All but Death, can be Adjusted
All but Death, can be Adjusted?
Dynasties repaired?
Systems?settled in their Sockets?
Citadels?dissolved?

Wastes of Lives?resown with Colors
By Succeeding Springs?
Death?unto itself?Exception?
Is exempt from Change?

--Emily Dickinson


"This is where death waits."

"If death were to wait in any one place ... this would be it."

Only four short years have passed since those few words were spoken, and yet in all the long centuries of its existence no truer statement describes The Bone Grove more succinctly. Her sanctuary has never been a place to seek refuge and solace from the terrors of the world. No. Faye's grove has always been that one finite dimension of inevitable and inescapable truth. All things must die.

The Bone Grove is nothing more than a physical manifestation of the end of all things, a place between this world and the next. It is the center of the line that the spirit known as She Who Tends the Dead walks eternally between good and evil, a perfect representation of neutrality and apathy. It is a place that exists as a testimony to the natural order of the physical world. In the beginning there is life, and throughout life there are hardships, but no matter what path one chooses to walk, in the end there is always death awaiting. And in that place she waits, always waits, to collect the remnants of a life that was and dispose of the evidence as she had been created to do. It is her task, her domain, to tend to the dead.

Appearances can be deceiving. Call it what you will: glamour, illusion, hallucination, mystery or the Veil. The truth remains that those who stumble upon the portal to this place see only a sorrowful mundane reality. In this world, the gateway can be found deep in the heart of the forests southwest of Rhydin City. Though it cannot be found easily. As a location imbued strongly with Her essence, it radiates a sense of foreboding for miles around that generally deters woodland travelers from wanting to get anywhere near the location. Less intelligent creatures seem to gravitate away from it without even knowing why. For the animals, it is simply not a direction they want to go in, and the same is true of weaker willed people.

If one listens carefully, one might reflect on how peculiar the silence is. At night, not a single cricket or nocturnal creature stirs nor speaks. During the day it is not much different. Even the birds are oddly silent surrounding the small meadow in the center of the forest. To those ungifted, unwanted, and unaware it appears to be nothing more than an empty glade with a small boulder no larger than a volleyball stuck in the ground in the center. Those who venture to look close enough, through the plush grass that grows there, might notice that the rock is engraved with strange and dizzying markings. Apart from that, the only other peculiar thing about the grove is the energy in this place.

The air is unnaturally cool as if it were perpetually autumn, no matter what the season. Those who venture through are always left with a chilled feeling, as if they have just walked through Death himself and managed to survive. That is not too entirely far from the truth. And those people are often haunted forever with the impactful fact that their time on this world is limited. It is only a matter of time.

Beyond the Veil is something more extraordinary, something more macabre. Though one must have the know how to break through all her carefully crafted barriers. One must be invited to see the truth of all things. And not many people are willing to accept the facts as they are, the domain that she serves. All things must die. If one can accept this truth, then one may be welcome to see that...

In fact, the circular grove is not carpeted with plush grass. Instead, the ground consists of layer upon layer of crushed, broken, and scattered skeletons, bones of humans and animals and other creatures alike. Some are common, some are foreign, but they all belonged once to a living being of some sort. The ground is a testimony to the inevitable truth that she represents eternally. Old blood soaks the earth and makes it moist, squishy. The scent of death and decay permeates everything.

Instead of a small stone, there is a large boulder in the center of the Bone Grove. That boulder, like the glamoured stone in the false glade, is decorated in runework and ancient incantations. The boulder is split in half with one flat side and a etchings that bear the resemblance of a single grave marker. What the engraving reads may remain a mystery to those whose eyes lie to them.

The feeling, the energy, is thicker in the air to those who step into her sanctuary. Imbued with her purest essence, of all that is the whole of her being, if death were to wait in any one place this would be it. This is where She lives.

In A Name
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not?what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanished shadows?Are they so?
Is not the past all shadow??What are they?
Creations of the mind??The mind can make
Substances, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

--The Dream by Lord Byron


"Who are you?"

They always ask. Sometimes the question is not always so simply stated, but they always ask. Who is she? What is her name? What does she do, for a living? The answer is always the same. "I am She Who Tends the Dead." She answers simply, always, without feeling or expression. This is the way she is. The reaction is always the same.

A long and uncomfortable moment of silence passes. Uncomfortable for the one asking, that is. She never feels a thing. She waits for the impact of her words to settle, and almost always the one asking says only, "Oh." Any other thoughts one might have on the matter are lost to a deep-seated and suddenly unexplained feeling of dread and discomfort. Not one living creature has ever been able to face the truth without a sense of melancholy.

For a name, hers is quite a mouthful. Several have told her that over time. The first that she recalls is a mystic who kept the company of an animated talking staff. Raz and Heka. Even the learned amongst mortals can be simple-minded creatures. They were the first to simply call her Faye. "I am known also as Faye," she says. "You may call me this if it is easiest for you to accept."

The truth is never easy, nor is it kind. She represents this eternally, has for years longer than even she can recall, centuries or even eons. For as long as there has been life and time, She has always been. For all things living, so too must all things die. Everything has an end. "I do not deal in souls," She tells them.

"Then what do you deal in?"

"My domain concerns that which the living leaves behind."

Not everyone understands. Some few ask for clarification. But many she has encountered are intelligent enough to put the pieces of her cryptic words together to form a complete puzzle. The picture is as profoundly clear as her name. Made brighter and clearer to those who have visited her Grove, or at least seen it.

"Others call you Randy." This is almost a question; it is enough for her to explain.

"There was a time I worked behind the bar of the Red Dragon Inn," she tells them. Many find this strange. Many wonder why a creature such as her would have a need to work. "I did not work because of necessity," she tells them, "but out of curiosity. Even the fae are curious."

"What does that have to do with being called Randy?" They ask, as always, ever impatient. She is a slow creature, a being of meticulously stated words. She takes her time.

"During the time of my employ, the current proprietor asked me what name I would like printed upon my badge. I told the owner then, as I tell everyone now, that any random name would do. Apparently the management had a sense of humor."

Some have the courage to laugh. Others suppress the urge. To some laughing feels completely wrong in her presence. Not many are comfortable laughing in the face of death. Not the Death of legend with his robe and cowl of black, skeletal limbs and glistening scythe. She is another aspect entirely, as they are told.

"These names I have adopted for the ease of mortal minds," she tells them. "Faye Random. You may call me whichever you prefer."

"What's your preference?" Some ask.

She tells them. "I have no preference." Any random name will do.

Fewer still have the honor of calling her Mother.

Abomination Born
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously?his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share

--The Dream by Lord Byron


The story* of the second is more rightfully the story of her first. For the one named Mesteno is not her child by any truths of flesh and blood. In her heart she keeps him, if she has a heart at all. Figuratively, such a sentiment is accurate. Just as well is the truth of this one's existence. In no literal sense does she have either flesh or blood, but only the purest essence of her entire being, and it was from that he was made.

Long ago she had been certain there would never be a creature worthy of her mating. The fae of her kind are elusive creatures, selfishly aloof. They watch the world go by and so infrequently interfere, nearly never place their mark upon the cosmos. They simply are, as they should be, and do as they were designed to do, for every aspect of nature any one may represent.

Over the many long centuries of her existence, many had tried to woo her. Most of them were of her own kind. There was one in particular who attempted to persuade her more often than most. He was persistent, relentless, but always she turned him down. His proposals were of no interest to her. They always came with stipulations, expectations, and she wanted nothing of that.

Imagine her surprise, then, when it was a mortal human man whose proposal intrigued her enough to reconsider. This one man asked nothing of her at all, expected nothing either. His only wish was for a child that he could raise on his own without the influence of the mother. One he could care for with his lover, who was incapable of bearing children for him. Fate had most certainly brought them together that day.

For it is known that the fae of her kind do not raise their children. Like sea turtles and some snakes, they merely create and leave their young to fend for themselves upon hatching. Eggs she does not lay, but nor does she have the organs necessary to carry the unborn and later give birth to it when it is complete. Their method of procreation is something else entirely. The ethereal make their young and then leave them. That is their way.

It is also known that it is forbidden for fae and mortal kind to mix, to mate. Old histories tell of the creatures made from such whimsical fancies. The word whispered amongst such spirits is abomination. Often they are unstable beasts who are quick to reach their end, not living long. Out of curiosity, wonder, and a long buried desire to create one of her own essence, she defied those sacred laws and granted this mortal man his wish.

Seven months it took them, a series of rituals, trials and tests the man was made to suffer through. But he was determined. He had made his decision. He had agreed. And on the first of winter so many years ago the process was complete. Erred, but complete. What was made had not been her intention, but it was all thta she could do. Even the fae are imperfect beings.

From his chrysalis their child was born, three months later, on the first of spring five years ago. All of that is history, but the truth remains. This one, Salvador Delahada, is the only one who can rightfully, truly, call her Madre.



*(Author's Note: For those curious to learn the complete story, which was written some time ago, please visit GreaterRealms, register, and request access to the adult subfourm to be able to read the Casa de Sangre folder under which all of this history has already previously been archived.)

"I ... she ... she saved him.

"And she was ... just ... she knew what people were capable of. She listened ... and if you spoke true ... she was ... she let you know that it honored her ... or you ... or both! She was ... is ... has ... a very difficult ... task. Always, she deals with death. Always she deals with decay and the sound of the death cry. The rattle. And yet ... she could deal with ... and make connection with ... the living. Let me tell you, little man ... that takes ... courage and balls of steel.

"I love your mother."

--Gemethyst


These were the words that broke him, that made him rethink everything he had ever thought. When she spoke them, her words had been filled with so much emotion. Admiration and respect, and yes even that aforementioned love. Something that not even he had felt for his mother, and frankly that made him instead feel sick.

Today I found a mirror, and looking in I saw two dark eyes that glittered green.

They were not my own eyes.

Salvador thought back, and those were the first words he remembered. Though they certainly weren't the first words he had ever written. Memories work in strange ways. The recall is never played forward, but in reverse. The first memory becomes the last, most recent, until filtering far back enough in history that all we find is nothing.

When first he had looked into those glittering green eyes, that's what he had seen. Nothing. Just as she had told him, that's what they were. He was nothing. She was nothing. Those like them were only nothing. And that's how he felt every time he stood beside her, his mother. Compared to her he was nothing.

Gem's words made it true.

If only he could make sense of it all. He was learning, starting to understand. "I don't know anything." One day he finally admitted to that. Those few words were a litany that continuously rolled through every other thought he ever had. More often than he might like, that truth came up in every conversation he ever had since then too.

"If you could be completely free of your mother, would you?"

"I don't know."

So many conversations changed everything he had ever known about her. Some discussions stabbed too close to the heart. Which unlike her was something he was starting to realize he actually had. Or maybe, just maybe, they were more alike than either of them preferred to admit.

sometimes - when I dream I'm not myself


?Look, mam?! Look at all the crows!? Dozens of them fluttered about in the trees at the edge of the field. They croaked raucous challenges at each other. Some swooped low to the ground in sporadic semi-circles, not quite daring enough to fully land in the tall grasses.

The boy?s mother tried to usher him back to the safety and sanity of their picnic blanket. Crows were filthy birds in her opinion. ?Oh dear, Carmine, come away there. Come back. Your sister?s following you now. She?ll get her dress dirty!? Her pleas were no good. He was far too curious about what made all those black birds so excited.

His sister had only recently learned to walk, and she loved to follow him everywhere. Only out of concern that she might trip and fall did he stop. ?Look, Elsie,? he said, taking her little hand. She giggled when he pointed out the crows. Everything was so new and exciting to her too. ?Look at them all!? He jogged up the hill, and she tottered along in his wake.

Two approaching children did not seem to dissuade the birds any. They continued to bicker and argue over who should be allowed closer to the ground and who should stay in the trees. Only when the boy was close enough to challenge them did they act as one. Elsie screeched when one flew down so close it whipped her hair in passing. The boy tripped over something, perhaps a root, and landed on something else that was much softer and slimier. The first thing he saw was one of those big birds staring him in the eye. It opened its black beak wide, fanned out its wings, and said, ?Caw!? For some reason, Elsie started to cry.

?Oh my. Oh good heavens.? Their mother was closing in on them. She had chased after them dutifully, but not at all quickly. The tall grass was just as filthy, in her opinion, as the crows were. ?Carmine, what have you done to make your sister cry now?? And then, she screamed.

He did not know precisely why his mother had started shrieking like that until he pushed himself off the ground. He realized that the ground was strangely gooey and that he had stuck his hand in something both squishy and sharp. When he looked down, he saw that he had fallen on a mound of dirt that was strangely colored. There was no grass under the tree here. Some of the dirt was a sickly gray-tinged pink. Other patches, like the hole he had put his hand in, were a slimy brownish red. The crow that had yelled at him previously was standing atop another smaller mount that seemed to be looking at him. He thought it even had an eye.

?Come away from there! Get up, get away!? His mother was still screaming, and by now she had got a hold of his shirt and was pulling him away. The further away he got from the mound, the more the shapes and colors started to make sense. He had not landed on a muddy little hill, after all, and he had not tripped on a raised root. What had got the crows so excited that day happened to be a human corpse.

Elsie was crying, wailing in the way babies do when something is wrong but they know not what. His mother, being the fastidious sort of woman she was, kept shrieking until she was hoarse. Other people were starting to arrive, having heard the noise clear across the field and into town. They boy just stood there and stared at the body, at the cold and slimy blood stuck to his hands. It was the first time he had seen a corpse.

The crows had quieted down. They could not compete with a frantic mother and a frightened toddler. And while the gutted body was so terribly fascinating, something else caught the boy?s attention. A sharp glimmer of silver light flashed in the corner of his eye. At first he thought it was maybe the sun turning an odd angle. Certainly was bright enough to sting! He lifted his arm to shield his eyes, and then he saw that same light flash again. This time it came from above. Squinting and holding his arm over his head, he lifted his chin to look up into the closest tree. There was something sitting there on the lowest branch, something that was not a crow.

It was smaller than a bird, but bigger than the bug he mistook it for at first. Fanned out and swaying lazily from the creatures back were three sets of paper thin see-through wings that glittered silver in the light. A worm long tail dropped off the back of the branch behind the creature, curling and uncurling the shape of a hook. Two large yellow eyes, pupils slit like a cat, peered down at him from a face that could have been beautiful if not so very terrifying. She, for some reason he had a feeling the creature was female, smiled at him through a row of sharp and pointy little teeth. He thought for sure he was looking at a tiny little demon who had stolen the shape of a woman without breasts. Her chest was flat and glossy like the rest of her body, dusted gold and silver.

She looked down from her vigil and saw him standing there. He was unlike any other, for he looked up and saw her looking down at him. Elsie and his mother, and the other adults who had come to investigate the shock of a dead body, did not see her there. He waited for someone to say, ?Look! There in the tree! What is that thing?? But nobody did. He thought to be the one to say it himself, but the strange little woman winked at him. For some reason the wink had him deciding better of speaking up at all. It was as if they were sharing a secret, he and this fearsome little fairy, and all children liked secrets.

?Carmine,? said his mother. He hardly heard her until she became more persistent and grabbed his hand. ?Carmine! What are you looking at? Come away from there.? She pulled him away from the body, the tree, and the mean little creature. He blinked and turned away, only to keep himself from tripping over his own two feet. His mother dragged him further down the hill and back to the safe cleanliness of their picnic blanket. He looked back over his shoulder and craned his neck to see. Even by squinting he could only see that she was gone, whatever she had been.


then I wake and remember who I am

Dusk gathers around him, this man, this shadowcat, as he walks; gathers in a long blue cloak lain over the city. The first star--wish away--bursts into cold and pitiless fire overhead. This is an interstitial instant: he is neither here nor there, in this time that is neither day nor night. If he spread his arms wide, like so, could he gather it all up, fold it up into some origami perfection? Could he unfold it again into some new reality? He believes that he can. It is the end of the first day, of a ritual that has initiated him into the first secrets of the magic of life and death. His heart is clenched and dizzy with newfound power.

Necromancy, is the name it calls itself.

Around him are scents and sounds that do not belong to this springtime season: fallen decaying leaves, the mournfully distant moan of copper chime. These are the things that trickle through the city streets this night. There are hints and premonitions in his every breath, oracles singing in every shadow. Surely that was the hush of angels' wings, drawing close to watch rapt and adoring this fool crawling about in the mud. He is going to and fro in the earth, walking up and down in it. Surely someone is paying attention. Surely.

Someone is, of this he is suddenly certain: a chill and ominous presence that crawls through cracks and slithers under doors, the kind that sends a shiver down the spine. Someone's walking over his grave. From around that corner will come the knife, the wicked laughter in the dark, the end of all things. Will her name be last on his lips, when it comes? It lurks, it waits; a heavy and ever present reminder of what is, what will be.

Death, is the name he gives it.

The clouds roll in on a wave of ominous agreement, the better to blot out the last of the light. The temperature drops in the time it takes him to reach the porch of the inn. He stands there, casting his attention up and down the street, waiting. His hands are loose and easy at his sides, the better to embrace, to dance, to murder. Along his spine, an uncomfortable tingle dances on needlepoint.

He feels it, senses the spectre that makes dogs bark at the empty night, the peripheral shadow that makes children leap from their beds and cry, something's in the closet! Something's under the bed! There's nothing there, darling. Nothing there at all, some would soothe, but he knows better than to offer false comfort, even to himself. He is himself the monster hiding behind the pleasant stranger's face, after all.

Tension rides the air. ?Come out,? he murmurs to the blank and yawning windows across the street. To the length of empty cobbles receding into infinity like a nightmare, he says, ?Come out.? To the sky concealing a storm in its heart behind a gruff face, he insists, ?Wherever you are.?

Everywhere, she breathes.

A breeze spirals through. It skirls past like a bagpipe dirge, over and under and around rail planks. His eyes reflect too much light, firing a cat?s yellow eyeshine off into the lowering night. The angry sky spins dizzily overhead as he turns, orbits some invisible interior sun. His hands open, lift: he offers a double handful of emptiness to the dark's encroaching.

Here, sighs a breeze along his ear. There, comes a distant, haunting moan. Everywhere, ruffles a wind all around, teasing through his too-long hair. He revolves again in a perfect counterpoint to that insidious chill, trailing his fingers through it as if it were water. The gesture is a caress, and a demand; but that's his way. The air leaves microscopic crystals on his fingertips, of frost and silver. Ghostly children tug at his clothes.

You are the one whom last she gave her heart to, the mistral whispers to him.

More than his fingers go frigid and frosty at those words. The endless cold flashes along his skin, standing every hair on end before diving down into the very marrow of his bones. His voice shifts from a bedroom purr into a Sendak growl: the wild thing is right here, baring his teeth. ?Who?"

Gemethyst, sighs the spirit.

He knows. He is waiting for it, waiting for the word, the sign, the name. When it happens, it tears at him--and in return, he tears at it, breaking reality on the razor edge of his grief and pulling the truth through. A howl splits the atmosphere, the yowl of a cat caught in bear trap. There is a flicker flash of wild eyes, of luminescent yellow piercing through the silver, the sinuous sway of an agitated tail. Tiny little claws, sharp pointed teeth rend and tear the flesh of his palms.

The truth is a fearsome thing, a tight and coiling cloud of silver. Minuscule silver razors bite and gnash at his skin as he tightens his grip. The torc around his throat throws back the bitter argent light, paints it a violent gold; he sinks both hands into ice and fire, pulls though his bones are roasting and his heart is frozen. Images flicker and swirl: the cloud, the beast, the woman. Entropic essence tears and claws, pushes into his flesh. Life meets death.

Release me, whispers the silver whirlwind.

Sweat breaks out and freezes on his skin. In his eyes is a heap of broken images, where the sun beats, and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, and the dry stone no sound of water. ?Tell me the truth!? he shouts at what he has in his hands. ?He was wrong, wasn't he? Wasn't he?? His voice breaks on the Catherine wheel of his own rage and sorrow.

In his hands the spirit hisses: how dare he speak to her thus, how dare he lay hands upon her! A low and mournful sound trickles into the night, a whining cat's mewl.

He was wrong, she whispers, because ghosts whisper only truth.

The cloud of silver flickers and condenses, uncoiling and shifting. Before him stands a woman soon enough, plain of features and without expression. Her hands are cold, her dark eyes hollow. Three inches over five feet tall, she looms on bare feet. At once his damaged hands spring open and release her. He takes a single stumbling step backward, and drops to his knees before her, head bent as if awaiting the blade.

The silence that infiltrates this moment is deafening. Burns and frostbite on his hands fade by agonizingly slow degrees. She has no blade to give him, only a hand which she slowly, gently places upon the crown of his bowed head. At her touch, he looks up at her. His expression is surely nothing she hasn't seen before, surely something she?s seen more times than any man has years left to him.

Dead, he says to himself, into that silence.

Her hand drifts away from his hair. Chill fingers find a cheek and settle there. The truth is never easy, nor is it pleasant, says her empty stare. The truth can shatter all hopes and dreams. There is no apology in her eyes for the weight he must now bear. Her chill hand cups the curve of his cheek, and she steps closer to rest her other hand again on the crown of his head.

He turns his face into her hand, his wasteland eyes closing. And he says, ?I wish...?

I was going to die. It wasn't the first time it could've happened. Not even the first time it did. I was going to die by a friend's hands...


"Wish this could end differently," Morgan says.

"We're not playing by our rules anymore, mi amigo." He is panting as he pushes himself up to his feet. He turns to face his opponent, his friend. He lifts his chin with pride. If he must die, even by the hands of a friend, then, he thinks, at least let him die facing him. Let him die with pride.

"How ... differently?" That isn't Morgan. That is Kymeera's voice. The Keeper has been watching all this time, and now he chooses to speak? Now he interrupts them? Why?

"Well, getting what I want without slaughtering Sal would have been nice."

There is a thought, a knowledge deep inside his very being. And now he grins when it dawns on him. Kymeera is bound to grant wishes, like his mother, one wish to anyone who asks it of him. Are they all bound by that law, that rule? He places one hand over his bleeding stomach, now focusing his concentration to activate a biofeedback, to control the flow of his blood.

The Keeper slides languidly off of his throne of shadow and steps into the arena. Red-painted lips are pulled back and down, he is scowling as he approaches them. "Choose your words wisely, Morgan Knight. What ... precisely ... is your wish?"

Oh, God, he thinks. Yes, please. Please don't f*ck this up, Morgan.

Morgan is silent for quite some time. He looks at the Keeper. He thinks on it for several minutes. Then he speaks. "I wish this contest were ended, with myself declared as the victor, but with the terms of the original agreement which discussed the purpose and outcomes of this conflict modified in such a way that my victory remains valid without Sal's existence coming to an end, and is conditional instead upon having defeated Sal rather than one of us dying, and further modified so that Sal is hereby freed from the Oath of Guardianship he has taken to you as recompense for participating and all knowledge of his true name is immediately transferred from you to him without memory of it remaining to you, and this modified agreement shall be enforced as stringently upon you as the initial one was, indicating that you will henceforth act towards my sister, Katie Rose Wylie, as you would have acted towards my sister had I won under the stipulations of the original contact."

Silence.

Holy sh*t. He blinks at Morgan. He sucks in a near silent breath and stares at him. Such a long-winded speech, a well-worded wish. If he were more clever himself, perhaps he could find a loophole in all of that. Certainly Kymeera has found one? Hasn't he? And why? Why include the stipulation of freeing him from his oath? Why would Morgan do that? Come on, Kymeera. You must have found something. Some loophole to ruin it entirely. Hasn't he? Hasn't he...?

Silence.

Kymeera scowls. Violet eyes burn red, furious red that stays red as he looks at Morgan. His voice is hollow, passionless. Finally he says, "Very well."

Very well? Very well? He found nothing? Nothing at all? Or is he simply not saying anything? Perhaps he's holding back what he knows? Isn't there something?

The Keeper snaps his fingers and a flare of purple light dances across the two scrolls hovering by the throne of shadow. That light etches a signature across each of the contracts. They roll themselves up, bind themselves in purple ribbon, and disappear. Only they reappear in Kymeera's bejeweled hands. He offers one to Morgan. "Your sister, bound not by blood, Katie Rose Wylie, will henceforth only be of interest to me as is necessary and required of my dominion."

Then the spirit offers the second scroll to him. "I release you from the Oath of Guardianship, Salvador Delahada Azar-Gonzalez. Karma Made Flesh. Venganza de la Sangre. Son of She Who Tends the Dead, the Linewalker, the Truthspeaker. Secret Keeper. Your name is now your own, and my voice when speaking it will hold no power over you forevermore."

He blinks. He stares at the contract. His hand shakes as he reaches to take it, fingers curling loosely around it. This is unbelievable. This is incredible. This is... this is... He can't think. The contract peels away into a million purple particles that swirl around his body and into it. It is an agreement that is legal and binding in the eyes of all faekind. It is a knowledge that becomes his own.

"Now ... go," says the Keeper. The spirit waves a hand flippantly at the two of them, and as quickly as he blinks he realizes he is no longer standing there in the Nightmare Realm.

He awakes with a startled gasp. Had he been sleeping? He sits up quickly in his bed and looks around frantically. His hand lands on his stomach where the wound there is sealing. A wound. A stomach wound made from a sword. With a shivering breath of a sigh he falls back upon his bed. He stares at the ceiling. He feels a burning sting of liquid at the corners of his eyes.


...and I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

A Child's Calendar

The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.

The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.

And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness

-- John Updike


This is her season. When the leaves begin to change, dwindle from the vibrant greens and fade into other colors: gold and red and orange and brown. When the first branch lets go of its first leaf of the year and lets it fall, drift and spiral down to earth, this is her time.

Autumn is her season.

The temperature grows cooler, and the trickling rains become chill. At night the dark is enveloped by a hushed and fading quiet. Soon will come the snows, and the crickets sing their farewell songs. During the day the birds gather and prepare their long flights south, all but the winter birds, those that stay behind.

This is the time of dying. Trees harden their roots and shed their leaves. Squirrels gather nuts and tuck them securely into their nests. Bears eat all they can, grow fat, only in preparation for wasting away for the three long months yet to come.

Her hand touches everything at this time. Her hand is the caress of age. Another year goes by. Time takes its toll.

It is She who makes that one hair gray, who puts the wrinkle in the corner of your eye. It is She who turns the leaves from green to gold and later makes them wither brown. That which has fallen becomes dust in the end. That which was living joins the ranks of the dead, makes way for the new life that will be.

Her essence adds gold to its silver. Her power now is great. She is a force to be reckoned with that cannot be defeated, save for the unfortunate few who are cursed to live forever.