October 24, 2007
(Cross-posted from Mutual Endeavors.)
Every fiber of his being twisted and writhed and screamed for mercy. The long night previous had nearly ended him. He had been too gentle with the girl, letting her thrash and beat him with those chains. Cold-forged iron. How could he have been so careless as to not know they were there? His arms burned and ached. These were wounds he knew would not heal so easily. He needed rest and a safe place in which to get it. Somewhere that he could sleep without dreaming.
The house between worlds -- tucked away in a pocket dimension -- was not an option. Sin had brought Havoc there, battered and bruised and bleeding far worse than he was himself. He knew he could have been more sympathetic, but that was not his way. His fae half would not allow it. Sympathy was a weakness.
There was a melody in the air that night. When he stumbled out the door and into the real world, breathed in real air and not the stagnant and smothering stink of blood and anti-reality, he tasted a song.
come jackal king
I see you there
Overpowering and flooding every cell of his essence. The sound of copper swaying in a hollow breeze. It made him shiver and catch himself. Trembling with near fever, he wound his arms around his own body. His feet, no. All that he was in body and soul was numb and he barely felt his feet touch stone while he stumbled through the streets.
He had to get away. Move far before Sin followed out the same door and found him wavering and wobbling through the motions of half-aware existence. A voice made of chime song pulled him forward while chilling shadow pushed him back. White shadows. Were they the same?
full moon glow in center sky
twist the clouds who reach up high
illuminate black night gray
autumn sighs before the day
She was singing. Poetry on autumn winds. Old lyrics from an older time. He couldn't recall his mother ever singing before. Not like this. Though her voice was always layered with the chime of copper, and though fae voices were often compared to music, he had never thought before to call it singing.
He was sick. He was wounded. He was weary from letting the cannibal girl unleash her fury on him the way she had. Though even now he wondered if he would have had the strength to fight her off. To fight against those chains.
The bane of his existence. The kryptonite to all things fae. Clover rings and babbling brooks. And worst of all cold iron.
come jackal king
I feel you there
Who was she singing to? Who was this Jackal King that her song was speaking to? He knew for certain it wasn't himself. Salvador was no jackal. Though at times he might have been called a dog. It was a common thing for unimaginative people to fling as an insult from time to time. A shame he never took offense.
leaves once green fade dull to red
drop the sheet of winter bed
soak up tears of heaven's dread
come sleep, don't die, dream instead
His eyes were dull and weakened. He knew there was no use in trying to stretch his sight to see beyond the veil and observe her from a distance. His blood ran even more sluggishly through his veins than it usually did. Colder than it should be. Poisoned by chafing iron chains that cut through second skin. He was so fucking sore. All he wanted to do was sleep. But not dream.
It was such a long walk from where he was to where she waited. If death were to wait in any one place, that place was her grove. He took what little strength he had remaining in his essence and instead of seeing took a step. One that took him through those between places, across time and space and beyond the veil. A step that took him tumbling into bone refuse and blood-soaked mud.
Though sharp fragments of scattered skeletons stabbed his knees, he felt comfort. He tipped forward and collapsed face first with a heavy sigh. Here he was safe. Here he could rest. Here he could listen to his mother sing.
come jackal king
I hear you there
She was so close now. Only a few dozen yards out of reach, perched atop her rune-etched rock and whispering a melody into the distance. Though she was nearer, and if he opened his eyes he could see her, she still sounded so very far away.
lord and guardian of old
beyond the veil we are told
await souls to hold and weigh
under, over, wait and stay
He realized then, the longer he listened, that it was not just her voice that sang. The distant murmur of this melody was sewn into the very breeze that sighed autumn's chill between leaves that had not yet fallen. The swirling breaths of this late season were a constant backdrop to the silence that usually smothered it.
There was a story stitched deep into this natural music. One he knew little if anything about. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could feel the truth of it, but could not put a name to it at all. Out of the corner of his eye, at the edge of his mother's grove, he could see the shadow pacing. A white shadow shaped like a thin, sleek dog with a pointed snout and tall ears. That must be him.
come jackal king
I smell you there
Not the same. The canine spirit that paced the perimeter of bones and blood was not the same as the one he knew more intimately. This one was non-threatening, perhaps as soothing as the poetry that slipped through the air.
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
Go where? he wondered. Who or what was this Jackal King his mother sang to? Not the only time he questioned such a thing. Not the first and not the last. His eyelids were heavy, though, and he doubted he had the strength to stay awake and find out more.
Near fever crawled into his bones and made his mind groggy. If he were to sleep, this was the place he chose to do so. Here dreams could not touch him. This place was sacred. This place was hers. This place, and the spirit who lived here, had a visitor.
She turned on her rune-etched rock to look directly at the pacing ghost. The other stopped and looked back at her, or so it seemed. The dog spirit had no certain shape of eyes with which it could have possibly seen out of. At least not as far as Salvador could determine.
come jackal king
I taste you there
Salvador watched, for as long as he was able. The spirit crossed the line and changed from dog to man in little less than a blink of an eye. Perhaps he had blinked. Perhaps he had missed a transformation. Perhaps he should have been unnerved by the quiet smile that was more thoughtful than friendly.
"Jackal King," the man said. There was an uncertain accent to this man's voice, something very similar to the other shadow he knew. Something that hinted at lands long abandoned and a culture forgotten to dust and debris. But there was no sibilant hiss cluttering up this one's words. "I have not been called that ... in a very long time."
To the pair of them, his mother and this other white shadow man, he was invisible. They both disregarded his presence as if he were not even there at all. Salvador began to wonder if he was himself. Maybe he was only dreaming. Or lost in that between place that slips itself before dreaming and after waking. He could not tell for certain. He was exhausted. Defeated. All he wanted to do was rest. Not dream. He had come here not to dream.
"Any name is as good as any other," said Faye. Her dispassionate lack of tone was just as much of a lullaby as the strange story-song she had breathed into the wind mere moments before. It was then that she looked at him, laying prostrate on a bed of gooey bones and scraps of flesh. She smiled in that faint and barely lasting way of hers. Sleep, he heard copper chime song say.
Try as he might, blinking slowly to fight against it, the command she pressed into him was impossible to defy. His eyelids turned to stone and sealed themselves shut. The cool murmurs of late evening autumn wind faded into the distance. The last thing he heard beyond that was his mother's voice saying one thing more.
"Come," she said to the Jackal King. "Let us talk."
No crunch of bone underfoot sounded to tell him, but he knew they drifted away. Or perhaps he was the one fading into the distance. Salvador slid away into a fae enchanted sleep and embraced the healing that would come of it. Most important of all, he dreamed. Which, in retrospect, was the last thing he wanted to do.
(Cross-posted from Mutual Endeavors.)
Every fiber of his being twisted and writhed and screamed for mercy. The long night previous had nearly ended him. He had been too gentle with the girl, letting her thrash and beat him with those chains. Cold-forged iron. How could he have been so careless as to not know they were there? His arms burned and ached. These were wounds he knew would not heal so easily. He needed rest and a safe place in which to get it. Somewhere that he could sleep without dreaming.
The house between worlds -- tucked away in a pocket dimension -- was not an option. Sin had brought Havoc there, battered and bruised and bleeding far worse than he was himself. He knew he could have been more sympathetic, but that was not his way. His fae half would not allow it. Sympathy was a weakness.
There was a melody in the air that night. When he stumbled out the door and into the real world, breathed in real air and not the stagnant and smothering stink of blood and anti-reality, he tasted a song.
come jackal king
I see you there
Overpowering and flooding every cell of his essence. The sound of copper swaying in a hollow breeze. It made him shiver and catch himself. Trembling with near fever, he wound his arms around his own body. His feet, no. All that he was in body and soul was numb and he barely felt his feet touch stone while he stumbled through the streets.
He had to get away. Move far before Sin followed out the same door and found him wavering and wobbling through the motions of half-aware existence. A voice made of chime song pulled him forward while chilling shadow pushed him back. White shadows. Were they the same?
full moon glow in center sky
twist the clouds who reach up high
illuminate black night gray
autumn sighs before the day
She was singing. Poetry on autumn winds. Old lyrics from an older time. He couldn't recall his mother ever singing before. Not like this. Though her voice was always layered with the chime of copper, and though fae voices were often compared to music, he had never thought before to call it singing.
He was sick. He was wounded. He was weary from letting the cannibal girl unleash her fury on him the way she had. Though even now he wondered if he would have had the strength to fight her off. To fight against those chains.
The bane of his existence. The kryptonite to all things fae. Clover rings and babbling brooks. And worst of all cold iron.
come jackal king
I feel you there
Who was she singing to? Who was this Jackal King that her song was speaking to? He knew for certain it wasn't himself. Salvador was no jackal. Though at times he might have been called a dog. It was a common thing for unimaginative people to fling as an insult from time to time. A shame he never took offense.
leaves once green fade dull to red
drop the sheet of winter bed
soak up tears of heaven's dread
come sleep, don't die, dream instead
His eyes were dull and weakened. He knew there was no use in trying to stretch his sight to see beyond the veil and observe her from a distance. His blood ran even more sluggishly through his veins than it usually did. Colder than it should be. Poisoned by chafing iron chains that cut through second skin. He was so fucking sore. All he wanted to do was sleep. But not dream.
It was such a long walk from where he was to where she waited. If death were to wait in any one place, that place was her grove. He took what little strength he had remaining in his essence and instead of seeing took a step. One that took him through those between places, across time and space and beyond the veil. A step that took him tumbling into bone refuse and blood-soaked mud.
Though sharp fragments of scattered skeletons stabbed his knees, he felt comfort. He tipped forward and collapsed face first with a heavy sigh. Here he was safe. Here he could rest. Here he could listen to his mother sing.
come jackal king
I hear you there
She was so close now. Only a few dozen yards out of reach, perched atop her rune-etched rock and whispering a melody into the distance. Though she was nearer, and if he opened his eyes he could see her, she still sounded so very far away.
lord and guardian of old
beyond the veil we are told
await souls to hold and weigh
under, over, wait and stay
He realized then, the longer he listened, that it was not just her voice that sang. The distant murmur of this melody was sewn into the very breeze that sighed autumn's chill between leaves that had not yet fallen. The swirling breaths of this late season were a constant backdrop to the silence that usually smothered it.
There was a story stitched deep into this natural music. One he knew little if anything about. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could feel the truth of it, but could not put a name to it at all. Out of the corner of his eye, at the edge of his mother's grove, he could see the shadow pacing. A white shadow shaped like a thin, sleek dog with a pointed snout and tall ears. That must be him.
come jackal king
I smell you there
Not the same. The canine spirit that paced the perimeter of bones and blood was not the same as the one he knew more intimately. This one was non-threatening, perhaps as soothing as the poetry that slipped through the air.
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
Go where? he wondered. Who or what was this Jackal King his mother sang to? Not the only time he questioned such a thing. Not the first and not the last. His eyelids were heavy, though, and he doubted he had the strength to stay awake and find out more.
Near fever crawled into his bones and made his mind groggy. If he were to sleep, this was the place he chose to do so. Here dreams could not touch him. This place was sacred. This place was hers. This place, and the spirit who lived here, had a visitor.
She turned on her rune-etched rock to look directly at the pacing ghost. The other stopped and looked back at her, or so it seemed. The dog spirit had no certain shape of eyes with which it could have possibly seen out of. At least not as far as Salvador could determine.
come jackal king
I taste you there
Salvador watched, for as long as he was able. The spirit crossed the line and changed from dog to man in little less than a blink of an eye. Perhaps he had blinked. Perhaps he had missed a transformation. Perhaps he should have been unnerved by the quiet smile that was more thoughtful than friendly.
"Jackal King," the man said. There was an uncertain accent to this man's voice, something very similar to the other shadow he knew. Something that hinted at lands long abandoned and a culture forgotten to dust and debris. But there was no sibilant hiss cluttering up this one's words. "I have not been called that ... in a very long time."
To the pair of them, his mother and this other white shadow man, he was invisible. They both disregarded his presence as if he were not even there at all. Salvador began to wonder if he was himself. Maybe he was only dreaming. Or lost in that between place that slips itself before dreaming and after waking. He could not tell for certain. He was exhausted. Defeated. All he wanted to do was rest. Not dream. He had come here not to dream.
"Any name is as good as any other," said Faye. Her dispassionate lack of tone was just as much of a lullaby as the strange story-song she had breathed into the wind mere moments before. It was then that she looked at him, laying prostrate on a bed of gooey bones and scraps of flesh. She smiled in that faint and barely lasting way of hers. Sleep, he heard copper chime song say.
Try as he might, blinking slowly to fight against it, the command she pressed into him was impossible to defy. His eyelids turned to stone and sealed themselves shut. The cool murmurs of late evening autumn wind faded into the distance. The last thing he heard beyond that was his mother's voice saying one thing more.
"Come," she said to the Jackal King. "Let us talk."
No crunch of bone underfoot sounded to tell him, but he knew they drifted away. Or perhaps he was the one fading into the distance. Salvador slid away into a fae enchanted sleep and embraced the healing that would come of it. Most important of all, he dreamed. Which, in retrospect, was the last thing he wanted to do.