((This thread is a continuation of "The Oedipa Endeavor" in The Phantom Visitant))

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?What!?

The single word, a strong, simple exclamation instead of the customary question, escapes flushed lips that in still-fading dreams were parted with a far more carnal cry. A sharp syllable echoes back from the shadowy corners of the empty room, and the mirrored sound of her own voice is hollow and strange.

Again: ?What??

This time, softer and ostensibly to herself, barely audible above the pulse thundering in her ears.

Oedipa closes her eyes, preserving the last visions of the fantasy, mind and body still enraptured by desperate lust: her forehead and chest glow with a ladylike sheen of perspiration, and she feels dampness, too, between clinched thighs - the throbbing of her pulse, there as well. An excited tremble edges every movement, evident only in the exquisite shuddering silk petals of tiny, elegant buds nestled in her primly-coiled tresses. Inaudible pants pass her parted, deeply-blushed lips.

Despite the ethereal nature of the dream, she can still feel the imprint of the phantom?s hands on her hips, her thighs, the back of her neck, as if each imaginary touch left the delicious suffering of a bruise. Carnal tension grips lithe muscles throughout her supple form, a dull ache lingering in the ironically untouched flesh nestled between her legs. What virgin has this type of knowledge: the delectable defilement of a sacred chastity, the sweet sensation of submission to masculine attentions?

In her ears, the luscious strands of Aolani?s voice lingers, poured forth from enticing lips - lips of plush softness that compliment the bewitching face, the graceful neck, the generous swell of breasts above the smooth stretch of stomach, the parted thighs, the lustfully moving hand and the --

-- her head rolls to the side, a tortured psyche pressing her back into the compelling dream. But then, a chill to extinguish the most passionate of fires startles her upright again, icing the heat of her delirium.

Before she opens her eyes, she knows what awaits.

They are there.

Lash-lined lids part, and the inky, mysterious wells are instantly involved in a clinical sweep of the surroundings.

There, in the doorway, as solid as any legitimate presence, they stand.

The murdered father is by far the most grotesque, his mouth open inhumanly wide - a gaping, dark pit set in a frighteningly malicious and decrepit face. He is gasping, as evidenced by the jerking, skeletal chest beneath the tattered shirt, but he moves no air and makes no sound. His eyes, transfixed upon the murderess daughter, are bloodshot beacons of animosity, but his partnered son, Ethan the suicide, regards the last living vestige of their line with little more than resigned sorrow. Oedipa initially assesses that her ghostly brother bears no defect, but then she perceives his arms - more specifically, his hands, hanging limply at his sides. Blood pours in a steady crimson stream from sickly mangled wrists, pooling gruesomely on the floor at his feet. Already, a sizable puddle has formed, and each passing breath allows the tainted liquid to creep closer to her daintily-slippered feet.

The metamorphosis is frigid and swift. Emotion melts away from Oedipa?s well-formed countenance and is fluidly replaced with practiced fortitude. She stares beyond the monstrous figures, through them, her attention focused intently upon the refutation of their existence. Palms press upon the tabletop; jewel-adorned fingers spread in a physical anchor. Every constitutive ounce is consolidated in narrow concentration upon this very specific denial.

The apparitions fade away, but not before the father?s groaning, distended mouth gathers into a twisted, too-wide smile. Oedipa?s control waivers not until nothing but formless shadow remains.

She exhales, gradually.

Oedipa pauses in her writing, her eyes lifting to again scan the seemingly-empty library, though intention does not filter through her gaze; it is merely a lazy, habitual action, devoid of true spirit: her mind is otherwise engaged, hazily replaying each touch of her surreal lovers.

After a still, unimportant moment, she continues in the journal:

I woke from the dream still experiencing all of the sensations. I doubt my mind is creative enough to have fabricated this delectable rendezvous, and I sense that the inspiration for this dream was foreign. I know Aolani possesses the ability to manipulate dreams, but how is it possible to identify the mark of her manipulation? And in truth, I want to believe it was not a solitary endeavor, for the pleasure was so exquisite that I cannot imagine its genesis was internal.

What happened after waking, however, was no less unusual but far less enjoyable.

I saw them - Father and Ethan. It?s been so long that I thought this problem was resolved. Ethan appeared melancholy and wan, but Father smiled, as if he had known all along that I would betray him.

She pauses, a thousand possibilities warring for consideration behind her darkly fire-lit eyes as they stay trained upon the blank space of the page, staring as if willing the proper words to materialize independently.

I am the worst of all of them. Morality and nobility - what little there was to begin with - was, apparently, passed only to the first of our brood, for the last of my brothers were monsters. They were flamboyant perversions of our ancestral dignity, but I was too young and naive to appreciate this while they were alive.

Now I think I do. After the final incident with Father, I was forced to acknowledge my own potential for catastrophe. I have been blessed with grace enough to disguise this innate corruption with casual acquaintances, but lately, it?s been difficult repress my natural compulsions towards extremes of emotion and action.

With temptations like Aolani and her sentinel, though, my most carefully-orchestrated defenses are absolutely insubstantial.

Oh, but why do I worry? The family name is dead. I can do as I please, for no one knows me by my familial appellation. Adam, Marcus, Caleb - they can be damned, for their lofty morals led them to naught.

Somewhere in building, a door clicks closed; the sound echoes in little more than a whisper.

I did love them, though, and my heart breaks at the thought that I dishonor them. But they are dead, and, at least for the moment, resting. I have nothing to prove, and no one to please, save myself.

The only thing I don?t know, though, is if any of it is real. The dream, the ghosts - any of it. I feel as if I've been existing in some liminal state, unable to decipher the boundary between imagination and authenticity. I told Him once that there was no curse, but I can?t be entirely certain anymore. Perhaps I was wrong.

Perhaps He has seen fit to develop an appropriate curse.

Perhaps I deserve it.

?Vaguely she knew herself that she was going to pieces in some way. Vaguely she knew she was out of connection: she had lost touch with the substantial and vital world.? (D.H. Lawrence)

Fragrant rose-heads weigh heavily upon stems weakened by plucking, their velvety petals threatening to dislodge with the faintest brush or breath of air. With the nearness of decay, the hue of the blooms gains a seductive depth unknown by healthy blossoms. They are lovely, or once were, but now needed to be removed, before the metaphor became entirely too poignant.

?Julie,? speaks Oedipa, lazily breaking her floral meditation and addressing the maid busy mending in a corner of her lavishly-appointed quarters.

The servant?s sparkling blue eyes lift, patiently peering from a charmingly-childish countenance as she replies with a gentle: ?Yes, Miss??

?When did you buy those roses? Today? They?re already dying.? A fingertip momentarily marks her page in the book as she closes the cover.

?I didn?t buy them, Miss. They were delivered this afternoon.?

?This afternoon?? A shadow of confusion adds an element of hesitation to the lady?s response. ?Who are they from??

?I don?t know. An employee of the Inn brought them by, and they bore no card.? The maid?s skillful fingers trace the mended hem of the garment as she continues: ?They looked much better before.?

?Odd.? Oedipa muses, watching as a warm spring breeze drifts through the curtains, stirring the fabric and eliciting a precarious shudder from the flower petals. The wind carries the scent of life - climbing, growing, blossoming, wild, delicious life - but also of death, compliments of the mysterious bouquet.

?Have you a suitor, Miss?? Julie inquires playfully.

The various aromas invade Oedipa?s senses, overwhelming her furiously dispassionate persona with its two most familiar and dreaded sensations: lust and loss. Memories of corruption, decay, death and shadows - even desperate desire - are all stirred by the fragrant air, and she guards herself against the emotions quickening her heart.

?No, of course not.?

?Shall I get rid of them, Miss??

There is a long pause, an awkward silence. Despite her revulsion, there?s something thrilling about the temptation of these emotions - something delightful about suffering in secret, even as she maintains a composed facade.

?Maybe tomorrow - leave them for tonight. And you may go, Julie, I think I?ll be retiring to bed soon.?

?Shall I help you undress before I depart, Miss?? inquires the lovely servant as she carefully arranges the mended gown in the wardrobe.

?No.?

Julie nods obediently, offers a prompt curtsy, and quits the lady?s quarters. Oedipa rises as she exits, locking the door behind her with a turn of the heavy key.

The air is so still now, but the scent of death remains.

It?s nearly dawn before Oedipa convinces her brother to take his leave, but as her mind tumbles, troubled, through Sebastian?s wealth of revelations, sleep refuses to return. For half an hour or more, unblinking eyes are trained upon the window beyond the dead bouquet, vacantly observing the changing cast of the heavens as morning draws ever-closer.

Ultimately, she reaches for the leather-bound text at her bedside. For a moment, the book merely lies upon the sleek middle of her reclining form. She stares at the canopy above, despair unchecked in her ebon eyes, gathering tears at their corners. A flutter of lashes, and the crystalline droplets slide down the sides of her face. A whimper, not meant for other ears, breaks the oppressive silence. Then, resolutely, she swallows against the tightness in her throat and wipes away the damp remnants of her self-pity.

Oedipa?s slender form pulls upward, spine curling over the journal that opens in her lap. Pages turn. She begins to write.

Sebastian is not dead.

A pause to dwell on the accuracy of the statement. It is crossed out.

Sebastian is alive.

I think he is a vampire, but apart from the fangs, he seems largely unchanged. He is as cruel as I remember. It was a loveless reunion. He said that my father is not our father. He said that he had other secrets about the family. He...

The savageness of the lady?s present awareness stifles the typical flow of words from her pen, and she pauses again, reaching for terms to define these unsettling emotions. They do not come. She continues the report without commentary.

...knew about father. He knew about the ghosts. He wanted to know about Aolani.

Oedipa?s head tilts, her eyes tracing the opulent lines of the letters forming the last word. Aolani. The tormented tension begins to shift, moving from curled shoulders and clinched fingers, morphing into something easily definable - a warm sensation of yearning. Fingertips slide across the detailed pages, pulling back several, over and over again, until she finds the four tiny words:

Do you want it?

Letting the book fall from her lap and onto the bed, she lies back, sinking with sudden, blissful distraction into the nest of pillows. Sleep comes easily, despite the chorus of birds welcoming the dawn.

"Here."

The answer comes from over her left shoulder, a hollow sound carried upon an intimate breath that torments the delicate shell of her ear with its glacial caress. The eidolic intonation preludes the gust of wind that arrives with unexpected suddenness, leaving the tablecloth, tree branches and hung lanterns alone, its sweeping squall intended only for her. The coil of pressure, akin to that of a masculine arm, claims her narrow waist as the chilling breeze bathes her bare shoulders in attention, sending her ebon hair into a thick and lush swirl. The presence of something strong and dark can be felt from behind, threateningly close, and for just a brief moment the capable shape of a virile torso presses against her slender back, offering strength and sanctuary to her slight feminine form.

An instant later, it is gone.

"Do you want it?" The familiar query filling the air around her with thick, carnal offering.

With a turn she would find the phantom, Draxcilian, but ten or so feet away, bathed in a swirling darkness that is his trademark shroud, the illumination offered from the score of lanterns held at bay by his umbral origin. The cowl is drawn heavily about his head, offering nothing but a thick veil of inky abyss that stares at her with unprecedented awareness, focus fixated upon her in obvious examination.

And over his shoulder, for just a moment, there is the hint of another set of eyes. Drowning in the darkness and glorious in their sensual deviousness, they shimmer with shades of feral green.

From the depths of his obsidian cloak emerges a hand. Naked of its normal adornment, a fingerless glove, the stark alabaster extremity is a sharp contrast of his ebony motif; so white that when the light hits it just right it shows a tint of blue. A sprig of grapes is claimed from the table and slowly lifted, drawing attention to the simple fruit as though it were vastly important, ascending to be held at eye level.

At that level she would find that his hood is no longer erect, but now idly resting around the broad horizon of sturdy shoulders, the handsome visage it so entirely hid unveiled and framed by the thick fall of ashen hair that lashes and licks down his back to the center of sharp shoulder blades.

The grapes are held between he and her, his haunted expression, so cold and unforgiving, breached by the slight bend of thin lips into a smile slightly indicative of temptation.

"Do you want it?"

The voice poured into her ear, the immediate gust of biting air, and all of the first indications of a masculine presence originate an obscure sense of dread which presses upon her with as much urgency as the phantom embrace. Amorphous dream logic reminds her that recently, very recently, she had been unhappily haunted by a man, but the details of her bewildered memory lack any explicit definition. Is it him?

No.

The suddenly essential question, so familiar as to be threaded into the fiber of all of her various desires, compels her attention to the shrouded form, and she turns, the tumble of her raven locks alluringly mussed by the brief tempest, her fair flesh bestowed a golden glow by the generous lamplight. Draxcilian?s menacing figure, a seductive structure built on the void of light, has an ironic effect on her affrighted features: no laughter and no smile, but a definite pleasure, shimmering in the lightless depths of her ebon eyes. For all the of the chill commanded by his first phantom caress, heat quickly claims each inch of her flesh, affecting a rosy blush in her cheeks and garnering other, more carnal responses from areas of her wispily-clad figure. Tension drips away from both form and feature, and before conscious of the mental command, silk-stockinged legs carry her a step forward, toward this shadowy creature.

Dizzy, dream-drunk, and devoid of her daily facade of propriety, there is something compellingly violent about the petite woman, something primal and depraved in her smoldering expression. It is nothing new; in fact, it is as innate and essential as the flesh of her physical form. It is her darkness - the power that murdered her father, the malevolence of her solitude, the undeniable lasciviousness that was summoned by the Sierene. Typically, it is carefully concealed beneath a thousand layers of manners, mindfulness, and practiced ennui.

Not now.

She approaches with the deliberate sensuality of one being watched - of one reveling in being observed, and not just by the newly-exposed and endlessly-dark gaze of the Sentinel, but the emerald eyes that linger beyond: the presence that defines these dreams.

?Do you want it??

While the eternal question is met with silence, it is most certainly answered. The expression in her eyes as they study his cruel countenance, absorbing each well-formed line and bend, the tempting turn of his lips, is a scarcely-dignified plea. Draxcilian?s offered grapes meet lips parted to receive, lips which are then drawn away to expose a perfect white line of teeth to pluck a single sweet sphere from its cluster. His ghostly-white fingers are willfully brushed by the consuming, wet lips, as she quells a sudden urge to cover his battle-calloused palms with eager kisses. Instead, the swallows the single grape and claims another.

Morning?s breath of wind brushes past them, carrying the fertile and feral scents of the spring.

Feet lift to toes, the lithe muscles of her calves and thighs coiling and stretching, and she leans against him, greedy fingers spreading across deliciously-carved expanse of his chest. She strains upward, chin tilting, her sweetened lips seeking a different prize as they linger, coyly, a thread?s width away from his mouth.

Finally, a whisper, achingly close: ?I want it.?

The Sentinel's generous embrace leaves every bright nerve in he lady?s physique singing, and as he envelops her against his remorseless frame, she acquiesces fluently to the firm hands, eagerly pressing the deliciously feminine lines of her form against his thawing sinew. Her mouth, sweetened by the juices of the mysterious feast?s fruits, opens against his, yielding to the kiss as her hands snake wantonly around his sides, clinging now in faux-claws to the muscular ridges of his broad back.

As the Phantom?s lips draw across her cheek, she hovers on the brink of ecstasy, inky eyes reaching heavenward as a throaty moan parts her mouth to mingle musically with his vocal inhalation.

He speaks their inquiry, and laughter bubbles gently through those passion-swollen, lust-rouged lips. Oedipa?s dark gaze, upon inspection by the Sentinel, is markedly different than in the waking world, harboring the obscure strangeness of a menacing and much-grieved spirit.

?My dear Phantom,? speaks she, the breath of Gods powering her vocalization, ?They believed in a curse, and thus, they fell victim.?

Lips purse and are placed against briefly against his, a reverent and affection gesture, before she continues, resting her sculptural cheek against his chest and half-concealing her fervent countenance.

?But there was no curse, save for the Father?s old misery, and they were resolute fools. The Gods have been silent - but if their intent was punishment, no mortal would mistake it.?

Oedipa apologetically unwinds her limbs from the Phantom?s, stockinged toes taking a couple of enticing steps backward. Uncannily-fluid movements draw her toward the table, and she settles the divine curve of her rear upon an empty edge, sliding back until her lean legs dangle coyly over the side and against the tablecloth. Slender thighs are spread, the tenuous fabric of her deficient gown dipping between them in a mockery of modesty.

?Sebastian offered a revelation tonight: that the Tristero patriarch was not our real father, after, of course, the shock of revealing his own existence. I was surprised he was alive, but I was not surprised about the Father.?

Distance lingers in the unfathomable depths of her eyes, and her words entwine a myriad of fragmented ideas: ?The memory of my true lineage, like my first youth, faded away thousands of years ago.?

Another wind curls vaporous fingers through her untamed ebon locks, and she continues, her voice melding effortlessly with the rushing air: ?Since then, they have come with questions of two types, regarding either their wishes or my own. Sebastian, sooner or later, will present his question, but I will decline an answer...?

Faintest words, briefest breath: ?...unless he can give me what I want.?

One... two... three seconds pass.

Oedipa gathers her dream-like attention, fixing it with formidable seduction upon Aolani?s Sentinel, and she smiles invitingly, daring him to absorb her again within that iron embrace.

?I should write my answers on a thousand oak leaves. Until that time, I can only reaffirm my own desire."

Open, soft palms extend in his direction.

"Yes, I want it.?

"Does he know what you want?"

The inquiry receives the briefest lift of an elegant brow, dark eyes illuminated on duel levels - one, reflecting, mirror-like, the silhouette of the Sentinel, and another, deeper, kindling a simmering arousal and carnal amusement, oscillating indeterminately between seductive fierceness and simple delight. Words, lingering on the edge of speech, are drowned by a slow intake of breath, a tentative gasp, as the darkness enveloping Draxcilian?s perfectly-molded form extends away in the quartet of dark tendrils. Her midnight gaze follows, intrigued, down the robust contour of his physique, to the ropes of shade extending beyond and their fascinatingly deliberate approach.

When the shady lengths draw very close, her attention shifts again to figure of the phantom, her still-rouged lips parted slightly in curiosity. The soles of her feet, her dainty toes, shrouded by the damp silk of fine stockings, tingle faintly, alerting her to the proximity of the shadow and again shifting her attention. She is charmed, intrigued, and infinitely inquisitive, until the first dark serpent coils itself around her ankle and begins to twine itself upwards, rendering her motionless. Various sensations and coalesce into a desperate and scorching arousal, borne of her sudden vulnerability and compounded with the addition of each inky length, until gentle, half-repressed whimpers part her lips, lifting lightly upon the air and silenced only by the final ebon lash encircling and squeezing the fragile column of her throat.

Despite her bindings, there is a certain obscene dignity in her posture as she levels her gaze towards the handsome countenance of the Sentinel, chin set challengingly high, the firm swells of her breasts lifting with a reflexive struggle for breath, their hardened tips straining against the nothing-fabric of her wispy gown. Gracefully-boned hands are anchored at her sides, fingers spread upon the smooth surface of the table, then curling and releasing with the fluctuating pressure upon her throat.

She watches him approach, observing in sudden absolute stillness as the breeze tugs away his attire, leaving his deliciously-carved frame shrouded only in the blissful emerald moonlight. An almost palpable tempest of emotions emanates from her bound figure, feverish fear and delight and desire and anticipation, pulsing vividly and echoing the rush of hot blood through her veins. So alive.

The din of sensations culminates behind his ghostly sentiment, as if the unvoiced statement demanded absolute silence of her roaring passion: "We know what you want."

The various and vehement desires do not wane, but instead, they are honed into a precise and elegant arousal, as sharp and exact as a pinprick. Her fixed stare, illuminated by weak golden lantern-light, never surrenders an ounce of intensity, especially as the phantom?s bloodless fingers claim a grip upon her thigh and draw a caress across the velvety pillow of her bottom lip.

"Freedom.?

As shadows loosen, the lithe muscles lining her supple frame hasten her liberation with a sudden strain forward, and her lips devour his in an eager assertion of lust, mouth parting, welcoming and invading, teasing his tongue with her own as slender arms weave ?round his neck, pulling her enticing form upward to meet his solid wall of sinew. Thighs press against his hips, one delicious, stocking calf locking around his leg to draw him, wantonly, ever-closer, and encourage the sensual melding of their forms.

The touch of her lips is brutal, unreserved. It breaks with the brush of teeth closing gently upon his bottom lip, before she gasps: ?Perhaps I want many things.?

Another kiss, lingering.

?I want her,? she whispers of the unseen Sierene.

Another kiss, hungry, her hips moving lewdly against the press of his masculine arousal.

?I want you.?

Another kiss, sharp fingertips digging into muscular shoulders and squeezing once before relaxing, limbs liquidly withdrawing and lips pulling wistfully away.

Fiery eyes absorb the desire evident upon his features, her flushed and swollen lips upturned in a greedy, luxurious smile: ?And other things.?

The lady leans back, her hands bracing her half-recline on the table as the tenuous gown drips away from her supine form in a barely-noticeable vapor. She beholds him with a tempting, playful amusement, both foreign and familiar to the creature of the waking world, before inquiring:

?What does the Sentinel want??

His teasing stir of hips and warm vibration of breath pull a deliciously tortured moan from the lady?s lips - lips that press together against her growing desperation and form a swollen bow of blushing, inviting flesh, immediately pursuing his again as the husky syllables of his query dissolve into the misty atmosphere of the dream.

The diligence of her is lips half-mad, bereft of poise but curiously elegant, as the velvety touch of her tongue intertwines again with his, toying, tempting, just as slender thighs constrict eagerly against the welcome trespass betwixt, both pressing and pulling as she surges very slightly forward, encouraging the imminent carnal engagement, but rupturing the kiss to whisper vaguely, her refined dialect directly at odds with the mischievousness of her message: ?The great majority of those who seek prophecy are fools, and I love vexing fools. The leaves are naught but a trick.?

A gracefully-angular arm snakes around his neck, and while the fingertips of her other hand balance lightly upon the surface of the table, the splendid curve of her back bends in a sultry arch toward him. Shifting from the surface of the table, fingertips unblemished by labor dip into the crevasse between her thighs and his hips, locating the firm shaft suspended upon the brink of her snug passage, and with a touch akin to a whisper, exploring that torrid length with agonizing coyness.

?If the wind found my words first, they would be scattered into oblivion, leaving hapless seekers with jumbled phrases, and only the vaguest hints.?

Ebon eyes, smoldering with profound devilry under their passion-weighted veil of sable lash, fix with fond curiosity upon the phantom?s spectral stare: searching, delving, seeking. Her lovely visage, hovering close, again adopts a naughty expression of mirth; her words are edged with the chimes of laugher. ?My task is to interpret, to record, but I?ve never been invested in outcomes. If fools find my messages beyond their comprehension, then they depart without answers. I care not.?

Fingertips cease their lewd research and deftly encircle his satiny length, summoning gentle pressure to urge him onward, goading his achingly-impending impetus as she continues in a feverish whisper, ?Besides, it isn?t fun if it?s too easy...?

Again, the tempting swells of her lips press together, an unmistakeable demand overtaking the winsome playfulness of her features. The arm encircling his neck offers an insistent pressure, guiding him down to meet her lips again in a plea of a kiss: gentle, lingering.

?...is it??

((My sincerest apologies to anyone reading this who actually knows Greek. Really, really sorry.))

"Then please tell me, Lady Tristero...of how you interpret this."

Beneath the phantom?s weapon-calloused hands, her body vibrates with a deeply-entangled passion: a thrumming of nerves and a rush of blood, a heart that races between the alluring and semi-imprisoned swells of her breasts, a sense of rapture that sweeps along the silky span of her mortal flesh; all begins a frenzied acceleration as the phantom?s robust thrust implants his solid rod within her pulsing, compact passage. The lady?s moist, wanton lips, brushing in flushed fervor against his, begin spilling a whispery jumble of words: ?Ερμηνεύω αυτό ως ένα πάθος, φάντασμα μου. Αυτό είναι κακό, κακό, και παράξενα.?

Draxcilian?s right hand, digits clinging in delicious sharpness to the stiff tip of her high, youthful bosom, lift with her savagely-draw gasp, the sharp intake of excited breath an audible echo of the lady?s perverse rapture. In the golden light, her flesh stains flush with aphrodisia, and her eyes shine, somehow fractured: both present and distant, sorrowing and joyful, ancient and young.

Dainty fingers lift to his cheeks, grasping the sides of his haunting countenance, possessing a portion of him in an attempt to reign in each turbulent impression, straining within the hold of vaporous ideas that commingle with her furious longing to form the most exquisitely-tortuous task of interpretation, perhaps more exhaustive than this playful provocation intended: ?Αλλά υπάρχουν πολλά πράγματα που μπορούμε να πούμε, υπάρχουν πολλά μυστικά. I wonder if you are real.?

Slim hips churn slightly, the muscles buried within her tight passage slowly adapting to his ruthless masculine length, the distinct sensations of delicious pressure and fullness utterly at odds with the hazy ambiance of the dreamscape. She moans, the immediacy of her desire, of the entirely of him - body, mind - emerging as a demand of undeniable intensity.

The shameless, shapeless tone of her carnal cry slowly shifts into distinct syllables: ?No, this is real. Το πιο νόστιμο αίσθηση. Αιώνια.?

The lips that lingered so closely again engage in their debaucherous communion with his, her body seeking contact with his in every conceivable aspect, lifting against him, urging the primal rhythm with another needy undulation of her hips. One hand curls around the thick cord of his neck, seizing his head as she sensually devours his mouth, tasting with tongue and lips and even teeth, while the other hand grips his side, fingertips clinging to a webbing of muscle as she pulls her hips upward, the curve of her tautly-formed ass lifting from the table, then away, withdrawing slightly, agonizingly, before pressing forward again, begging the excruciating reunion.

?Αιώνια. Eternal. Νέων και όμορφη. I must find a way.?

The words fade, her lips parted in a perpetual silent gasp, quivering in lascivious awe.

The lady, prone beneath hovering ridges of his vigorous stature, beholds the Sentinel's transformation amid the delirium of ecstasy, her fractured consciousness hazily following his metamorphosis from cold stone to throbbing, feverish flesh. His warmth, his words; each achingly-perfect touch of his deft hands contributes to her complete surrender, but these tenuous ideas of transformation mark the termination of rational thought.

Intellectual awareness is overwhelmed by immediate visceral pleasure, the fluid joy of earthly abandon exhausting the awareness of the universal, scattering and shattering ideas into senseless slivers.

She is submerged completely; it is a place without language or logic. It is ancient and primal, threaded into the fiber of flesh. She is wholly aware only of him, not in past or future but only this perfect instant; the ruthless and beautifully-agonizing drive and his equally tempting retreat.

Supple and svelte is she, altogether yielding and bewitchingly submissive, responding to his words with the mewling moans of this exquisite suffering, speared once, twice, again and again, the narrow avenue ?twixt slender thighs a succulent, firm fruit, dripping sweetly the nectar of their sinful fellowship. The artistic curve of her back digs into grains of wood, her eyes rolling upwards towards the heavens and the dream-twisted sky: millions and millions of stars, each bright point a sinfully-delighted nerve, her body humming, pulsing, tensing with ever-coalescing pleasure.

It is disbelief and undeniable; it is coming home, not to place or person but to present existence. She knows him, not logically but elementally. The sensations rippling through the phantom?s sinewed flesh are her own; his strength, his endowment, and the lush pain of their union are only other dimensions of multifaceted bliss. The eternal is present, it is now. Demanding and eager. Her fingers grip the brawn of his shoulder, the tightly-woven column of his neck.

As the Phantom?s body jerks fiercely, triggering its shudder of culmination, the guttural tones of his utterance vibrate in the frail shell of her ear - the shivering sensation migrates swiftly to her core, inspiring sleek muscles to contract rhythmically around the buried hilt, ushering a tempest of pure, overwhelming ecstasy, pulling an echoing, wordless cry from her lips as her body tenses and stretches and quivers beneath him in molten, primitive pleasure. Suspended in this wicked rapture, she wildly beholds the phantom?s impassioned countenance and the stars crowding the atmosphere behind him, their ancient glow nearly overpowering the sky?s inky canvas. Her body arches upward, the apex of her joy issuing a final series of throbbing contractions through her sleek abdomen, milking his ensconced length through the concluding spasms.

Her eyes close.

As her body sinks back downward, the responding sensation is of finest bedlinen. Limbs shifts restlessly, the fragile fabric of her chemise clinging wantonly to the dampness of her sultry, flushed flesh. She has doffed the covers, and presently, her unsettled slumber becomes more still: dreamless.

As she slept, the dawn surrendered to day, which turned again to evening. Now, a dusk breeze curls through the open window, stirring the heavy curtains and carrying the clamor of the city below.

She would awake soon.

And so Oedipa wanders, room to room.

She drifts amid the dead, dust-covered relics of her ancestral home. Tears repressed by so many years of impenetrable propriety now flow freely down her artful porcelain cheeks, accompanied not by audible sobs but the occasional sharp intake of breath.

Confusion clouds her intellect, and each vision impresses additional sensations of desperate doubt.

What is real? This place, this feeling, this present time? These chilling drafts, this decaying lace upon her fretful neoclassical garb, those cold floorboards beneath her bare toes? Who is to say she doesn?t slumber still, dreaming of dreams yet undiscovered as tricks of consciousness?

She doubts her own mind, and thus, she is his prisoner.

***

Sebastian thumbs through the senseless scribbles, his preternatural vision offering no insight into the meaning of the text. ?Worthless,? he grumbles into the empty air, and as a response, only silence.

He had expected more. Myth made the Sibyl mischievous, but the millennia had apparently made her senile. His powerful potions could evoke the prophetess with ease, yet the most agile minds he could summon were left wondering at her words.

This endeavor was growing tiresome, given the solitude of the Tristero family estate and the elaborate nature of his charade. He was ready to pronounce the entire undertaking - the motivation for her life, as well as his - a resolute failure. But what to do with the sister?

She was broken: a mortal shell of fractured mind, courtesy of dual soul of the Sibyl, torn asunder by the potency and the duration of his drugging.

As his dark eyes peer past his window-reflection into the empty countryside beyond, he sighs luxuriously. Perhaps he would simply leave, abandoning her to the emptiness and the ghosts of this tomb-like manor.

***

Oedipa stands before the hearth in her father?s study, enraptured by the frolicking flames. The motley interplay of light and dark is more authentic than the perpetual familial specters, illuminating her form and flesh in the soft lick of shadow luminosity.

She remembers a time, long ago, when the sultry tones of an enticing voice murmured...

?Do you want it??

I wasn?t entirely pleased with the scene before me, but I stretched something of an affectionate smile across my polished-pink and cold lips. I saw in their responses, Sebastian?s rapture and Oedipa?s stunned curiosity, that my irritation was well concealed. It was the type of entrance I preferred, so startling and perfect-poised, a delight to all senses, that the response is one of disbelief, or desire, or mortal fear, or perhaps a sinful combination of all three. My favorite.

?Sebastian, this lovely creature must be your sister,? I purred, the sweet euphony of my accent melting through the heavy air as I swallowed the distance between myself and the siblings. I touched the girl?s cheek, one finger only, a doting guise, as if I needed assistance in holding her attention.

Oedipa?s eyes met mine, and I felt the flush of certainty. In that absolute luminous obsidian, I saw the whisper of ancient ages; I saw the twisted and sly interplay of past, present, and future. But then again, I had seen it before.

I wondered, for a moment, if she recognized me.

?I?ve heard so much about you, Oedipa.?

?Pythia,? she replied - a different voice, but with the same whispery rawness, charming moreover because of an immediate resort to civility, ?I?m afraid I cannot say the same.?

We both looked to Sebastian. He smiled. He smiled to make-nice; he smiled with the confidence of man who has been trained to expect a favorable response to his smile. He smiled very convincingly.

?That?s because I wanted to keep you all to myself, Pythia.?

My chin dipped in acknowledgement. ?Very well,? I said, sliding an arm through his, ?But for a little bit only. Then I simply must spend some time with your sister.?

***

I felt like slapping him. I felt like ripping the face off of his skull and f**king eating it.

?What are you thinking, Sebastian?? I growled as soon as we were alone, spinning him to face me fully. Ferocious resentment met my anger, and he put several paces between us, daring to half-turn his back to me.

?How dare you judge my actions, Pythia. I?m the one who?s been here, for months, trying to reign in this delirium.? He picked up a book and flung it towards me with grim accuracy. I moved little in response - a twitch of arm and flick of wrist, catching the object millimeters from my face - for I was not startled. ?Take a look there,? he continued, his eyes burning darkly as he settled against the fireplace mantle. ?And you?ll see what your Sibyl has to say. I?ve had scholars look at it. Greek words, no reasonable order and no decipherable code.?

?I wasn?t aware that you were acquainted with any scholars,? said I with off-handed iciness as I opened the considerable volume. Pages and pages, just as he said, of Greek. Despite the fact my brief study couldn?t surmise any significance, I knew a message existed.

I snapped the book closed.

?And your little revelation, telling her about the Sibyl? How exactly is that going to help your purpose??

?Your purpose,? he corrected, exasperation sharpening his words into pointed little phrases. ?What does it f**king hurt? We?re done here. As far as I?m concerned, her whole little world can be screwed up.?

?She?s much easier for you to manage like this, Sebastian. Trust me.?

The sixth son?s countenance, in shadowed and contentious profile, turned slowly to face me. He sensed a softening in my voice, as the rage of moments ago dispersed into the ether, leaving in its stead the desirous thrill that usually punctuated our meetings. I beckoned wordlessly, an invitation implicit in the parting of my lips. I wanted him to come to me. And he did, that smooth stride of masculine grace drawing him close - so close I could feel the absence of warmth.

So close that his lips covered mine.

I found Oedipa gazing through a window. ?

Was she?peering out at the featureless ebon of the night, seeking some barely-perceptible clue from the darkened world beyond?? Or did she merely?look at herself, enraptured by her own elegant outline in the shadowy glass?? What musings were these, that kept her so still and silent?

I couldn?t guess. There were so many windows here, each another opportunity to languish in introspection.

My memory sought those quieter moments with her, in ages past:? it was a different face then, one that grew old over the centuries, but I still felt a compelling kinship with this fresh incarnation of my ancient love.? She was always beautiful, my Sibyl.

?Oedipa,? I spoke, with the dignity of many lifetimes.? ?You can?t remember me.?

Her head turned, and a dispassionate profile was revealed, half-bathed in adoring darkness.? When she whispered, gently-tortured vocals upturned the silence in each corner of the room: ?I don?t.?

I moved closer, a subdued prowl that allowed her to fully absorb my crafted sensuality, and took her hands; two pairs equal in softness and delicacy -? one set?inhumanly cold, the other lightly marred by the smudge of ink.?? I brought?her left?palm to my waiting lips, pressing?them to this uncalloused?flesh - once, twice, and then to her wrist as well, feeling the throb of?a quickened?pulse.??I expected her to recoil, but she did not.???Those endless eyes fixed upon my face?with a?vicious and regal?calm that made me ache with lust.?

Surging forward, I pressed my mouth to hers, painfully desiring to taste?that pulse of warmth, and she responded with amorous ease, opening sinfully-soft lips against mine, tempting my tongue with her own. My magnificent, deft fingers curled around her neck, deepening the kiss and urging her body to relinquish its polished posture to the soft curves and slender lines of my mine.

My thoughts swam in a flood of violent, licentious urges.

Gripping her by the shoulders, I pushed her to arm?s length, marveling at how easy it would have been to crush those birdlike bones beneath my fingers.

?Lie with me. I can help you remember.? I urged as I slipped behind her, unfastening the hooks and ties of her bodice. Soon, she stood only in a pool of lavish fabric, my generous curves pressing against the slender span of her back, one hand cupping the firm flesh of her right breast, the other dancing down a lean stomach to delve beneath the dainty lace of her panties. As my cool fingertips trespassed upon the desire-slick folds between her thighs, a wanton and woeful moan rose from her core, erupting desperately from her lips.

?I can help you remember."

This abrupt turn from lust, reuniting instead with spite and sorrow: not so strange perhaps, for loss-dwelling lovers, centuries separated. ?

The two women?s tongues fell?with bitter silence. ?

To each, the other was unreal, a fascinating manifestation of endless imperfect memory, for memory could be sculpted to will, while reality had a vexing, entirely separate volition. ?

Pythia?s cold grasp relinquished the Sibyl?s hand; it drifted downward, settling elegantly in her lap.? The mortal woman moved only to draw grave breath - bare, blood-smeared breasts rose faintly with each inhale - but otherwise, she was severely still, plush lips pursed in venomous displeasure. ?

The golden-haired vampire offered no consoling mime of simple human function, yet her marine-hued eyes bore a conflicted vulnerability under the merciless glare leveled upon her faultless facade.? To claim a lack of regret would be dishonest, Pythia would easily acknowledge, but nevertheless, her temper was subtly provoked by Oedipa?s complete oversight in gratitude.

Finally, the Sibyl disturbed the quiet with a quasi-murmured question, halting tones drenched in frightful skepticism:? ?Why?? Why, after so many years of disregard, would he be interested in helping me now??

With slow, sensual grace, Pythia eased back onto her elbows, her lean torso stretching smoothly?across the sumptuous sheets.? ?Because,? she countered in cautious, gentle tones, ?you were impossible to control before - you offered no promise for devotion.?

?And now I would be controlled??

?Now it doesn?t matter.? His influence in this realm is greatly reduced, and he?s found tranquility in general obscurity.? He no longer cares to collect followers.? One of his few remaining joys, though, continues to be besting his brother - the brother you so unwisely spurned when you were offered eternal youth to accompany your endless life.??
?
The answer seemed to satisfy the Sibyl, for her response was?lethargic, notably lacking ire: "He would offer the same proposition?"?
?
"I cannot say," Pythia replied, the tip of her tongue sweeping across?a reddish pout? as she recalled the torrid details of the eons-old transaction.? "His whims cannot be interpreted.? But?your youth, your beauty, your virginity -- all of these are favorable factors."?
?
Oedipa's body, infused with the Sibyl's brazen sensuality, lengthened in a voluptuous stretch?as she?rose from the bed, back bravely turned to the vampire, fingers clasped high above her head as she eased tension from her limbs.? In the reflection of the windowpane, Pythia followed the luscious darkness of her once-lover's eyes, unflinchingly,?and?their gazes met in the ghostly glass.? As if chilled, the Sibyl's arms curled across her chest, beneath the weighty veil of of her dark hair.?
?
She?suddenly seemed small, almost vulnerable,?as she again faced the other woman: "Will we need to travel?"??
?
"Yes.? To the coast."? Pythia paused, astutely deciphering the unspoken question.? "We can leave tomorrow."

The often-transversed ground was haphazardly worn, with cracks and bumps designed to dispense a stumble to careless toes. On either side, unblunted and sharp-sliced rocks extended stone fingers to snag clothing or scrape a bare arm, but even more frightening: beyond those jagged menaces to her left, a breathless drop succumbed to the crashing surf far below.

The swelling rumbles of the waves and accompanying winds endured as the solitary sounds. If birds cried, if human voices somewhere laughed or shouted, if there were any workings in the world beyond the sea and air, their whispers were lost to the undying rush.

Oedipa treated this perilous path defiantly, recklessly. She did not ease her steps cautiously along the trail, nor did she marvel at the fatal cliff to her side; instead, she displayed certainty of purpose that transcended more trivial concerns. As she closed on the cave, the absolute darkness of the entrance gradually yeilded its shadow to a luminous orange-yellow: a welcoming beckon to the road-weary traveler. Her cultivated qualities - propriety, ladylike sense, refined grace - typically required a tentative pause at the threshold to assure an intimidating guise of control.

This time, her steps merely wavered, then advanced.

____

The entrance of the cave, once crossed, relinquished its narrow structure to an immense, endlessly-wide cavern. Varied sources of flickering firelight defined Grecian columns meticulously carved from the constitutive stone of the cliffs, set at even intervals throughout the open space. Long, solid tables flanked an avenue to the rear of the room, bearing the evidence of a recent and well-relished feast. Empty vessels of wine, spilled cups, half consumed fruit and meat, discarded plates, and haphazard flatware cluttered the worn surfaces. Beyond these gluttonous displays, frenzied scenes of orgastic celebration rose in erotic relief from the pale stone of the walls.

As the Sibyl absorbed the sensual atmosphere of the cave, she began to notice more subtle details: a nude, slumbering couple, woman heaped helplessly upon man, half-hidden under a table; the eyes of a solitary female, alert, observing from a corner; the lively shift of shadows from the rear of the cathedral-like cavern, indicating conscious movement.

?Adoneus.? Her voice rose above the whisper of wind and waves from without, it?s sweetly-coarse tones echoing along the chamber.

?Sibyl,? came the disembodied answer, masculine in pitch, swelling with aggressive delight. Bare feet slapped against the stone, announcing a presence at the opposite end of the cave.

The fickle lick of light complimented his features: chiseled, the stuff of mad-love and myth. His upper body, naked to the waist, shuddered each minute movement through a webbing finely-crafted musculature, making every inch of his flesh seem alive and vital. Inhuman eyes, void of color, fixed with amusement upon the determined young woman.

?I hear,? he began, an unvoiced beckon in the pitch of his voice, ?that you?re willing to make a deal.?

?And I hear,? the prophetess returned, ?that you have much to offer.?

The earthy god laughed, his mirth encouraging the intensity of the firelight, but he did not advance. Instead, he lingered upon his raised, alter-like platform, pacing gradually, like some massive cat, from side to side. He paused to answer: ?It would be a shame to watch you grow old. Again.?

?Very well. What are your terms??

?Simple. You give me what you you denied my brother.?

Oedipa?s answer was brief and efficient, but her voice trembled deliciously across the air in trepidation or desire: ?Done.?

((Warning - the following is still intended for adult audiences only.))

The digits cupping her ass entreated the roll of her hips, introducing his stiff length of unforgiving masculinity to her scalding, sensuously-slick center, exposed to this prurient violation by the obscene spread of her legs to his sides. Distilled pleasure lifted worshipful ebon eyes to the uneven ceiling of the cavern as another moan curved the tempting passage of her lips, their pace advancing, quickening with maddening, growing desire.

A sweet shiver, emanating from deep within her belly, jolted through her slight figure with each brush of her throbbing, aching rift against his ridged pole, the blooming, broad span of its head burrowing against the tiny, stiff nub of flesh tingling above her narrow little slit. The cries spilling from her lips were near-constant, a muffled series of echos reverberating through the large sanctuary. He abandoned the jealous grip upon her body, one palm lingering with the barest touch upon her thigh, while the other gripped the base of his wide tool, aligning its path with her yet-unexplored and sinful route.

Perfect pain. It drew a breathy, tortured moan from her sweet mouth as her virgin body slowly eased down upon the formidable mass of the waiting instrument. The small span of slight hips hardly seemed sufficient to receive this masculine violation, but nevertheless, her body stretched valiantly around his invading length, accepting him inch by slow inch. The bite of her distress trembled in the muscles of her lean thighs, straining to maintain control and balance in this perch upon the Outsider?s lap; she clung desperately to his shoulders, the polished points of her nails digging into flesh, transmitting a whisper of pain in return, breaking the lewd, smiling curve of his mouth with a brief wince. When she could progress no further, she felt his palms upon her back, riding the rhythm of her ragged breaths before tracing ribs to sides and waist.

After a moment, she collected her wit enough to lift her infinitely-black gaze, lips relinquishing their low whimpers for a small, wicked smile. Hips reversed their prior descent, forfeiting the slick abundance of his fully-embedded length for the inception of a hypnotic, carnal rhythm. Euphoric pleasure - the first quiet, shivering-hot hints - followed her lifting retreat and subsequent descent, diminishing the delicious pain of snug space stretched anew to accommodate him, over and over, savoring the fresh sensations of this sweet form?s defilement.

Gradually, her body?s rolling tempo and fluidity increased, inspiring his appreciative groans and hungry hands, which bathed her undulating form in ruthless, worshipful caresses.

Details fell away as the Sibyl?s awareness became saturated with sinful sensation; her partner?s visage she saw only hazily beneath low, lash-heavy lids, but his body she felt acutely, gasping and moaning and moving with her as she lapsed into some earthy, paradoxical transcendence of base pleasure and divinity.

One witness stepped forward, bearing an expression of aloof serenity and a simple gold chalice. The woman?s hand threaded through the Sibyl?s mane, grasping the lush tresses at the scalp and coldly tugging back so that she, still impaled upon the Outsider?s unforgiving length, stared up to the cavern?s ceiling. Despite this interruption, Oedipa?s expression was one of rapturous satisfaction, and the witness, catching her lips open with a moan, tipped the chalice, flooding the Sibyl?s mouth with potent, dark wine. It choked her; it overflowed her lips and splashed in crimson streaks down her pristine figure as she struggled to swallow.

This seemed to augment the outsider-god?s lusty vigor. His finely-muscled legs unfolded beneath her, disrupting her balance, parting their tightly-fit bodies and releasing her to the stone floor. The sudden throb of emptiness was excruciatingly frustrating, and her wine-stained lips cried out in raw protest, even as he took hold of her hips again, easily repositioning her on her hands and knees.

He slammed himself back into her ripe, wet chasm and was rewarded with the pulsing, constricting flush of honey that signified the apex of feminine pleasure. Shuddering arms buckled amidst her ecstasy, laying a burning cheek right against the floor, eyes fluttering closed as she endured wave after wave of violent pleasure. His relentless pounding, paired with the fading intensity of her orgasm, was dizzying, and as she reopened her eyes, she found the stares of the witnesses fixed intently upon her.

Shamefully inelegant, she came again, her fingers clawing the rough stone floor.

Their faces shifted and twisted in her desirous delirium, adopting the ghostly facades of familiar personas: old deities and despairing patrons, fellow prophetesses, lovers, a line of brothers, their wretched father, the Sierene and her Sentinel. Indistinct features flashed and faded with any attempt to focus, leaving her with only vague impressions as her body quaked and jolted from the impact of the outsider-god?s vigorous thrusts - thrusts that were hastening with each liquid moment, their bodies slapping wetly together at the brief culmination of each.

A primal growl, signaling her partner?s impending release, vibrated in low tones through the desire-thick air. Immediately, hot spurts unleashed deeply within her body, wickedly prompting her to peak once again. Powerful convulsions gripped the Sibyl?s nubile figure, displayed so provocatively, the compounded intensity of shared sensations moving her swollen lips to profane cries in a myriad of tongues.

The exchange was complete.

As the Outsider withdrew from her lusciously violated body, she collapsed completely on her side, nerves still tingling with the last exhausting vestiges of triumphant pleasure. In spite of the rough floor, and the blank faces of the witnesses, and the commingled mixture of fluids painting her thighs, in spite of the heat, and the sweat, an intoxicating smile tilted her plush lips.

?Τελικά.? she whispered.

April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
(T.S. Eliot: ?The Wasteland: The Burial of the Dead?)

Oedipa watched him dig in the moonlight, the full orb so bright that his trim figure cast chaotic shadows upon the disturbed earth. He dug without pause or complaint, endlessly performing and reprising the powerful strike and scoop. Each movement was measured and precise, a replica of the previous, completely mindless.

She patiently watched him dig, the headstone appropriate, his stance slowly sinking in progress. With an endless youth to match the eternity of her future, a blackish serenity surrounded her soul, offering a malevolent patience with which she was previously unfamiliar. To her breast, she clutched the book from many hours before, when the company of the blonde consumed much of her sibling?s attention.

It was, after all, rightfully hers, but she wouldn?t deprive Sebastian of all of her writing: she had written him a note of farewell.

Hers was a quiet wrath, elegant in execution, subtle. Here at their family estate, the final son would simply be assigned occupation at the grave marked for him years ago, taking his rightful undead place among the lineage of tragic Tristero males in a simple and hasitily-procured pine coffin.

Six feet for the sixth son. When he stood straight, his head protruded only a couple of inches from the threshold of the perfectly-rectangular pit. With the task finished, Sebastian?s body lingered erect, shovel in hand, awaiting further instructions.

?Out with you, brother,? the Sibyl called gently through the crisp evening air, good-humor and deadly affection wrapping seductively around the plain words.

Sebastian complied, pulling himself from the grave with preternatural ease.

?Now, I have a choice for you,? she confessed as she approached upon lengthy, stocking-enfolded legs, her cultivated movements immaculately administered. ?We must make sure you don?t simply wake up and dig yourself out. Therefore...?

In her wake, two burly gentlemen - labors of the estate - stumbled along, sluggishly anticipating her commands; to one of these, she unloaded the text she carried. Then, from a surreptitious pleat in her translucent wrap of gossamer, she withdrew a very small blade - no longer than three inches, but honed to a devastating edge.

?...you must surrender your vitality.? The edge shone threateningly in the moonlight, but its audience reacted not. ?The choice I offer is this: I can drain you, or you can perform the task yourself. What say you, dear brother??

The cruel jest resided in the fact that the sibling had relinquished power of speech; therefore, his request was an open palm, fingers grasping at the air.

Oedipa?s lips, a swollen set of titillated pink, pressed a sisterly kiss upon his cheek before yielding the blade to his waiting hand.

The moment she retreated, Sebastian carelessly pulled the steel across his exposed neck, splitting the marble-cold flesh and liberating a grotesque fountain of crimson liquid. As it stained the new spring grass, the prophetess idly withdrew a folded sheet of paper from a similarly-obscure tuck of attire, and even though the letter was littered with jumbled Grecian symbols, its significance devolved into greater mystery when she began tearing it into irregular strips, which she jealously clutched.

As soon as the fount of blood had fatigued into a slow seep, Sebastian obediently laid his trembling and corpselike form in the coffin. Oedipa?s gift was the puzzle-paper, blown from her gentle hand neatly into his eternal couch.

?Close it,? she hissed to the laborers. ?Bury him.?

?And tomorrow, plant lilacs over the grave.?

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
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. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
(T.S. Eliot: ?The Wasteland: The Burial of the Dead?)