "Gaul, what happened today?" She asked slowly.
"I had to uh, defend myself in town." He reluctantly admitted. "Adrian and his guys tried to take the sword from me. There are witnesses..."
"And the tax man? You did speak to him, right?" She asked cautiously, letting his careful wording sink in. She saw his trepidation, and there was silence for many moments.
"...At first."
Her eyes darted to the sword, the blade as clean and crisp as ever. For the first time did she really look at it, at its pommel and hilt. Something about it seemed baroque and wicked, and terribly old. The blade itself had strange, hooked waves at the weak and the strong of the blade. Had they always been there? She tried to control her breathing.
"Well, what matters is that you're home safe and sound," She said with a smile. "Why don't you put the sword down and I'll cook you something nice? You've earned it after a hard day."
He seemed relieved at that, but looked at the sword. He blinked slowly. "Put it down?" He asked.
"You can't eat with one hand. You going to use it as a fork?" She chuckled.
He chuckled back, shaking his head as if to ward off some fog. "You're right. I'm...I'm just tired. I ran a lot today, you know? So many weird things happening all day. I knew I needed a change, but I wasn't expecting so many occurrences." Gaul turned and walked over to the wall, gingerly leaning the sword against the wall, blade down and hilt by a cabinet hanging a stride above the floor that held various dishes.
"I love you," he heard Mary say, and the creaking of floorboards as she approached him, doubtless for a kiss.
"I love.." He began, and glanced at the glass that held the extra plates. He saw his wife's form, holding aloft the rolling pin just behind him.
Gaul lurched to the side, the rolling pin hitting him on the shoulder rather than the head. His hand moved and he whirled, Mary and his eyes meeting just a step from one another. Her eyes, so blue like the sea, were wide with horror. Then they moved. Not from side to side, but fell with from his level along with her head. His wife's decapitated body hit the floor with it, and it was only then that he saw the sword in his hand.
Gaul was, once again, frozen. Not out of caution, but pain, fried, and loss. Confusion and lament welled up in him, and his eyes wet for a moment as he realized what he had done. Despair took him, and his pain was replaced by a hollow feeling he couldn't fill with anything he had left.
Save the sword.
He gripped it tighter and turned, looking in the glass once more. He saw a new face there. One that looked scarred, with red and black streaks across it. Small, blunt horns had burst from his scalp, and he ran his tongue over newly sharpened teeth. Glancing down at the sword, he noticed it looked different. Sleeker, with a longer hilt and a shorter crossguard. At the butt of its hilt, another blade was even then slowly protruding out of it to mirror the first blade.
"Mommy, is dinner ready yet?" a small girl's voice asked from her room.
Gaul, or the being that was once Gaul, left the kitchen with his sword, and followed the voice.
by @POOHEAD189
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