Saturday, December 22, 2007. After midnight.
(Cross-posted from Mutual Endeavors.)
Ambrosia was burning. It was not the first time Ambrosia had burned, but it would be the last. She watched the blaze engulf the screaming hundreds from a distance miles away. She watched from amidst the refuse of many lives long lost. She watched from atop a stone etched in runes.
She Who Tends the Dead watched, and for the first time in the centuries she had come to forget ... there were tears in her eyes. We cry for the things we cannot have ourselves. Faye cried for Ambrose. No. She cried for a man whose name she did not know. A name she watched be lost to time and the dust of ages. Except where he had buried it. In the mind of a boy who was bound never to speak it.
The fae do not shed tears of saline and water. Composed of magical essence, their tears were shimmering powder that hardened in the air. They collected as stardust and shaped themselves into crystal when rolling down a cheek. Faye's tears fell as little drops of mournful silver that tinkled and chimed the sound of copper as they bounced down the side of her rock. The night air was hollow and quiet, even the breeze was silent. What visions it carried to her from the city to her grove had only whispers of the past as its soundtrack.
nothing here for you to see
no spirit fine, only me
but lost I am, as you know
here I stay; I will not go
She sang those words once, as poetry nearly a full month past. Now, perhaps, she sang them again. Or maybe they were little more than an echo that filtered through into a dying mind. Maybe, just maybe, they were a comfort. On this night, Faye dared to hope.
Her tears did not tumble into the sea of bones and blood at the base of her stone. She did not count the number shed. For whom they fell, though, the quantity amounted to a great honor that she had likely never bestowed before. If time had meaning and the times had been different, what could have come?
Inky black shadows boiled up out of the decay-littered ground and pooled around her stone. They caught and cushioned the rolling jewels. She knew the owner of the hand that formed, knew the body that rose, before the need to look upon him. "Come, Jackal King," she said softly. Her haunting voice nearly broke its usual composure. "I taste you there."
At any other time, and without her invitation, this visitation would have been looked upon as an intrusion. Trespassing. Though for one such as the Jackal King, as she called him -- Faust, as he called himself -- her permission was not needed.
The Jackal King had no story to impart upon her or anyone else this night. He had only a smile that was more pleased with himself than thoughtful as before. He had only that, and the body cradled in his arms. His eyes were still lit by the blaze of a smoldering night club miles away. He held the body out to her and said nothing.
With her tears shed, her apathy returned. She turned her head and looked upon the pallid corpse with practiced stoicism. "It is done then," she said. "You have what you came for."
"I have collected what is mine," said Faust. "The rest is yours to tend, as it has always been." He stepped up her rock and gave the body over to her.
Faye took the lifeless shell and put its head upon her lap. She skimmed her fingers through dark brown hair and brushed them over closed eyes she knew to be blue. She stroked his face as if he were only a sleeping child. Something to love silently, to admire when he was unaware. Approximately one hundred seventy-five pounds of flesh and bone settled across her folded legs. "What he once was," she murmured, "he is no more."
"All is as it should be," said the Jackal King, stepping back down from her rock.
She did not watch him go. They had no further words to share between each other. She did not need to watch to know that he fell away to shadow. She did not need to see to know that he was gone. The night was silent and red again. The solstice was yet hours away, but this year she decided winter could come early.
In life, Ambrose may have been considered beautiful. His body was free of scars, except for the one faint arch on the back of his right hand. He had a swimmer's build and patient eyes. In undeath he retained all of those charming qualities. In death, he could have been at peace. "Gods give names to men so that they will build kingdoms for them," she told his body.
"And take them away so that they will build none."
The breeze in her grove was hollow and empty, though it tried to breathe that echo back at her. Cupping his frozen face in her hands, she smiled. The always stoic and emotionless Faye ... smiled.
"But a kingdom," she whispered against his cheek, "can only be passed from father to son."
Her charge for eternity was to tend to the dead. Her task was to collect the refuse of lives once lived and to dispose of it all as Nature decreed. Entropy and decay were her domains. Her grove was a mural that told the inevitable truth to those who tried to deny it to themselves day by day. "Let life take the living, and let death stake her claim." That night, however, she did not.
Faye pressed her lips against a set cold and stiff, and she kissed him. She kissed Ambrose's corpse mouth as if he were alive to feel it. Her lips spread patterns of frost across solid flesh, tendrils that unfurled and curled, spread out to encase the shell of a body once lived in. Her touch was meant to cause decay, to melt away the cells and convert them into naught but ashes and dust. That night she broke the rules. His deserved fate did not lead to this end. Not by her whim.
What remained of blood and bones became ice, she lifted her head to admire the gentle repose of the sculpture. She smiled still, and turned her head. Lifting her hand away from Ambrose's face, she touched her nails to the rock beside and beneath her.
Rune-etched stone split as if a seam had always been there down the middle. Silver light invaded the darkness of winter night and made her sanctuary glow. The crack grew, crawled down the sides of her throne and burrowed deep into bone-littered terrain until a half of it shattered.
"If I can give you one last honor," she said to nothing but a shell of a man. One whom some had dared deem monster. "Let my gift be that you shall never be forgotten. You will never fade away."
A hundred seventy-five pounds of frozen flesh and bone weighed no more than a splinter to one made of pure essence as she. Faye lifted the Elder's remains in her arms and stood from her rock. Stepping down from it on a staircase made of air, she dissolved into a hazy silver mist to cushion and carry his fall into a shallow grave. Dirt and skeletons rolled away, dug up the hole for her by her will and power alone.
As they descended together into her bed, his grave, the half of her stone that was left carved a smooth front. Spirals of runework etched into it an eulogy. Words to be remembered for all time, for the eternity she and the living world had left to share. Words carved in a language lost, like them, to the dust of ages. But here is what they read:
Here lies the Father
Loved once by the Mother
despised by those blind to truth
admired by those willing to see
time cannot have him
and he will never be forgot
"We fae are selfish creatures," she whispered into his deaf, icy ear. When she reformed as a fallacy of a woman, she wound her arms around him and set her ear on his shoulder. Earth and blood and bone bits poured on and down around them. Snow began to drift down atop that, dropping the sheet of winter's bed.
Copper chime song sighed the rest of her words as she closed her eyes. "Perhaps," she said, "we will meet again. Some day. And perhaps ... there will come a need for this again." Claw-capped fingers stroked the frozen solid chest of the Elder's corpse until the avalanche of winter smothered them both completely. One dead, and one eternal who only slept. Come sleep, don't die, dream instead.
Winter came early. Autumn put herself to bed, to sleep, but not alone. They say that fae do not dream, for they are creatures of dreams themselves. Faye had never dreamed, until she made a son....
(Cross-posted from Mutual Endeavors.)
Ambrosia was burning. It was not the first time Ambrosia had burned, but it would be the last. She watched the blaze engulf the screaming hundreds from a distance miles away. She watched from amidst the refuse of many lives long lost. She watched from atop a stone etched in runes.
She Who Tends the Dead watched, and for the first time in the centuries she had come to forget ... there were tears in her eyes. We cry for the things we cannot have ourselves. Faye cried for Ambrose. No. She cried for a man whose name she did not know. A name she watched be lost to time and the dust of ages. Except where he had buried it. In the mind of a boy who was bound never to speak it.
The fae do not shed tears of saline and water. Composed of magical essence, their tears were shimmering powder that hardened in the air. They collected as stardust and shaped themselves into crystal when rolling down a cheek. Faye's tears fell as little drops of mournful silver that tinkled and chimed the sound of copper as they bounced down the side of her rock. The night air was hollow and quiet, even the breeze was silent. What visions it carried to her from the city to her grove had only whispers of the past as its soundtrack.
nothing here for you to see
no spirit fine, only me
but lost I am, as you know
here I stay; I will not go
She sang those words once, as poetry nearly a full month past. Now, perhaps, she sang them again. Or maybe they were little more than an echo that filtered through into a dying mind. Maybe, just maybe, they were a comfort. On this night, Faye dared to hope.
Her tears did not tumble into the sea of bones and blood at the base of her stone. She did not count the number shed. For whom they fell, though, the quantity amounted to a great honor that she had likely never bestowed before. If time had meaning and the times had been different, what could have come?
Inky black shadows boiled up out of the decay-littered ground and pooled around her stone. They caught and cushioned the rolling jewels. She knew the owner of the hand that formed, knew the body that rose, before the need to look upon him. "Come, Jackal King," she said softly. Her haunting voice nearly broke its usual composure. "I taste you there."
At any other time, and without her invitation, this visitation would have been looked upon as an intrusion. Trespassing. Though for one such as the Jackal King, as she called him -- Faust, as he called himself -- her permission was not needed.
The Jackal King had no story to impart upon her or anyone else this night. He had only a smile that was more pleased with himself than thoughtful as before. He had only that, and the body cradled in his arms. His eyes were still lit by the blaze of a smoldering night club miles away. He held the body out to her and said nothing.
With her tears shed, her apathy returned. She turned her head and looked upon the pallid corpse with practiced stoicism. "It is done then," she said. "You have what you came for."
"I have collected what is mine," said Faust. "The rest is yours to tend, as it has always been." He stepped up her rock and gave the body over to her.
Faye took the lifeless shell and put its head upon her lap. She skimmed her fingers through dark brown hair and brushed them over closed eyes she knew to be blue. She stroked his face as if he were only a sleeping child. Something to love silently, to admire when he was unaware. Approximately one hundred seventy-five pounds of flesh and bone settled across her folded legs. "What he once was," she murmured, "he is no more."
"All is as it should be," said the Jackal King, stepping back down from her rock.
She did not watch him go. They had no further words to share between each other. She did not need to watch to know that he fell away to shadow. She did not need to see to know that he was gone. The night was silent and red again. The solstice was yet hours away, but this year she decided winter could come early.
In life, Ambrose may have been considered beautiful. His body was free of scars, except for the one faint arch on the back of his right hand. He had a swimmer's build and patient eyes. In undeath he retained all of those charming qualities. In death, he could have been at peace. "Gods give names to men so that they will build kingdoms for them," she told his body.
"And take them away so that they will build none."
The breeze in her grove was hollow and empty, though it tried to breathe that echo back at her. Cupping his frozen face in her hands, she smiled. The always stoic and emotionless Faye ... smiled.
"But a kingdom," she whispered against his cheek, "can only be passed from father to son."
Her charge for eternity was to tend to the dead. Her task was to collect the refuse of lives once lived and to dispose of it all as Nature decreed. Entropy and decay were her domains. Her grove was a mural that told the inevitable truth to those who tried to deny it to themselves day by day. "Let life take the living, and let death stake her claim." That night, however, she did not.
Faye pressed her lips against a set cold and stiff, and she kissed him. She kissed Ambrose's corpse mouth as if he were alive to feel it. Her lips spread patterns of frost across solid flesh, tendrils that unfurled and curled, spread out to encase the shell of a body once lived in. Her touch was meant to cause decay, to melt away the cells and convert them into naught but ashes and dust. That night she broke the rules. His deserved fate did not lead to this end. Not by her whim.
What remained of blood and bones became ice, she lifted her head to admire the gentle repose of the sculpture. She smiled still, and turned her head. Lifting her hand away from Ambrose's face, she touched her nails to the rock beside and beneath her.
Rune-etched stone split as if a seam had always been there down the middle. Silver light invaded the darkness of winter night and made her sanctuary glow. The crack grew, crawled down the sides of her throne and burrowed deep into bone-littered terrain until a half of it shattered.
"If I can give you one last honor," she said to nothing but a shell of a man. One whom some had dared deem monster. "Let my gift be that you shall never be forgotten. You will never fade away."
A hundred seventy-five pounds of frozen flesh and bone weighed no more than a splinter to one made of pure essence as she. Faye lifted the Elder's remains in her arms and stood from her rock. Stepping down from it on a staircase made of air, she dissolved into a hazy silver mist to cushion and carry his fall into a shallow grave. Dirt and skeletons rolled away, dug up the hole for her by her will and power alone.
As they descended together into her bed, his grave, the half of her stone that was left carved a smooth front. Spirals of runework etched into it an eulogy. Words to be remembered for all time, for the eternity she and the living world had left to share. Words carved in a language lost, like them, to the dust of ages. But here is what they read:
Here lies the Father
Loved once by the Mother
despised by those blind to truth
admired by those willing to see
time cannot have him
and he will never be forgot
"We fae are selfish creatures," she whispered into his deaf, icy ear. When she reformed as a fallacy of a woman, she wound her arms around him and set her ear on his shoulder. Earth and blood and bone bits poured on and down around them. Snow began to drift down atop that, dropping the sheet of winter's bed.
Copper chime song sighed the rest of her words as she closed her eyes. "Perhaps," she said, "we will meet again. Some day. And perhaps ... there will come a need for this again." Claw-capped fingers stroked the frozen solid chest of the Elder's corpse until the avalanche of winter smothered them both completely. One dead, and one eternal who only slept. Come sleep, don't die, dream instead.
Winter came early. Autumn put herself to bed, to sleep, but not alone. They say that fae do not dream, for they are creatures of dreams themselves. Faye had never dreamed, until she made a son....