Write out of my Soul

So, I saw recently someone I once cared deeply for wrote a few short posts and though he did not mention me by name, I know he wrote to me for a few of them. This is my version. 

Dear Ex, as the days go on I cannot deny that you are still a part of me. Although I pushed for you to do more, you were exactly what I needed in my life at that time. I too miss you because you were a friend and a large part of my life. And as you said, we move on. 

Dear Self, yes, you can do freelancing even though you’re so scared that you can’t. Don’t worry so much about the things ahead of you because they come and go in a flash for the next exciting thing. Deep breaths. Take care of yourself more, and all will be okay. 

Dear Mom, Fuck you. There are days I am fine and I am better for not recalling home, and then in second and the world turns black and I am swallowed by a pit. But I can tell that blackness when I’ve had enough because I’m stronger than you. It's harder every time because I still love you. 

Dear Dad, My love for you is endless and I still remember the day I left home so clearly. We were so scared but we knew I’d be okay. There is no better feeling than calling you or coming home to work in the garage. I miss the oil in your clothes and will come home again soon. 

Dear Crush, You walked in an out of my life so fast, I’m not even sure if you counted as a crush. If I saw you today, I’d spit fire, but I know you wouldn’t hear me. Thank you for proving me right in the end. 

Dear Past Me, Take nothing for granted, be nicer to Shuert. If it’s too good then it probably is. Never take out a cashier’s check. And also make more time for your sister if you can. Talk to dad and Jonna about everything, and I mean everything. 

Dear First Love, I remember so clearly the date you said that loved me accidentally and I had to be patient to see when I could tell you the same. I wish you had been able to take the world in stride with me, but we grew into different people and I am glad I had you with me during that time. 

Dear Best Friend, You have put me through absolute hell and back this year, to the point I totally lost it when I went home, but I’d do it again (with some changes) because I cannot imagine what my life today would be without you.

Dear Future Child, Please be more creative and brilliant than I could ever be. be as kind as my father, and have your great grandma's green eyes. Don’t be an ass, listen to your aunties and be as grateful for the world around you as I and your family will be for you. 

Dear Person I Love, one day, I hope you can understand all that we have been through. I hope that we can sit and cry and feel what we must with long years of deception and hatred behind us. I would do more for you than anyone else in this world if you asked me to. So all I can do is wait, and hope. 

Dear Person I Hate, I have a list of names from my youth, but age has taught me a few really deserve my hate, and it is strange that they are so close to me. There are so many good things in the world, my hate id because you choose to participate in things that have hurt not only myself but the family that I love.

Dear Ex Best Friend, I don’t miss you, but I cannot forget my life growing up with you, and question how things led up to how our friendship ended. I wonder so many times if I was wrong or if I had not understood, but things are what they are, and if we were meant to continue, we would have.  

Part 1 - Chapter 2

He woke again, this time in their bed, the bare beams of the ceiling stretching above him. Alistair sighed, a warm feeling spread through him, his leg still ached though it had been stayed and dressed. His head rolled to the side and he smiled as he saw them conversing. Galen was hunched over beside the hearth, his head in his hands as Helena rubbed a hand over his back. Alistair smiled as he saw her, Helena his fearless warrior wife. He breathed in and the air caught in his throat, another glob of blood working its way upward.

Helena’s head snapped around, the short white-blonde curls twirling as she reached for a small bowl and rushed to his side. Alistair hacked for a few seconds before a wad of clotted blood fell with a splat into the bowl. He dragged in a deep breath, rolling over onto his back once more. Helena put down the sloppy bowl and picked up another, wringing out the water to the cool rag to her husband’s forehead.

“You were going to die without me?” Helena smiled, a playfulness in her warm voice. Alistair gave a deep throaty chuckle, reaching up to stroke her plump cheek. She leaned over and pulled his over hand onto the shaved side of her head. He brushed over the puckered scar that stretched from her blind white left eye to wrap around to the back of her skull.

“I’ve learned better.” She placed her hand over his, her milky white eye gazing at him lovingly. “Galen says you remember nothing.”

Alistair cleared his throat, taking another moment to consider what to say next. “The escort mission went wrong, the priestess is gone.” He paused and squeezed her hand. “I may have died last night, but I could not say.”

“Your tunic was ripped through,” Galen muttered angrily, a slight drunken slur to his words.

Alistair expression lifted, asking the silent question. Helena nodded as she left her husband’s side to return to Galen. She easily wrestled the drink from his hand to return to Alistair. He sat up slowly, leaning his back against the headboard he had carved for their wedding bed only a few years ago.

“What are we going to tell them, Alistair?” Galen stumbled across the room, slamming a hand against the plaster walls while he stared into the flames of the hearth. “We’ll be killed for this.”

The knight rolled his head, feeling the tension in his neck subside, but just barely. “Galen, we need to speak with your father.”

A young man with a toothy grin, bruising cheek, and a bloody lip waltzed down the marketplace streets of Isendale. Parts, wires, and circuit boards he had gathered swung from the bag cradled in the grooves od a well-used staff across his broad shoulders. The pleasant look lit up his face as the sun peaked out of the clouds again, beaming down warmth to account to increasingly colder days. He leaned his head back sighing contently until an open window caught his eye, 

The girl sat at the window and he shook his head at her with a smirk. Eyrdia Courtwood, the fabric seller's daughter. He knew that she had perched herself at her window yet again to find a nobleman that was to take her from her windowsill and into the life of courtly affairs. He stopped and waved up at her, rewarded with a small smile as she caught sight of him.

“Aryn Galde, It's been weeks since I've seen you!” she called down to him as the curving smile turned downward into a delicate pout, her voice unmistakably lilted by a Zedland accent. “Getting into fights again I see.” “That's for me to care about. Nothing needs to be fixed, do it?” he called back up to her, readjusting his staff and balanced bags. 
 Eyrdia leaned over slightly with a mocking purse of her plump lips. “Well, it wouldn’t hurt to check up now and then.” 

“Ah but my lovely Courtwood, I'd be afraid to never make it past the bedroom” He watched her expression twist into open-mouthed outrage as she sat up and crossed her arms over her bosom. “I promise, I will find some time to check in on you and your home.” With that, Aryn nodded to her and continued on his way.

“You are an awful man, Aryn Galde!” she called after him. Aryn chuckled as he continued on his way toward the workshop, the one place he called home. 

Aryn pushed through the plastic curtain and into the Tech Shop that his uncle had raised him in. He made his way to the back of the store, passing the workers Josha and Gilly as they worked strategically on connecting piece for a new mega-generator that had been requested last week by one of the gentry. He set down his bags carefully and began pulling out wires, pipes, metal pieces and circuit boards to be separated into appropriate parts bins. 

“Is Aryn back yet!” A deep gravelly voice called from within deep the shop.
 “I’m here!” He yelled back. Aryn snatched up the specific piece that his Uncle had sent him out for, looking over the part to be sure it was as good as he thought it to be. 

“Over here Uncle Sekar!” He called again as he wove his way towards the back of the shop.

The dark skinned man with singed pure white hair, spotted with grease and charcoal emerged from the maze of projects. “Did you find the converter? This thing is damn near useless without it.”

“Right here,” he waved the part in the air as he approached his Uncle. 


“What did you do?” Sekar snatched Aryn’s face and examined the bruising spot and the cut lip. “How did you get this?” Sekar let go and took the converter to look over its quality. He paused and raised his brows. “It’s very nice.” 


“I had other interested parties,” Aryn said briefly as he was distracted by the speeder engine that gleamed quietly in Sekar’s personal workspace. 


“Hands off,” Uncle Sekar said as he leaned down and began to fiddle with the converter’s position underneath the intake hoses. “The system has been throwing a fit for the last hour. Go fix it, I can’t stand those weird noises.” 


“What?” Aryn leaped around the engine and over several other piles of draped old machines. He heard it suddenly and began to swear under his breath as he burst into his space. Aryn immediately recognized the awful whirring sound and yellow warning signs that flashed across his computer monitors. He began typing furiously and finally closed all of the problematic windows. “Who the hell hacked my server!” he screamed in frustration as he opened up a window and began a track on where the invasive user was.

“You should be more careful about what you’re looking at, young man," Sekar yelled at him from the engine as Aryn continued to close up what holes he could find in the firewall. 


 SORRY ABOUT YOUR MACHINE - AD

“Really!” Aryn screamed as he pounded keys. “First the Glesmalt Brothers now this!” 
 There was a distinct sound of metal hitting the polished concrete floor before it was hastily picked up again. “The Glesmalts!” Sekar growled as he rushed into Aryn's room waving a large wrench. “Goddamnit boy! What have I told you!” 
 Aryn spun away from the computer, “I know, Uncle, but he was being awful to Old Clair and I couldn't let him bully her into taking less money for the converter.” He glanced back at the screen, not sure if he should fear Sekar’s discipline or a destroyed server more. 

“The Glesmalts are royal smiths, they could have you locked up or dead if they said one word to their liege lords. I promised your parents-” Sekar waved his wrench at Aryn. 
 “But I'm fine! Clair got her money’s worth and you got the converter,” Aryn pleaded with his Uncle. “You can’t blame me for trying to make them proud. I'm just trying to do what's right.” Aryn went to close his folded door, but Sekar whacked the back of his hand with the wrench. 

Aryn yelped and threw a punch at him, Sekar wove around his strikes and hit Aryn twice as they circled each other. Sekar swung at Aryn’s head and the young man pounced to the ground trying to catch the old man with a underleg swing. Sekar jumped and bent backward as Aryn whipped upwards faster than he had expected, almost catching him with a left hook. Sekar blocked his right swing with his arm and twisted, catching Aryn’s arm and sending him flat on his face. 

Aryn rolled over and tried to get up, the burse on his face, now swollen and colored. Sekar looked at him with an expression of deep hurt across his face. “I loved your parents like they were my own. Don’t make me watch you throw your life away on stupid boyish notions.” He turned and left Aryn on the floor.

Anastasia Winterflame grew up on an island of books. A small spit of land twenty miles away from Estonian mainland. With her grandmother's never-ending stories and any book, there was nothing more that she could wish for. That was, except for fairy tales. It was nothing Anya noticed until her thirteenth year when other girls in her class spoke about costuming themselves as a called "Sleeping Beauty". Anya had asked them who she was. The girls laughed and teased her until she went home to her grandmother and demanded to know the importance of this passed out princess.

Her grandmother laughed when she asked. "My dear, there are many well-known tales that people of this age know, but I teach you the good ones. The important ones. Fairy tales are not as impossible as they seem, because those that have the courage to search for one, will certainly find it." Grandmother had told her soothingly as she picked up her teacup and took yet another sip. With a content sigh, she smiled at the towering stacks and piles of book that she had surrounded herself with.

"That still doesn't answer my question, Granma." Anya pouted as she picked up another book and searched for the title. "What happens next time when they talk about something else I don't know?" She for frowned as she slapped the paperback book back onto its pile.

Grandmother chuckled at the young girl. "Then tell them one of my special stories; One of those that you really like."

And that's what Anya did.

The next week the girls asked her if she knew who another woman called "Snow White" was. Anya thought that was a downright stupid name, but instead, she asked them a question back.

Instead of feeling angry as she had the day before, Anya smiled. "Do you know the story of the Great Eiraneidr?" Anya asked them.

Abigor sat shivering in the tower as the dusk became night, wishing he knew what to do now that he was at the mercy of Bella. He could have sworn he heard Noir's voice in the city below but he wasn't sure anymore. Maybe it was the dreams lingering over him still, those horrible dreams that were not his.

There was a smashing sound somewhere in the hall and he could hear the faceless guards stand up and adjust their spears.

"Hello!" Abigor yelled through the cracks of the door, looking between the panels trying to find out what the noise was that had called the Faceless to attention.

The door was exploded open as the Faceless were both shot outright. The emerging figure of The Night made Abigor's heart leap with joy. "Abigor! Are you alright, my boy?"

"Uncle! In here!" Abigor yelled needlessly as the Night began to slash at the lock, letting it fall to the ground with a loud crash. A large man covered in black armor burst through the insufficient door, splintering the wood from the force of his desperate entry.

"Abigor!" The man in black took the boy into his arms, hoisting him up to his face to kiss the dirty skin of his forehead. "Thank god, I thought she might have killed you already."

"You came for me!" The boy began to sob against the dark painted metal of the Night's armor.

"Of course I did," the Night grunted as he looked out the young prince's barred window only to view the far expands of the dark forest below the castle cliffs, where he had just sent his own children into for safety.

"Where is Diane... and Noir?" Abigor asked as he looked out the window also trying to understand what The Night was thinking.

"They're safe. I'll take you to them as soon as we find a way out of here." He growled as he placed to boy back on the ground. The Night pulled a foldable crossbow from off his back and began loading it. His eye was caught on a certain strong looking young tree to the west of the Prince's tower window.

"Good show, Lord Black." A soft deep voice purred from the entrance of the tower. "Forced your way up here to die like a cornered rat? That seems a little foolish from one who was seen as so wise." The woman that stood there looked like a solemn mother, in the aftershock of birthing a stillborn. That warmth that was once there, but the hollow shell of a happier woman was all that there was left now. The pale blue eyes seemed to echo that of an innocent child, but one dared look deep enough, they could see the madness within.

Inspector Rouen Tarrow of Saesneg Special Agency of Llundain, or SSA, walked down Umbracatta street cautiously. He had never been one for fairy tales, but the horror stories that he had heard so many times from the insane police officers that had been rescued from only a few miles of this area, each mangled and distorted, chilled his very bones. It was all horrifying, yes… very much indeed, but it only fueled his insatiable curiosity for new things. So on he walked, feeling the sting of his tired feet and ignoring it quite comfortably, a ten-mile walk was nothing. The street was gloomy he could give its creepiness attribute to that, but it was not something that would send him crawling back.

The place he was headed for was set out on a long strip of concrete, a flat and triangular little place that looked smaller from his approaching angel than he would have thought it to be. A worn sign swung soundlessly from above the door that was once painted black but was now peeling and moldy. Rouen stopped in front of the door, looking up at its overall appearance from under the brim of his black pinstripe fedora. He had to admit, it looked almost charming.

The door was a long glass panel covered with sun-washed stickers and posters along the edges, leaving the middle a smudgy piece of scraggly glass with a frame of pealing black painted wood. An old brass envelope door was tucked under the window and looked rather unused for a place with so much reputation of underground correspondence. Most definitely far too much character that anyone bookshop he'd entered in his twenty years. Rouen took a step forward, under the old threadbare awning and pressed his hand to the window to look inside the dark room. There was a long hallway covered shelf to shelf with all sorts of books. From his distance, he could make out titles on occult, magic, and demon summoning, all which were banned in the Cubus Act of 2133. The rest seemed to be the odds and ends of spell-casting demons.

Rouen straitened himself up and pushed open the door. An old bell clanged as the door opened, making Rouen feel a chill run down his back, but he stately ignored it. He turned instinctively to the desk half hidden with books that reached to the ceiling, with odds and ends sticking out every which way. A few old photos of a happy young couple were pasted to the bookshelves' exposed edges. Rouen to a step forward to look closer at the images, the woman appeared more often than the man, so Rouen was left to suppose that it was the shopkeeper’s daughter, naturally.

“Welcome, govna'. What may we do for you, 'ere at Umbracatta.” An elder woman popped up from behind the counter, a happy innocent smiles her accent distinctly Earthian anglium. The woman looked disheveled, like waking up from a brief unplanned nap, the wispy white hair escaping her unkempt bun and falling like spiderwebs about her head, her glasses cocked at an odd angle and her tattered shawl draped over one shoulder. “Is there something you need, young man?”

Rouen returned the smile with his trademark devilish grin, planning to flatter her, he knew when little tricks like that might come in handy. “Why, yes. I’m looking for artificial and mechanical life, A.I., if you will.” Rouen leaned suggestively against the counter and looked down at the old woman.

the shopkeeper gave a throaty chuckle. “Ohh, you n'ughty boy, you. What would chr' mum t'ink?” the woman hobbled out from behind the counter and over to a curiously unoccupied shelf. Her old cracked hands picked up a small silver bell and rang it twice.

At this point Rouen had already taken in that she had a weathered face, a scar on her lower lip, and sunken eyes, understanding that it meant she did a lot of reading and was once hurt by her occult practices. Her hands were cracked and stained black between cracks exposing that she did not have all day to sit about and read but she did hard work. This was reinforced by fresh scabs along her knuckles. Lastly, about her hands she wore cloth armlet around her wrist that bulged slightly, revealing her practices of dark magic with blood sacrifice as her own. This woman was deep in her dark arts Rouen confirmed.

Rouen pretended to watch the woman with anxiousness, but he kept his calm trained stance ready, though he looked to be casually lounging against the desk. He scanned more book titles from his angle, reading off random titles such as Awakening the Dead, A Once in a Lifetime Experience by Jeraman Jacobs. , Toads of the Twelve Quadrants and Their Uses in the Darker Arts by Suliman P. Whitaker, and Madusa Featherstone's Guide to Unnatural Beauty by Madusa Featherstone and Philip Kay.

There was a sudden collapse of books behind Rouen that made him jump in spite of himself. He looked down as a could of dust rose up off the pile of dislodged books, he happily noticed that sprouting out of the pile was an arrangement of arms and legs. Rouen sprang to attention and began digging through the books to clear a path for the clobbered person. A new unknown he would know in only a few seconds.

"Janessa!" The old hag screeched as Rouen uncover a beautiful pale face. She looked like a porcelain doll, wide brown eyes framed by lashes and a sweet bow-shaped mouth the color of a strawberry malt framed by a boyish haircut of growing out white-blond hair. She looked shocked, mostly frightened that Rouen was trying to help her up and that she ruined her beloved books.

Rouen decided that this Janessa must be the daughter of the woman in the photographs earlier. She had the same pale complexion and doll-like face. This little girl clearly was not a bookworm either. Both frauds, Rouen rutted silently. He distinguished this by the boyish cut of her hair and the similar armlets mostly hidden under her dark jacket. She too had freshly pink knuckles that were in need of bandages by not immediately. So Rouen deduced that she must be related to the shopkeeper. Most likely… grandmother.

"I'm sorry grandmum." Jenessa said automatically, still in a state of repulsion at her mistake. Rouen was inwardly smug at his correct assumption. The girl seemed to clutch on Rouen's arm in a daze of shock. Rouen was thoroughly enthralled by how much he did not know about this new person. This was like describing a feast to a starving man for him. It had been three weeks since he'd had this much fun.

"May I help you, Miss Janessa?" Rouen offered, eagerly awaiting her reaction to him in his abrupt and nonexistent introduction. Rouen had a reputation as a bit of a ladies man and could not help but to offer his assistance to such a sweet girl, even though she may be too young for his usual tactic of female charming.

The girl Janessa turned her head slowly to look at him and didn't start or push away from his hold. She merely stared back at Rouen. He was dumbstruck, he didn't know what to do next. Janessa had him at a crossroad, and she wouldn't give so neither would Rouen.

"Young man, kindly tike your 'ands off me granddaughter." The shopkeeper thumped a large stick on the floor that Rouen had not previously noticed. At a glance, he could see carved runes of a which embedded in the wood, highlighted by the light from the door window.

It was Janessa who let go first, diligently attending to the books that she had strewn across the floor. Rouen stood patiently and watched her. Her reaction absolutely fascinated him.

"Janessa we 'ave a valuable customer and 'e means to buy from us. Leave 'em and go find the A.I. Section if you will." The grandmother shopkeeper thumped the threatening knarled stick again and Janessa gave her a brief defiant look before hopping over the pile of books. This did not go without Rouen's notice where he was left to wonder about the two women's quarrel, though he had learned a valuable lesson not to ask openly.

"This way, sir." She said without looking back, her pale form moving deeper into the many shelves and piles of books. Rouen led at the shopkeeper and she gave him a strangely encouraging nod to follow. Rouen did, and the darkness of the many shelves enveloped him. There were only brief glances of light as Janessa led him further, a glimpse of a foggy street where bookshelves covered the windows, and an orangish fluorescent light every yard fastened to the ceiling.

"How old are you, Janessa? Much too young to be working in a dusty old bookshop, you should be at school." Raouen said with parent-like concern.

"I'm eleven and a half and I homeschool. I learn all I want to learn and grandmum teaches me the rest." She replied smoothly.

"So, your grandmother," Rouen said to Janessa's back, hoping to start a conversation, learn a small detail. But she merely confirmed it with a glance over her shoulder and a nod of her head. Rouen pursed his lips, he was insanely intrigued by the prospect of this case. He'd experienced such tightness only from his mother and two informants he kleptomania close at hand, plus it was strange from a child her age. "Is she…" they turned a corner, allowing Rouen to ask another well thought question. "Is she the father's mother or mother's?"

"Mum's side." She replied without looking back this time.

Rouen smirked. She'd slipped with her careful words slightly, she'd grown up with her grandmother most likely. "How long have you been living with your grandmother?"

"Long." She said. Janessa paused to look at the titles on one side of a shelf, and then the other. Janessa defied to follow her first choice and proceeded down the shelved space. Almost lovingly, her fingers ran along the spines of the books as she trailed deeper. Then Janessa abruptly stopped. She pointed to the yard wide shelves stretching from floor to ceiling. "Here."

Rouen smiled and tipped his hat to her. "Thank you, … Janessa." though he focused his attention to the books, his eyes followed her small form running to the opposite side of the hall, poking her head around and then quietly walking toward him again.

"Sir, don't move or look at me. Cameras are watching us. Just listen to me." Her voice cut through the air though it was merely a whisper. This thickened his problem, what a lucky day for him.

Rouen pretended to peruse the books and look confused as if he could not find the very book he had so needed. "I'm listening." Rouen managed to say

"You need to leave. Now. Say you left the name of the title at home. You need to go." Janessa's voice was calm. It did not plead or whimper as it should. But this Janessa of Umbracatta seemed to be a very seasoned and defiant child.

"I will. On one condition." Rouen said with vaniloquent skill. His face became even more perplexed as his well-sought title became lost to him completely.

"There is no condition. Staying long here will mean your death." Janessa spoke harsh words but her childlike voice still remained monotone and unemotional.

"That does not concern me at the moment. Facing death is nothing new,…" Rouen continued to frown at the books before him, taking a step back to look at them. "I will leave if you shall allow me the convenience of a meeting. Anywhere you like, and answer twenty questions."

"The Gilded Bird," she said as he turned to look at her, his face a mask of disappointed inquiry. "Be there at eight. Ask for Miss La Prucelle." With that, she started her path back to the front door through the endless maze of books. Rouen followed her obligingly, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When they arrived at the desk and the entrance, the old shopkeeper was strangely, no longer in sight.

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you, I will return for my book at another time." Inspector Tarrow said with a curt nod and an unhappy glance at Janessa before stepping out back onto Umbracatta street.

Rouen shoved his hands into his khaki raincoat pockets with a smug smile speed across his face. He slid off to a side street and ran toward an old fire escape and scrambled up the rusty metal ladder and climbed carefully up it. He pulled himself up and rolled across the flat roof, getting up and crawling over to the roof edge. The long bookshop stood seemingly smooshed under a dark planked building above it, seemingly the lodging for the family below. Rouen reached under his coat and pulled out an extendable spyglass from his carefully engineered leather belt. He opened it and put the smaller end to his eye. He saw the door, the ugly black sign, and the windows were unfortunately covered in books. Rouen closed the spyglass with an irritated frown.

From a far away time I can see them there. Waiting for me in the Everlast of possibility. The dwindling hours leave me little time to accomplish what I must. There are things to be done in my time, though I do not yet know what they are. If I could list all the great things I’d like to do, i’m sure that in 20 years they would not be done. A great deal of other things surely would. Every day you are exactly what you imagine yourself to be, and if I told my past self what I would be doing today, she would say “impossible, I still have so much to learn.” Funny enough, that is the same response I give When friends tell me that I could be so much that I could outshine us and make them all happy year for the better. All I am left to do is blush and tell them how ridiculous it all sounds.

In my room, I had a bed, a chair, dresser and a few bookshelves. These I miss but I miss my alcove more. A small corner of my room that you could hide away from the world in. 

It’s been five years but there’s nothing I miss more than the feel of the puckered fake wood of my desk under my fingers. The waxy spots where I melted and pooled candles to see how to make a print upon hardening liquid. The words I had scratched into the surface with needle or pen, the heat of my lamp warming a spot just big enough to be a pillow.

It’s this remote place away from wifi and internet, probably the most boring place in the world, where I learned what to do when faced with only myself. What could I do with an afternoon all to myself? I must do something. And so I did. Across the knobbly surface of an old Walmart sale desk, I wrote and drew, cultivates and learned, gathered resource and fact. There is where I deem the moment of sprouting into something more. 

I miss that home more than family, more than false memories of happiness, more than my desire to understand why things became they way they did. It is what I imagine as the safest happiest place of childhood. The incubator of my dreams in a dark little corner of my room. 

There I wrote like my wrist would give out, played music that made me feel as if I would be found out in my secret cavern, drew like I needed to tell someone something. To make anything happen should one thing tip the balance, and I would someday find a way out of my cave. 

A strangled cry ripped through the silence of the ancient structure, the pained howl of a creature who has lost everything in the darkness. A hunched and broken figure of a woman was slumped in the summer downpour, two gigantic metal wing were limply folded on her back. She sobbed and slipped in the rain as she tried to reach the spear that only just out of her reach. The metal winged woman screamed and clutched at the ground as she remembered the thousands that had died around her. She was too weak and she could not protect them from their enemy. It was her last hope to scatter them through time to save what lives of her warriors she could. With another agonizing cry, she felt the strong aftereffects of the power she had unleashed. As she felt her heart begin to falter, her thoughts only traced about her daughter. She wondered where she had been sent, and what kind of life awaited her as a princess of a scattered kingdom. Her mind dwelled at the sight of her beloved hurrying their daughter away from the chaos of battle and toward a safer place so she could be sent away and protected. The woman twitched violently and fell into the mud once more. The Queen herself had not had enough strength to travel far, so it would only be a matter of time until they found her again. With bleeding hands and broken fingers, the woman managed to reach out and grasp the spear. Immediately it illuminated a pure bright white, shining out throughout the chamber. A low shrieking call of the dark monster her people had come to call the Munnon echoed outside. It slowly formed into a melodious cry of hundreds, which was more than the Queen could fight off in her weakened state. 

Eric watched the club pulse under him, there was nothing here. This was a pit of dark secrets and clandestine doings, only a few ever came for merely a good time and achieved it. He brushed his mouth against the skin of the girl’s neck, felling her move between his arm. She grinned at him, asking for something he couldn't give tonight. The target was going to be here, so was the partner, that was the issue. He was given two descriptions and that was it. It was for him to decide who was what.

The first fitting one description had arrived, the widowed billionaire of the rich software husband who had died under questionable circumstances. She was a radiant and powerful looking woman, with a sharp jaw and flashing eyes. Her dark hair pulled away from her face to show the epitome of beauty. Eric's hands moved with no real intention over the heated skin of the girl, her name drowned with the pulsating music and smell of drugs. The second fitting his last description was to arrive shortly according to the DJ. The only question now was which one was to be kept, and which one was to be killed.

Eric watched the elegant widow for the next hour, studying the was she sat quietly amongst the chaos of noise and writhing beats in her posh nest above the sea of sweat and liquor below. The woman drank a tall dry martini steadily, dripping with the graces of a queen. He wondered about her briefly, and that it would be a shame to destroy such a fine woman, but these things had to be done.

Abruptly she stood up and left her nest, the bodyguards remaining at their post as she disappeared. Eric pushed the girl away, shocked at the woman's sudden disappearance. The girl cried out for attention again, but Eric left her, tracing his way down without letting his gaze leave the widow's previous place.

Then the lights all went dark. The DJ introduced a very well recognized name that the crowd called for. The beat changed to a rhythmic electronic beat that had the hint of a hunt to it. As the beams of white light split the dark they crossed a blue hooded figure of a woman in the center if the dance floor rising up on a platform. She moved like a goddess to the beat like a trained acrobat. Her body twisted and shook, stopping irregularly and touching the hands of the dancer below her. Her hips swung across, though her shoulders but stayed in place. The partygoers chanted her name with a reverence. BLUE BLOOD, BLUE BLOOD, BLUE BLOOD.

This was the woman in the second description.

The morning is soft, as it ever is between them. Months have turned into a few years of soft caress and passionate desire. No strings attached transferred into a loving respected desire at a distance. Dawn crested, love made, and now the two chat softly across the marble countertop. Warm coffee in her hands as he fiddles with the toaster oven, broken since last winter. The metal beast tamed he leaves it to its work, finding a place between her legs as she sits on the stool, willing his hands closer. Sweet, sinful kisses in the shinning late morning. This is the happiness they’ve both longed for.

A knock at the door.

“Is it your books?”

“Or that funny looking tie you ordered.” She laughs in his ear

“Could be those stupid shoes.”

“You just think they’re stupid because they make me taller.”

A second knock, impatient. He groans and leans away from her tender flesh. “Which is exactly why they’re stupid.” With a flash of a smile, he goes to the door and she returns to the warm black liquid that calls to her body. He opens it, the murmur of his husky voice met with the haunting sound of words long since gone. The voice of love crushed and destroyed along with a life she had once imagined for herself. Shaking her head she tries to convince herself she has over thought, as usual, and it is nothing there. Just a delivery man and a funny tie.

“Darlin’, it’s for you.”

Her heart stops.

Rising from the table her stomach twists, the soothing effect of the coffee gone as she walks slowly toward the parted door, her man standing patiently and unaffected. He steps aside, hand on her waist as he places a kiss on her head attentions on the trivial simplicity of the everyday.

She stands in the doorway. There he is outside it, hiding roses behind his back. She speaks his name as she had once done a thousand times before, but it has not left her tongue in years.

“How are you?”

“What are you doing here?”

His mouth flops from side to side in the way she remembers as he searches for an answer. “I was in town so I wanted to say hello.” The tears in the corners of his eyes say he’s lying. The tears in her own eyes say she wished he hadn’t bothered.

“Not here. You message me. You offer first. Showing up is not okay, Donovan.”

He swallows hard. He knows she’s right. He had thought this moment over countless times, but he had wished it was not this. Not like this, not with him and her so happy right in front of his eyes. “Can we talk?”

“The cafe around the corner, at three.” She closes the door fast, refusing to linger any longer in front of him. The tears of lost love spill as she shakes, leaning against the door with the vulnerability of a child. She collapses there, the tears try but the hole is shattered open again, pulling her back into deeper sorrow.

His arms around her pull her to her feet, hushing gently, speaking softly. His lips kiss the tears on her cheeks and they fit against each other, her arms wrapped around his neck as he strokes her hair. The calm voice calls to her softly, reaching into her darkness that she has fallen into. Eventually, he has drawn her out again, lingering between his arms as she finds her feet beneath her again.

“You don’t have to talk to him,”

“I know,” Her posture has been regained and a queen of strength is once again in his embrace.

The morning starts softly, a comforting chime of a message stirs me from my sleep. Absently reaching fingers close around the cold frame of my phone before I drag in beneath the waves of warmth. Inside my cocoon, the dim screen gradually comes into focus. Here I start to awaken, soaking up minutes into hours until I have reserved enough energy to depart my well of protection.

Shadows of color dance between darkness and neon as the night unfolded to the drunk and listless. Protected by the twinkling shine of hidden lights between leaves and bark, the heated wind swept through alleys in the streets.

Alone, she smiles at the busy little people brought to life beneath her ink. reflections lie at her fingertips, each lit window another tale to be carefully penned. Sweetly nursing hot tea in a cold room, the city bakes under her gaze. Businessmen, lovers, Acquaintances, friends stroll this way and that, ever purposeful and dreamy eyed. In one window they argue, and another they fuck. One window even holds another pending his thoughts by the glass until his soul might be seen for more than what it is. Flickering blues of adventure and drama color more rooms than anyone could count. Of course she did though, the silent observant eyes of a restless soul. Twenty or so, actually counting is more work than the creative being might handle. A maid cleans the window, and odd time perhaps, but best to do it now rather than never at all. The tea is still warm as her toes become cold, pressed up against the chill glass as she waits into the night.

Part 4 - Chapter 1

“Let get to the tower,” Galen choked out, running his hand across his face to clear his tears.

Alistair looked at the boy as he squeezed his torn leg, gritting his teeth through the pain as he attempted to squeeze the wound closed. A flash of movement startled him, a black figure with bright emerald flame stitched across his vest, raising a sword above Alistar’s head. He grabbed his sword swinging it upward to come down upon the attacker.

“Alistair!” Galen’s voice snapped the image away, leaving the knight gasping and staring down at the young man with hands lifted in defense. He dropped the claymore, taking a few steps back as he stared up at the ruin’s spires brushing against the clouds. “Alistair, what’s the matter with you?”

“I…” The knight opened his mouth as he ran a hand over his sweating brow. “It was a green flame.”

Galen paled. “The Order of Verdamus?”

Alister felt something inside him twist, a brief pain, but it set him off into another coughing frenzy. He doubled over, hacking violently as Galen came to his side, wincing at the harshness of Alistair’s fit. Whads of black red blood splat against the mossy cobblestone. Alistair dragged in a ragged breath as Galen helped him stand upright. He leaned against Galen, the young man stumbling under the weight of larger.

“What were they doing here?”

Alistair steadied himself. “Do you think they took her?”

Galen began to shake “I thought that they had been wiped out.”

Alistair shook his head. “Not all of them. I remember from my childhood, your father and the King drove them from the cities, but I do not think they would have been exterminated.” He pushed himself back to his feet, looking toward the decimated fortress. “What was this place called?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I don’t like the look of this anymore.” Alistair pulled back to gaze at the surrounding forest, suddenly fearful and far more aware of the threat that they had thwarted. “We need to go back.”

“What about the tower?” Galen glanced back up at the crumbling structure. “She could be up there.”

Alistair was unsure as he considered the two options. “Let’s go and come back, I don’t want to stay here very long.” Galen nodded and they walked closer to the jagged path. Alistair couldn’t help but breathe heavily as the base of the fortress came into view, the soft light of sunrise peeking up over the mountains in the distance. There was no life in the hidden cascades of fallen stone that had gathered through the ages. Alistair and Galen stared at the sight, unsure of what their the future had lying in wait for them.

“Alright. We’ve seen it. Time to return home.”

Part 3 - Chapter 1

“We had to take her to the tower.” The older man tried to push Galen away unsuccessfully. “Where else could she possibly be?”

Tears filled his eyes as he reeled back and let his fist collide with the side of Alistair’s face. “She was everything to me.” He screamed. Alistair’s condition hindered him, but it did not stop the knight from returning the blow against his younger friend. Galen tottered, taking a step back as his face stung, but remained standing.

“What is the matter with you?” Alistair said, hacking as he coughed up yet another wad of coagulated blood. “She is a High Priestess of the Maguardia. A bastard son of a prince as no hope a life with her.”

Galen’s anger sparked and he threw another punch at Alistair, who just barely missed it. He grabbed the young man by the back of his metal collar guard, swinging him around until Alistair’s wounded leg gave out beneath him. He fell hard, the claymore clattering against stone as he tried to drag Galen with him, but the man pulled out of his grasp. Alistair rolled across the mossy cobblestone, struggling back to his feet slowly.

“Marina and I had a life,” Galen spat. “We needed no one’s permission to be happy.”

“Are you mad Galen?” Alistair heaved again, grabbing his fallen claymore to lift himself from his knees. “If they found out you’d be dead.”

The silence of the morning settled around them again. “What does it matter? I’d rather that than this. This fucking incertitude.” Galen turned away slowly, looking up towards the tower. “She’s gone and we know nothing. Why would she save you?”

“‘Find me where the water parts,’”

“What?”

Alistair took a deep breath and stood straight. “I heard her say that.” The two men were silent. The air was heavy with the morning dew as they stared at one another. Alistair swallowed hard. “I heard her voice and then woke up.”

Galen shook his head. “What does that mean?”

Alistair spit again, widening his stance with some difficulty as he looked toward the ruins. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what happened and you don’t know what she means.” The words slipped out like a sigh, Galen’s frozen from twisting in on itself as he fell to his knees, the tears spilling freely now. “That selfish girl.”

He placed the claymore against the remains of a wall, in the back of his mind he ached for the taste of a pipe between his teeth. Anything to ease the confusion and anxiety from questions that grew in his mind. He watched Galen cry, doubled over while he tried to stifle the sobs in his throat. Alistair felt sorry for the boy, and could not help but remember the blue faun eyed boy dressed in fine clothes that approached him in the training yards, which felt like ages ago.

Part 2 - Chapter 1

“I’m sorry, Galen.” He muttered as he pushed off the old stone, stumbling as he used his blade like a crutch, stabbing it into the earth as he moved toward the dark haired man. Galen rushed across the bloodied clearing, jumping over corpses, to loop Alistar’s arm over his shoulder and steady his old friend. Galen took the claymore from his hand and the two hobbled back towards the tall stone, leaning Alistar against it once again.

“By god, man. Your chest,” The young man’s wide-eyed gaze flicked between the hole in the tunic and Alistar’s labored expression. “Marina. Where is she?”

“I don’t know, she’s gone.”

Anger and fear washed Galen’s face as he began to shake the wounded older man by the shoulders until he winced from the twinging leg. “What are you talking about? What happened? Where did she go?”

“I don’t know,” Alistar yelled again, pushing Galen away from him, collapsing back against the stone.

“How do you not?” Galen turned, gazing over the men he had grown and trained with, brutally slain and left in their own entrails. “I was barely gone,” He said softly.

Alistair started to cough, leaning to the side to spit a hunk of blood that had risen in his throat. “The last thing I remember was waking up. Before that, we were just walking, carrying out our escort.” He dragged the back of his hand across his face, the blood smearing across his lips. “It’s all black.”

“Because you saw nothing?”

Alistair gripped the claymore tighter. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Galen. There is nothing and that’s all there is.”

Galen kicked one of the dead priests, his figure shaking in anger. “She was right there.” He said violently, “And what happened to you? How does one forget a hole in their chest?”

Alistair made no answer as he pushed off of the stone and began to stagger towards the ruins in the distance. “I can’t rightly say.”

Galen groaned as he watched the knight continue towards their escort’s destination. “Alistair, stop. You’ll make yourself weak.” The young man continued to watch him wobble down the broken path toward the old fortress towering in the muted sky. “Alistair you stubborn bastard,” Galen swore, breaking into a short jog to catch up to him. He slid up in front of Alistair, eyes dark with frustration and concern.

 Part 1 - Chapter 1

“Find me where the water parts,” She said.

Alistair breathed heavily as he sat up, covered in sweat and slipping on the grimy sod. His hand flew to his chest, gasping and trembling as he gripped the torn and bloody tunic, his skin smooth and clean beneath it. Alistair screamed into the dark lonely wood, shattering the silence around to scare birds from their sleeping roosts. She was gone, and he’d been left behind again.

He limped across the wartorn clearing, hopping over the few corpses of priests and fallen warriors in his path. Alistair cursed as he tripped over a severed arm, tangling between his legs as he slammed back against the ground. Snarling with pain, he pushed himself up knocking his hand against hard stone as he sought sturdy ground. Alistair used the chunk to pull himself upright, the claymore steel clinking against the marble as he stood trembling from the slowing adrenaline and pain coursing through his system. The ruins of the old castle were not so far in the distance, leaning against what remained of its grand entryway. Alistair stood quietly breathing as he leaned against the mossy stone, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Marina,” The words broke from his chapped lips as he lifted his gaze to the waning crescent in wrapped the blanket of shimmering lights. “You selfish girl,” He muttered as he pressed his hand to his face. Alistair reached around in the darkness of the soaked ground, his nails clicking against something metal. He grasped the handle of the claymore, pulling the log of steel closer. Alistair slid it upward, planting the bloodstained weapon into the ripped skin of the earth. He screamed again as he pulled himself to his feet. She had healed the hole in his chest, but the hasty priestess had still left his leg torn open.

Alistair continued to cling to the stone, his breath shallow as he listened to the approaching footsteps followed by the swish of clothing and the familiar ache of leather. There was a sickening crack and a soft squish. “Oh, god.” a man uttered softly. Alister relaxed as he turned around with difficulty, seeing the young man standing amidst the chaos. The man gripped at his chest plate, looking around until he met Alistar’s gaze. “How?” The word dropped from his mouth like a stone.