facilis descensus averno

Troy is burning, burning outside my window;

I told them, but did they ever listen?

My divine gift, wasted. All because no one

wanted to listen to a woman. Well, alright,

then I will let them run straight to their graves.

And all this because I turned him away!

I didn’t want the gift, I said,

and did he listen to me?

No. He did not. He bestowed upon me

an unwanted gift, for a price I was unwilling to pay.

And for all my trouble, all I got was a goddamn curse.

He was on Troy’s side, I knew. I saw. I opened

the gates to Troy. I welcomed the horse that would

ruin my city. He can learn the same lessons I did,

when the woman he cursed brings him defeat.

In the end, my divine gift was not to see the future,

but the courage to shape it with my own hands.

Someone is screaming outside my window,

but I cannot find a single bit of pity in my heart.

Troy is in ruins now, and it is all because

nobody

wanted

to listen

to

I waited and watched, longing and hoping

that he will return to me, to our home.

I rose with the sun, looked down the road,

listened for his familiar tread. Every day,

another disappointment, all alone.

My cauldron breathed grey mist into the air,

I hear things from the neighbors, laughter

that turned to whispering to pity.

I looked for him day in, day out,

standing over my weeping cauldron like a phantom.

I remembered how the sea where I lived glittered

like sapphires and the rolling hills were green as money.

How daisies bloomed behind my old house, a paradise,

that nobody ever wanted to leave, how I was absolutely bored.

How I used to want more.

Golden boy he was, shining in the sun, bright like hope.

I was young, then. Foolish. Desperate

for somebody to whisk me away.

I made a fool out of myself for him.

Disgraceful.

Now, I toss three dead roses into my cauldron for my lost love,

a bushel of daisies, a handful of ash.

My tears hardened to glass, my heart to stone

as I stripped the sorrow from my bones.

I will play the fool no longer.

I threw my life away for a love that burned out,

traded my innocence for a flickering, fading fire

that still burned down everything that ever mattered.

I was blind and infatuated and witless and I

let him ruin me. I gave up my heart,

my hearth, my home, and let him throw it all

away for the promise of a kingdom and a good fuck.

The fire billowed, my cauldron hissed and spat.

I breathed in the red hazy mist, and exorcised

every last bit of him from my wary veins.

I sorted out white thread, the finest,

and wove the beautiful wedding dress

that I used to dream of. Paler than milk,

whiter than snow. I washed it with poison,

dried it in the cold, black air of the plains

and tried it on. I wiped my grimy mirror clean,

and saw my reflection for the first time in years;

I set fire to the roof we had thatched together,

and as I watched it burn, at long last,

I consigned him to the ash heaps of my past.

I sharpened a knife in the scarlet light of the dawn,

woke our children, and worshipped the dancing flames

with the crimson in their veins. I burned away every last

bit of his shadow from my life, then come nightfall,

The garden shrank at night, just like all the other enchanted objects in the palace. The Sun Witches drew their power and their magic from the sunlight, and when the sun left the skyline, all the enchantment went with it.

The beautiful Sun Gardens, with its sparkling golden fountains and bright gold bursts of flowers and its elegant yellow umbrellas, shrunk down to the size of an apple at nightfall, contained in a fragile crystal ball.

And she was trapped inside it.

She had somehow shrunken inside the crystal ball. To her, the gardens looked normal, felt ordinary. But she knew it had shrunken.

She had seen it shrink when the sun sets before.

Her mother must’ve been so worried for her right now, but there was no way out of the Sun Gardens until sunrise. She wandered the Gardens warily, keeping an eye out for anything strange, her hand on the dagger she keeps in her belt.

Not that she had any idea how to use it, but the comfort came from knowing it was there.

She crept along the palm leaves, her feet making no sound on the dirt path. She knew there was a little grove with a waterfall somewhere in the Gardens. It had always been her hideout whenever she needed a temporary escape.

She made her way towards the grove, keeping a cautious eye out for anything suspicious.

Third Terra was going the way of the first, very rapidly.

He would’ve given Third Terra at least another decade before the decline, but apparently he was wrong.

The very magic that made up Third Terra was starting to fade. He can feel it in the air, the lack of life and the scent of death slowly rising.

He feared it may be too late now to save Third Terra.

First Terra was prophesied to be saved by a young girl of immense magical power, but the mythical young girl was nowhere to be found when First Terra collapsed in on itself.

Some people thought the mythical girl would save Third Terra too.

He thought they were wrong.

No, he knew they were wrong. No such girl exists, or else she would have come forward by now. Even if she did exist, she evidently didn’t care that an entire land will be destroyed because she had refused to lend a hand.

He slowly breathed out, trying hard not to breathe back in. The scent of decay and death in the air got stronger by the minute. The more despair in the land, the more magic leaked out of it.

He didn’t know where the magic went. Perhaps it went into other lands. Perhaps it just disappeared.

He didn’t even know why this was happening. The Magical Terras all eventually went back into the dust where they came from, all the magic leached from the land.

He didn’t know how to stop it. He didn’t know how to find this mythical girl.

He stared off at the setting golden sun. In a few minutes, the black sun will rise to replace it and the witches will come out to absorb the power of the black sun.

He sighed wistfully. It was all about to end.

Third Terra’s time has come.

Behind him, then, he heard a voice. High and clear like a bell’s.

“Not yet, good Sir. I am here to save Third Terra.”

The floor tasted like disappointment and failure, a hundred failed battles, a thousand things never spoken aloud. She can taste the blood in her mouth and her vision was hazy and black around the edges.

“Get up.”

She tried. She really did, but she couldn’t bring herself to get up. She was a failure. A failure to her brothers and sisters. They had been slaughtered while she had run, terrified, like some defenseless little creature.

And even with training, she couldn’t get any better. She couldn’t avenge their deaths.

Her limbs ached with the weight of bruises, her fingers felt crushed, and her skull felt cracked open. She couldn’t do this. Not anymore.

She wasn’t born to fight. She wasn’t a warrior like her brother. She wasn’t a diplomat like her sister. She was never good at anything, really.

She was a fool to think otherwise.

“Get up, you weak little child.” He hit the ground next to her with his staff.

She winced.

“I can’t,” she gritted out. “I don’t know why I thought I could do this.”

“Get up.” He repeated.

She felt something hit her as he threw her staff at her.

She was exhausted. She couldn’t go on like this.

She grabbed her staff and slowly, painfully got up.

“Hold your chin up,” he said sharply. “Look alive.”

“Easier said than done,” she said wryly, brandishing her staff. Her arms shook with the effort.

He struck, and she blocked on instinct, but she had no strength anymore. The staff fell out of her hand with a loud clatter. He spun once, building momentum, and hit her across the face with his staff.

“Get up,” he said again.

Her ears were ringing and her cheek was so numb that she couldn’t even feel the pain anymore.

She slowly got to her feet, swaying. Her hands shook like a leaf in the breeze.

He struck again, without warning. She moved out of the way, just barely, and ducked as he made a broad swipe in the direction of her head. He moved the staff downwards, and its tip grazed her stomach, knocking the wind right out of her lungs. She stumbled back, moving her staff back up to block the incoming strike.

Her staff flew out of her hands.

She tensed up as the staff smacked into her again, twice this time with each end.

She collapsed onto the floor.

The floor tasted like defeat and humiliation this time. It tasted like anger and bitterness and regret and guilt.

Her fingers curled around her staff.

She swung it upwards, snarling with rage. It connected with his face with a satisfying crack.

He knocked her back down again quickly.

“Hello?” She pushed on the gate and it creaked on its way open. “Is anyone there?”

“Hello?” She stepped carefully onto the stone pathway. “Is the bookshop open?”

When there was no reply, she went fully inside, trying to peer through the grimy window. When she saw nothing, she decided to go inside anyway.

The strange building turned out to be a book shop, but the books looked as if they haven’t been touched for centuries, a thick layer of dust covering the shelves and the covers.

She immediately felt unnerved. Why was the gate open if the place was abandoned?

She walked further into the bookshop, compelled, but looked back nervously at the deep imprints her footsteps left in the dust. She didn’t know why she was walking into this strange, lost place, but she just had to.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the shop gradually, and eventually at the end of the building she saw a fuzzy shape of a chest.

She got closer and found a crowbar to pry the chest open.

The gold bars gleamed dully in the dim darkness of the shop.

He shouldered his way through the doors of the barn he’d converted into storage space, cringing at the loud creak it made as it swung inwards. In his hands, he held a newly finished clay pot, still a little warm from the kiln.

He flicked on the lights, waiting impatiently as it buzzed and flickered for several seconds before finally turning on. A neat row of pots arranged by increasing size stood before him, the result of his long month of hard work.

Like he has done every time this past month whenever he came into the barn, he wondered about the anonymous commissioner who had paid him to mold five hundred identical pots.

The design was strangely specific. They all had to be painted black, with a particular paint that was shipped to him regularly throughout the month with no sender address or name. The general shape of it was unconventional, to say the least, but he didn’t ask questions. Money was money. He wished he’d ask his questions now.

He carefully set down his latest creation in a new row of pots, looking over the neat rows with satisfaction. He switched off the lights, then turned around to pull the door shut.

He stopped dead in his tracks. There was a message written on the far wall in white paint that he hadn’t seen when he first came in or when he had turned the lights on.

STOP IMMEDIATELY.

He blinked rapidly, confused.

Stop? Stop what?

Did it mean for him to stop making the pots? The message was unnerving. Who had gotten in and written this?

He was not a man who was easily spooked, but now he was almost convinced to really heed the message.

He pulled the doors of the barn closed, then sensed someone behind him.

The house was like nothing she'd ever seen before. It looked unsymmetrical and utterly aesthetically displeasing. The roof was painted a ghastly shade of red, the doors crooked in the frame. The windows were lopsidedly built in, and the whole house seemed to tilt to one side despite being build on solid ground.

“It’s hideous,” she said, truthfully, staring wide-eyed at the wreck of the house. “I’ve never seen a more hideous house in my entire life.”

“Well,” her friend blinked at the house. “That’s a really rude thing to say.”

“But it’s true,” she exhaled a gust of air through her lips. “Looks like someone built a house based on a crayon drawing of a toddler.”

“Doesn’t even feel safe to go in,” she added.

“We have to go in, so suck it up.”

“I don’t trust that the roof won’t collapse on my head,” she insisted. “No.”

“We drove three hours to get here. The least you could do is go in!”

“Look, when you said the lady was eccentric, I didn’t think you meant she lived in a house straight from crazy land.”

“She’s the best around. Seriously, I did my research. Just trust me, okay?”

“With a house like that, any positive claim made about her is dubious at best,” she muttered.

“Oh, my God. Stop being so hung up about the house. Don’t judge the book by its cover, Bea.”

“It still doesn’t look safe,” Bea huffed. “But whatever.”

She started up the crooked, uneven pathway towards the house.

“Aria, are you sure we have to go in?” She asked in a last ditch attempt.

“Yes! So stop asking!”

“Why are you so desperate to see her, anyway? You’re not even superstitious.”

“I’ve been having…. Dreams.” Aria said haltingly. “I want to know what they mean.”

“They mean you’ve had too much to think about lately and that’s leaking over into your sleep,” Bea exhaled incredulously. “And here I thought you believed in science more than some hedgewitch voodoo.”

“It’s not voodoo, Bea.” Aria pushed the door open and jerked back, hitting Bea in the face with her elbow.

“Ow, what the-”

An old woman wrapped in a shawl was peering at them with milky, pale blue eyes. It was unnerving.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she croaked. “Come on in.”

Aria and Bea looked at each other for a brief moment.

“That’s not it, no.”

“What was it, then?”

“I don’t know, isn’t that the point?”

“Well, I’d assume you know-”

“Shut up, will you?”

“Ava, that’s rude-”

“Just shut up, I can’t think over your talking.” Ava snapped back, massaging her temples agitatedly, eyes going back and forth over the pictures and the files spread out on the table.

“Look, this seems pretty straightforward.” She continued into the silence, as if vocalizing her stream of thought for no purpose but to help solidify thinking. “It’s an old lady, dead in her room in the nursing home. Most likely an inheritance issue. Most likely family.” “Could’ve been old age.”

“No,” Ava said decisively. “No. The nurses all seemed surprised when I went to talk to them. They thought she had more than a few years. This was sudden. Unexpected.”

“She takes medication,” she tapped the records on the far left of the table. “If those were tampered with, she could’ve overdosed. Her death would’ve been remarkably similar to a natural death of old age.”

“But how? I’m sure of it, it was someone she knew. Someone she’d trust to give her medication. But who? How do I prove it?”

Ava kicked her chair back and started pacing.

“Any visitor logs?”

“No. The system power was out that day. They didn’t keep record.”

“That’s stupid.” Ava scoffed. “They could’ve at least tried to keep paper records. A notebook would’ve done. Back to the point, how can I-”

“Oh!”

“It was flowers,” Ava said excitedly. “Joanna, don’t you see it? Flowers!”

“...What?”

“The flowers in the vase. They’re fresh, barely wilted. Conclusion: recently brought. They could’ve been brought in anytime in the afternoon or the evening, which fits them around her time of death. Who always brings Mrs. Carmichael her flowers?”

“Her son-in-law,” Joanna consulted her notebook.

“Could he have overdosed her?”

“Easily,” understanding dawned on her. “He’s charmed all the nurses by being the perfect son-in-law. He brings Mrs. Carmichael flowers once every week, and helps out the nurses with the food and the medication and whatnot.”

“Brilliant!” Ava beamed. “That’s it, then. Solved! Onto the next case!”

Joanna quickly jotted down the answer, and consulted the back of a thick hardcover book titled: “BRAINTEASER VOL 6: UNSOLVED CRIMES”

“You’re right,” Joanna sighed, gathering up all the loose pieces of paper on the table and stuffing them inside the book. “It was the flowers that gave it away.”

“Of course,” Ava grinned, and her smile seemed to light up the entire room. “I’m always right.”

“Your turn, then.” Ava flipped the book to the next page. “Georgia Wilson was found dead in her bedroom with no signs of forced entry-”

Steve loomed over the hospital bed, refusing to feel guilty to see his friend- well, not friend. Not really. He didn’t know who Edward was to him. They didn’t particularly like each other. They antagonized each other at every chance.

Edward’s eyes fluttered open blearily.

“Is it true you took a bullet for my father?” Steve demanded. “Look, I know you’re hopped up to the high hell on morphine right now, but I just need to know.”

“Why?” Edward rasped. “Why does it matter to you?”

“I need to know how to feel about this,” he muttered. “Should I be grateful or annoyed, then?”

“Grateful,” Edward glanced at the dial on the machine regulating the morphine flow, looking like he was considering turning the dial up all the way to escape the conversation.

“Why?”

“Because it’s what a decent human being would do?” Edward cringed. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

Steve felt really guilty. Somebody took a bullet for his father, and that somebody was a person he didn’t even like. He didn’t know where to put this dislike in the face of the gratefulness that welled up in him.

“Well,” he said stiffly. “Thank you, I guess.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” Edward rasped again, painfully.

“Okay, that’s fair.” Steve nodded. He knew this pattern of antagonization. This was familiar, easy to settle into.

“You should just-” He broke off to cough violently. Steve felt alarmed for a few moments. “Leave, before you piss me off somehow and make me even worse.”

Despite the burning need to retaliate, he surprised both himself and Edward by saying:

“Alright. I hope you get well soon.”

“Uh, thanks, I guess.”

Steve turned around and headed towards the door. Outside, he nodded at Pepper, who must’ve been waiting for him to come out of the room before going in herself. Her strawberry blonde hair was tied up neatly in a plait, and she looked more composed than him despite the fact that it was her boyfriend lying on the hospital bed.

“Hi, Steve.” She smiled. “How’s he doing? I hope he hasn’t been too rude to you, but he’s been loopy on the morphine lately so who knows?”

“It was actually a pleasant enough conversation,” he replied, feeling mildly surprised.

“Figures that your first pleasant conversation would be in a hospital,” she shook her head fondly. “You two are so strange.”

“Anyhow,” she continued. “He’ll be back to normal again soon. It wasn’t that serious a wound. Mostly superficial, I think.”

“That’s nice to hear,” he nodded. “Bye, Pepper. I’ll visit when I can.”

“I don’t think he’d like that very much,” Pepper laughed.

The bus stopped so suddenly that she nearly flew across its length. She grabbed onto the pole so hard that her knuckles creaked and felt a stab of annoyance flare inside her suddenly.

“Oh, my God!” She shrieked at the bus driver. “Watch where you’re going, Jesus Christ!”

Someone laughed from behind her. She turned around, ready to chew him out for laughing.

“I’m sorry,” he says between gasps of breathless laughter. “I just-”

“Just what?” She demanded angrily. This has already been a bad day without anyone butting in and laughing at her.

“Sorry-” He continued. “I just thought of Jesus take the wheel.”

He slapped his knee.

“And I think you just literally told Jesus to watch where he was going.”

Despite herself, and to her eternal shame, she laughed.

“I’m sure the bus driver isn’t Jesus,” she said dryly after she got control of herself again. “Or he’d be more careful about how he drives.”

“You were on your phone when you were supposed to be holding onto the rail,” he pointed out sensibly. “It was partly your own fault.”

“No, it wasn’t.” She said stubbornly.

“Whatever floats your boat,” he chuckled, and went back to reading his own book.

She looked at him blankly before deciding on something.

“Scoot over,” she gestured to the seat. “I should sit down before I go flying across the bus for real when the driver decides to try to kill me.”

“Mm, I guess.”