Someone says, “I’d sell my soul for that.” You decide to take them up on their offer.
“What are you going to use it for?” Duncan asked, scratching his head.
“Iunno, but don’t worry I’ll take good care of it. When you want it back I’ll let you know what I want to trade,” said Nate, and that was that.
Forty years passed, and Duncan never had got around to trading back for his soul.
“I figure Nate’s as good as anybody for holding onto it,” he explained once. “I was dumb enough to trade in for tickets to see a band I can’t remember anymore, and it’s probably just as well I didn’t have a second opportunity to make a more dumbass deal with a worse person.”
Nate didn’t often think about the contract that he kept in the dashboard compartment of his truck signed in Duncan’s blood, but when he remembered he just shrugged. He’d willed the thing back to Duncan in the case of his death, because he figured if that happened then Duncan would have to take care of himself.
He probably should have been more surprised when one day a faintly glowing figure popped into the cabin of his truck with him.
Nate carefully pulled his truck over into the shoulder. He figured this would probably take his full attention.
“Hello Nathaniel Graham Bourke,” said the figure.
Nate grunted in response, inclining his head.
“I believe you have something that belongs to me,” the figure continued.
“How do you figure that?” Nate asked warily.
“Your friend Duncan is deceased. Fell down a flight of stairs,” the figure replied.
Nate sighed. “Had he been drinking?” He asked.
The figure hummed as though checking through some mental list. “No. Tripped on his shoelace. Broke his neck.”
Nate nodded to himself. “Well that’s something,” he said. Lisa would have been so disappointed if Duncan had been drinking again, so it was good she at least had that cold comfort that her husband hadn’t lied when he’d said he’d try harder.
“Yes. Your friend is dead and so I’m here to collect the soul I’m owed,” the figure said.
Nate frowned. “Does it work like that?” He wondered doubtfully, “Because I traded for that soul fair and square, so I don’t see how that means I need to just give it away at the first opportunity to the first comer.” Nate wrinkled his nose. “You haven’t even introduced yourself. I’ve kept that soul safe for years, and done my best to encourage Duncan away from making dumbass decisions. I’m not letting it go unless you can prove to me that it’s going to good hands.”
“I am an Angel. What better hands then mine?” The figure asked rhetorically. “I will take Duncan Jacobsen’s soul to the afterlife.”
Nate raised an eyebrow. “Which afterlife?” He wanted to know.
“Duncan Jacobsen was a sinner,” the Angel replied.
“That’s as maybe,” Nate allowed, “but you didn’t answer my question. I’ve been taking care of that soul for forty years now and I’m not going to just give it away to someone who’s going to mistreat it. Duncan was not the clearest thinker, but he tried his best most of the time and I reckon that should count for something.”
The figure started emitting a smell similar to sulfur. (Nate hoped it wouldn’t take too long to get out of the upholstery.)
“Ah,” said Nate. “Well in that case I think I’ll be holding onto it for a while until someone comes up with a better offer.”
“Even if it is inevitable that your friend should end in my custody?” The Angel demanded.
“If that was true,” Nate replied, “then you wouldn’t need to negotiate with me. You could just nab it.” He shook his head and smiled crookedly. “I’m not a well read man, but I do know about salespitches.”
The Angel snarled, but Nate refused to buckle.
“See now you’re just being a bully,” Nate said. “And a sore loser,” he added. “And this is doing nothing to convince me that you’re going to take good care of my buddy’s soul. The opposite really,” he nodded to himself.
The Angel calmed abruptly. “You say you’re waiting for a better offer,” the Angel said with honeyed tones. “So, what would induce you to give the soul to me? What do you desire?”
Nate scoffed. “Already said, didn’t I? Just want to make sure Duncan’s soul is going somewhere good where it’s going to be looked after proper.” He looked the Angel in the rough position where its eyes should be. “If you can honestly promise me that, then we’ve got a deal. If not…” Nate shrugged, “then I reckon I’ll be holding onto this soul a bit longer.”
The sulfurous smell increased in intensity.
“This is not over, Nathaniel Graham Bourke,” the Angel hissed, and disappeared.
“Didn’t reckon it would be,” muttered Nate. “But there’s still time.”
After a few minutes of quiet, Nate restarted the truck and pulled out into the road.
“Thanks Nate,” came a thin whisper from the dashboard.
Nate smiled sadly. “No worries, Dunc. Got your back.”
Title: The Miskatonic Project Rating: PG-13 for horror themes, death Summary: Abraham Erskine may have invented something new with the Serum – or maybe he re-created something very old. Something…Elder. Notes: I should be working on like three other fanfics but I had a TERRIBLE DREAM this afternoon and anyway this only took about half an hour to write.
***
Steve came out of the Vita-Ray machine…different.
Of course he looked different – taller, thickly muscled, skin gleaming. But it wasn’t the change in his appearance so much as the…sensation people felt around him. Howard claimed not to feel it, and Erskine died before he could weigh in. Peggy felt it, but not in the way others did. To her, he seemed otherworldly, but like an angel or a religious vision – comforting under a layer of unreality. She even liked the strange black pupils he’d developed, so big and dark you could hardly see the whites of his eyes at all.
Others, however….
She didn’t see him pull the Hydra agent out of the submarine after Erskine’s assassination. Only three people did – a cab driver, a little boy, and the boy’s mother. The cab driver wouldn’t say a word, and the boy’s mother stuttered and stammered so badly they finally gave up. The little boy just said, “Well, he got him,” and looked admiringly at Steve.
Steve wasn’t wet, but the submarine lay on the deck of the pier, and the man next to it was dead, a rictus of horror on his face.
Short, I said. Easy, I said. Definitely won’t take long, I said….
Aaaand here we go with part two…
***
On the first night they made camp, Peggy found herself surrounded by men – not in the sense that she was the only women, but in the sense that they actively, intently surrounded her. They weren’t impolite, exactly, but they had just come from a place of desperation and fear, and were happy to be alive, and all that…entailed. Their presence, their willingness to bring her tins of food or start a fire for her, the warring exhaustion and relief and want, pressed in on her insistently.
And then suddenly it was like the sun rose and the air cleared – and she saw why.
“Gentlemen,” Steve Rogers said, appearing from the darkness, lit by the fire and with Sergeant Barnes at one elbow, Sergeant Dugan at the other. The men all took a sort of spiritual step back. “How about you tired soldiers find places to bed down for the night.”
They cleared out fast. Steve looked at her, a question in his bright face, and she nodded. He settled in, others joining him – Dugan, Jones, Morita, Dernier and Falsworth, names she’d learn later. Steve sat on a fallen log one of the men had dragged over earlier; James Barnes sat at his feet. These men were calmer, and she sensed that they, like her, saw angels rather than devils when they looked at Steve and Barnes. They were here with her, not because of her.
“I was capable of looking after myself,” Peggy felt obliged to point out.
“Sure, but why should you have to?” Barnes said. Steve’s eyes still looked, at least in some lights, mostly normal. Barnes, you couldn’t see the whites at all.
Some headcanons because I don’t really have the TIME to write an entire series but I DO have the time to rhapsodize about my Love for this concept.
So the new girl’s name is Chihiro and she’s weird and charming and friendly and fearless. She always wears a lucky purple hairtie and she stops to bow to every shrine she comes across and she takes her time writing her name, every kanji clear and precise and unmistakable. She goes from new to popular in about a week and her teachers tell her parents that their daughter has a natural gift for making friends, open and cheerful with anyone who’s civil to her. She doesn’t have answers for anyone about those two months that her family was just kind of missing, but other than that she’s an open book.
Chihiro is known for being open, even.
So when a girl in a salmon uniform shows up at the school looking for her sister Sen, a year after Chihiro’s arrival, and Chihiro launches herself into the stranger’s arms with a whoop of delight, everyone is…a little lost.
Chihiro’s sister is scary. One of the older boys hit on her and she broke his wrist. Chihiro told her to behave and her sister waved a hand and said, “Relax, Sen, he had it coming.” She moves like a bulldozer–if you’re in her way, your choices are to get out of it or get flattened. Within the day, it’s been firmly established that Lin, whoever the hell she is, is some kind of thug. She comes by every few months and brings Chihiro brief letters from “Young Master Haku” and from “Granny” and “the boilerman” and everyone walks a little warier around Chihiro because her sister is clearly a yanki and not to be toyed with. Chihiro’s an easygoing person, but honestly Lin absolutely radiates “they’ll never find the body” and it handily resolves any issues that Chihiro might otherwise have.
When Chihiro is fifteen she leads an ecological initiative that is…absolutely absurdly successful, largely because she looked around at the other students in her class and said “This is something I really care about, who wants to help me” and every hand went up. Probably half of them actually care about the environment, and half of them are doing it to cover their community service requirement. Half of them are hoping to woo Absurdly Charming Local Student Ogino Chihiro over the next few months. There is some overlap between these groups.
Over one year, they raise an astonishing amount of money to contribute to a campaign to tear down some abandoned apartments in Chihiro’s old town and restore a river, and at the celebration they throw at the end of it all, she gets up and speaks and smiles and about three quarters of her class sighs in unison.
“I never expected to raise this much, thank you all so much for your help,” Absurdly Charming Local Student Ogino Chihiro says, beaming.
“Oh no,” her classmates say, dismayed. Turns out finishing the project means being done with weekly meetings led by Chihiro.
Lin needles Chihiro about Young Master Haku and Chihiro blushes furiously every time and changes the subject to how her grandfather is doing.
The things that are Known about Chihiro’s grandfather are as follows:
Generally known as “the Boilerman”
Has a great many pets, all called “Sootball”
Likes Chihiro very much
Does not like Lin nearly as much
Smuggled Chihiro out of her great aunt’s house once
Does not like blood on his walls
Once hid Young Master Haku for an entire night, possibly related to the blood situation
There are some serious concerns about what the Boilerman does and why he has such strict opinions about blood on his walls.
The next year, Chihiro’s parents are out of town on Parents’ Day, which is how everyone meets the Boilerman and also Granny, who do not seem to be married and bicker constantly about everything except Chihiro and Granny’s sister, who seems to be Lin’s boss and also the great aunt who necessitated the smuggling. Granny mutters about Chihiro’s river fundraiser and Chihiro scolds her for almost killing someone, apparently Young Master Haku, and Granny scoffs that “he was fine” while the Boilerman complains about blood on his walls. Chihiro asks after an old friend and Granny says “Well we almost had bandits but he took care of them and we won’t have to worry about that anymore” and goes on to praise this person’s spinning.
So, everyone concludes, they’re terrifying.
By the time Young Master Haku actually shows up, Chihiro is seventeen and she’s managed to convince the school to send her whole class to see the un-damming of the Kohaku River, and her class has pretty soundly hashed out what’s up. It goes like this:
Chihiro’s great aunt runs a yakuza clan and Young Master Haku is her heir and Lin is one of his direct underlings, and after a falling out Granny and Great-Aunt split the clan and now hate each other, and the Boilerman works for Great-Aunt and saved Young Master Haku’s life after Granny tried to bump him off to put Chihiro in his place.
Chihiro seems pretty well out of the family business, though, and went and fell in love with the guy she was supposed to be replacing, and although Great-Aunt doesn’t care for Chihiro as much as the rest, her son likes her and her heir likes her and so does everyone else, so the two clans play nicely for Chihiro’s sake.
Young Master Haku, once he shows up, is almost as terrifying as Lin in his coolly remote way, but he obviously dotes on Chihiro and she wears river pearl earrings that are probably worth more money than anything else she owns and grins, silly with glee, whenever she sees him.
No one tries to get Absurdly Charming Local Yakuza Daughter Ogino Chihiro to go out with them anymore because can you fucking imagine.
In fairy tales and fantasy, two types of people go in towers: princesses and wizards.
Princesses are placed there against their will or with the intention of ‘keeping them safe.’
This is very different from wizards, who seek out towers to hone their sorcery in solitude.
I would like a story where a princess is placed in an abandoned tower that used to belong to a wizard, and so she spends long years learning the craft of wizardry from the scraps left behind and becomes the most powerful magic wielder the world has seen in centuries, busts out of the tower and wreaks glorious, bloody vengeance on the fools that imprisoned her.
That would be my kind of story.
When
Princess Talia was fourteen, her eldest sister was placed in a tower.
Princess
Adina was eighteen by then, and so of a marriageable age. She had grown quite
beautiful, though she was more willful than winsome, and she did not care for
the notion of the tower very much at all. Their mother did her best to persuade
her on the subject. After all, the queen herself had been eighteen when her own
parents had sent her to live in that very same tower, to be safely tucked away
until her husband could be chosen, and then ride out to claim her. A tradition
going back ages and ages.
“It was
such a sight,” their mother said, wistfully. “I had been alone for so
long. Reflecting upon the nature of the world, and my place in it, and what it
would mean to serve my kingdom. And the solitude was difficult. But then one
bright morning I saw a vision of a gallant knight riding towards me; and I knew
I would never feel lonely again.”
“Then
you had best make certain you pick a strong man to be my husband,” Princess
Adina had replied. “For if I go to that tower you can bet I will spend my
time honing my skills with a blade, rather than staring wistfully out of
windows. And any man who thinks to claim me for a bride by anyone’s leave save
my own will need to defend himself.”
Their
mother had tutted, and their father had rolled his eyes; and when Princess Adina’s
belongings were packed with a very pointed dearth of swords or spears or
knives, it was Talia who slipped a wrapped sabre into the travel wagons, and it
was their middle sister, Devorah, who tied another to the underside of the
first food cart to leave for the tower.
Barely
a few weeks had passed since Adina left the castle, however, before word began
to spread of dragon sightings in the south. The king and queen, of course, saw
this is a good sign; and they let it be known that any lord bold enough to slay
the dragon would be granted leave to rescue Princess Adina from her tower. It
seemed all too fortuitous, for surely any man who could defeat a dragon could
handle a willful princess; and Adina could hardly deny
the bravery or skill of any such person.
“It is
perfect,” their mother had said.
That
was before the dragon reached the tower.
Talia
had been present when the messenger had arrived, bursting hastily into the
hall, and speaking in broken tones about barricades destroyed, and mountains
crossed, and ancient enchantments broken as the dragon had forged its way
straight to the hidden princess. Rumours abounded of the dragon absconding with
Adina; though some varied as to whether she had been seen clutched, terrified,
in the menace’s claws, or riding on its back, whooping loudly. (Calling for
help, the court agreed – if anything; the confused descriptions of startled
shepherds were unlikely to be too reliable, under the circumstances, of
course).
The
matter of rewards changed, of course, and so it became that any brave soul –
lord or no – who could rescue Adina from the dragon could claim the princess
for their bride. Talia worried, but she didn’t worry too much. She was of a
mind that if the dragon was still alive, then it was likely because Adina
wanted it that way; and her sister was, at least, out of the tower she had held
such contempt for.
Not six
months after the incident, a story came back, too, of a renowned hero who had
nearly slain the dragon at its caves in the west; only to be disarmed by
Princess Adina herself, who, by his report, made a very rude and anatomically
improbable suggestion, before knocking him down a mountainside.
The
king and queen seemed convinced the report was nothing but slander; but Talia
was inclined to give it far more credence than tales of her sister weeping
whole rivers of tears or cowering beneath the dragon’s glare.
It was
around that time that Princess Devorah began sneaking out of the palace at
night.
Talia
discovered this one evening while in the midst of her stargazing. If her eldest
sister could be said to be beautiful and headstrong, then it would be easy to
claim that the middle sister was plainer, and yet more charming. She owned a
pale blue cloak, that suited her quite well; but that stood out, too, in the
moonlight, as she slipped away through the palace gardens.
This
went on for quite some time before Talia at last confronted her sister, who
blushed most tellingly at being discovered.
“I have
found my knight,” she admitted. “There is a doorway in the gardens, and it
opens to the fairy forest. I did not mean to go, the first night. It was only
that I saw the doorway, and I wondered where it went. And I could not help but
think that my own time to be locked away in a tower is coming swiftly, and what
a thing it might be to escape, and that perhaps fate had given me a chance. But
then I got lost in the fairy forest. It was strange and dangerous, and I feared
I had been too foolish for words, until my knight found me.”
Talia
saw the lovestruck look on her sister’s face, and felt a great well of sympathy
for her.
“Fairy
folk are strange and dangerous, but Mother and Father are not without pity. If
your knight is as noble as he sounds, perhaps they will understand,” she suggested.
But
Devorah only sighed, and shook her head.
“Perhaps
they would, if my knight were a man. But she is a maiden, as fair as moonlight.
And I would have her no other way.”
Talia’s
sympathy increased tenfold, at that, for she knew as well that their parents
might make some concessions, but that would be a bridge too far for either of
them. As she began to offer comfort, however, Devorah turned it back towards
her.
Her
sister told her, then, of the plan she and her fairy knight had concocted; that
when Devorah was taken to her tower, her knight would come, and open a door
there; and then Talia’s sister would away with her to the fairy realm for good.
The tower would sit empty. The suitor their parents at last settled upon would
ride out to find no one waiting for him.
“I
planned to tell you,” Devorah assured her, and then offered her a single silver
bell. “When it is your time to go to the tower, stand on the highest point
and ring that bell. A door will open, and you can come away with us. The fairy
realm can be frightening, but my beloved will help us, and as well-read as you
are, I am certain you will have more of an idea of what to expect than I ever
did.”
Talia took
the bell, and hugged her sister, and thanked her; though she admitted that she
did not know what she would feel, when it came her own time to go to the tower.
But Devorah only said it would be her choice, whichever she made.
And
indeed, after a year had passed, her sister went to the tower with none of the
fuss nor complaint that Princess Adina had put up. Being as charming as she
was, there were no lack of suitors for their parents to choose from; and it was
not long at all before the king and queen made an advantageous match with the
eldest son of a neighbouring kingdom, just beyond the western mountains where Adina
and her dragon still roamed.
When
the son came back empty-handed, accusations of trickery abounded. The western
kingdom accused the king and queen of withholding their daughter; and the king
and queen accused the western kingdom of stealing her to some unknown fate. In
the end matters were only settled once a scryer confirmed that Princess Devorah
had not been in the tower when her suitor arrived; and then, the dispute was
settled with the consolation offer of Talia in Devorah’s place.
The
rulers of the western kingdom demanded their princess at once; but Talia’s
parents insisted that she was still too young. A compromise was reached. Since
the tradition of the family was to ensconce their princesses in towers, and
since twice these towers had been breached and the princesses lost, the king of
the western lands offered a tower in his own domain. There Talia would stay
until she turned eighteen, and was of age to marry the prince.
Even
so, the king and queen would not have agreed, but for the fact that the western
rulers were renowned for their masterful sorcery and spellwork. Should conflict
break out, the armies they could amass would be formidable indeed.
“Sometimes
princesses must think of their kingdoms first,” Talia’s mother told her.
And so
Talia did think of her kingdom.
She
thought of it as she rode with her accompaniment through the mountains, and
when a great dragon’s roar split the air; and when her guards scattered in
fright, or else were pinned down by the claws of a great, emerald beast, with
eyes like flames and wings that sounded of lightning when they clapped. She
thought of it when her eldest sister slid down from the dragon’s neck, and
rushed to hold her, and begged her not to be afraid.
“You
come with us,” said Princess Adina. “The western prince is a monster, and
the rest of his family no better. I would not let a pig marry him, nevermind my
little sister.”
Talia
marvelled at how well-informed her dragon-riding sister seemed to be, but Adina
only waved off such questions.
“I go
into town all the time,” she said. “No expects to see a princess who was
kidnapped by a dragon wandering around a market square.”
“And
you spend enough of my coin for them to overlook it, even if they were
suspicious,” rumbled the dragon, though it sounded more amused than anything
else.
“You
are the one who demanded expensive company,” Adina returned.
Talia
watched them with fascination, and wondered if they might not be able to fight
an army themselves. But her sister was forced to sadly admit that her dragon
was nearly more show than substance, and that any well-armed force would take
them down with relative ease. Particularly when they could bring magic to bear.
And so
Talia thought of her kingdom, as she declined her sister’s offer, and sadly
sent both she and her dragon on their way. Then she set about encouraging her
guards to come back, and help gather the horses, so they could head out again.
She
thought of her kingdom all the way up to the tower itself. It was a bleak
spire. Once a sorcerer’s lookout and secluded place of study, according to
their guide; who then helped set up the wards and enchantments. Talia thought
of her kingdom as she bid everyone goodbye. As she made her way inside with her
things, and found that though the place had clearly been cleaned and dusted, it
was sparse and severe and cold. Dark stone twisted up the walls, and drafts
blew through the ragged edges of the window frames. The lights were magic, at
least, but only half of them worked, and there was little in the way of artwork
or decoration.
Talia
thought of her kingdom as she selected a room on the highest floor, and
unpacked her things.
But
when at last it was dark, and she was alone, she did not think of her kingdom.
She thought of herself, instead, and she wished she had flown away with Adina
and her dragon. She wished she could climb to the top of the tower, and ring
her silver bell, and escape with Devorah and her knight. She thought of the
unfairness of being sent to her tower too soon, and even vindictively imagined
having told her parents of Devorah’s escapades, and being spared this fate by
forcing her sister to do her duty instead.
And
then she felt an awful wretch, for thinking such a thing; and she cried herself
ragged until she fell into a deep sleep.
In the
morning, her mood was grim.
She
woke to the discovery that the usual enchantments were in place, which was
something of a relief. Princess Talia was educated in matters of diplomacy,
finance, tactics, mathematics, literature, history, geography, and many more
besides, but she had no idea of how to boil an egg. The tower gave her meals in
the kitchens, and warmed the hearth against the cold; and she spent her first
day mostly in that room, with one of the books she’d brought clutched firmly in
her hand, wondering how she was supposed to survive years of this without
going mad.
Or if,
perhaps, the intent of all this business with towers was precisely to drive a
princess mad. It would explain a good deal about her mother.
The
second night, she cried again, and the one after was much the same; but on the
fourth day, she woke to the grey dawn, and the cawing of ravens outside her
window; and she decided that if she was going to live in this tower for many
days yet to come, then she may as well explore it. She made a point of mapping
out all the floors, and figuring out how to reach the highest part, if it ever
came to it. And she found that the attic was full of old boxes of clothes.
Robes and hats and gloves and scarves, worn things and shimmery things, and a
very impressive collection of walking sticks.
That
was all well and good, and sorting through it gave her a diversion, at least.
She aired out some of the clothes. They were much too big for her, of course,
and the tower wardrobe could provide her with some very nice dresses. But she
imagined she might tire of very nice dresses, after a while, and some of the
robes looked very comfortable.
The
real find, however, came the next day, when she discovered the door to the
basement.
She had
thought that the spareness of the tower was owed to its lack of usual
occupancy; but when she found the basement, another answer made itself clear –
someone had taken practically everything out of the main rooms, and shoved it
all haphazardly into the basement, and closed the door on it.
Talia
supposed she could see, on one level, why someone might have deemed the objects
in the basement unsuitable for a princess. Though she could not fathom why they
assumed a bored princess would not simply go downstairs at some point. She felt
inexplicably insulted at the lack of locks on the door; though this feeling
swiftly gave way to curiosity, instead.
The
rooms contents had not been kindly handled. She tsk’d over books that had been
dumped in piles, their pages crinkled and their spines twisted. Some heavy
tomes on stands had been left to accumulate dust and cobwebs, and boxes full of
glass bottles had been ungently handled, leaving some to crack and leak
suspicious liquids that stained the floor. Several rune-marked skulls lined a
shelf in the room, and looked to be the only things that had not been touched
much. There was strange furniture, and jars of things like powdered unicorn’s horn, which
told her plenty about the ignorance of the people who had cleaned up this
place, because even she knew that was valuable stuff.
At
length, she rolled up her sleeves, and set about organizing it, just as she had
done the attic. Though, in this case, the task was much larger. She broke down
into its simplest steps. Step One – the books. Going through the mess, she
picked out all the books she could find, and did what she could for them. Some
were in languages she did not recognize. Even the ones she recognized had
uncommon titles, like A
Beginner’s Guide to Necromancy, and The
Lost Art of Summoning, and A Comprehensive Bestiary of the
Northern Wilds.
The
books proved not only to be the first step in cleaning up the basement, but
also the world’s most sufficient distraction. Talia found herself paging
through them out of sheer fascination with the volume of subjects available,
and the fact that she knew next to nothing of these topics. Soon enough she had
gathered up every book for beginners she could find, and before long she
discovered that one of the largest tomes was a dictionary, and she unearthed
also a translation guide for one of the unfamiliar languages that seemed common
to the texts.
It was,
then, slower going for the tasks of dealing with the broken bottles in the
crates – in the end she found a pair of thick gloves in the attic, and picked
out the ones that were not broken, and shoved the rest – crates and all – into
one of the empty closets.
After a
reading a bit more, she then barricaded the closet.
She
left the skulls be until she opened up the book on Necromancy, and then she
carried them up to a room where the moonlight could hit them. That evening she
had her first proper conversation inweeks as she took a chair into
the room, and waited for nightfall, and then spoke to some quite interesting
and helpful spirits. They were transparent of course, and not all of them were
very coherent. But they seemed happy to be out of the basement, and keen enough
to help her get a better understanding of some concepts from the books that had
been tricky for her.
She
organized the jars of ingredients, and discovered several discarded cauldrons,
and after some more reading, she went back up to the attic and fetched down the
wizard staffs that she had taken for walking sticks, and put them where they’d
be closer to hand. In a box under an overturned table she discovered a smashed
crystal ball, with a tiny pixie’s skeleton in it; and an unbroken crystal ball
which gleamed and glowed only faintly when she held it up to the stars.
It made
her think of Devorah and her knight. So that evening she did at last go up to
the highest point of her tower, and ring her silver bell.
Sure
enough, a door appeared in the basement. She wrapped the pixie skeleton in a
piece of black velvet, and tucked the crystal ball under her arm, and opened
the door.
Her
sister was delighted to see her, though confused as well. It was too soon for
Talia to be in her tower. So it was that Talia had to explain what had
transpired, and when she did, Devorah was overcome. It made her feel triply
awful for her uncharitable thoughts that first evening, to see her sister cry
and offer to go back and take her place.
“You
have to stay here with your knight,” Talia insisted. “It isn’t all bad.
There are some interesting things in the tower. And if I can talk to you
sometimes, as well as the skulls, I probably won’t go mad.”
Devorah
blinked back her tears.
“The
skulls?” she asked, in a voice that said she was worried her sister’s mental
state had already faltered.
So then
Talia found herself explaining about the tower, and its basement, and the
crystal ball she had brought, and the little skeleton, too. That made Devorah
cry a bit more, because she was a kind heart, and she had grown fond of the
little pixies in the fairy realm – even the vicious ones. She called for her
knight to come, then, and Talia watched as a silvery figure rode up on a white
horse that looked more like a ghost than a proper steed, however solid it may
have been to the eye.
Devorah’s
love looked like moonlight made flesh; slender but sharp as the blade of a
knife, and she bowed with courtly grace. She showed less grief over the pixies
than the princesses did. But then, her expression seemed to reveal very little
at all, until it turned to Devorah. At which point it would soften, and stars
would seem to dance in the dark pools of her eyes.
“Who is
this prince, who is so perilous a betrothal?” the fairy knight asked.
“I do
not know him. I know only his reputation, which had seemed fine enough, until Adina
spoke to me,” Talia explained.
“I know
a little more of him,” Devorah admitted, frowning. “Adina and I went to
one of his sister’s weddings, years ago. You were too young to come along. He
was a horrible brat, but then, he was a child. His father wasn’t much better,
though.”
The
fairy knight looked at the tiny pixie skeletons, and then at once broke the
crystal ball. The wisp of a sprite which escaped was small and quick, barely
there before it was gone again. But Talia didn’t mourn the loss of the crystal
ball. And after a moment, her sister’s knight tilted her head towards her, and
went and drew a small vial from her saddlebags.
“This
is a poison of sleep,” said the knight. “If you drink of it, you will fall
into a trance, and will not wake but for true love’s kiss. In dreams you may
find freedom. I would have offered it to Devorah, had she refused me, and her
suitor proven cruel. I will offer it to you, now. Should the worst come to
pass, drink it.”
The
tiny vial was silver and elegant. Pretty enough, even by the reckoning of
princesses. Talia took it, with gratitude. And when she left through the fairy
door before dawn, and came back into her tower, she felt lighter than she had
since leaving home.
For
several months, then, the little silver vial rested in her pockets, as she wore
dresses but also sometimes robes. Talia learned the few benefits of a life
primarily alone, in an empty and unoccupied tower that was locked up tight –
though even her mostly-indoor spirit began to long for the feeling of wind in
her hair, and grass between her toes, she could also parade around the rooms
naked as she pleased. Or clad only in a long robe which railed behind her, as
she sang songs with no one to care that they might be off-key, or that they
were ones she had overheard drunken servants singing.
She
poured through her new books and consulted with spirits, cavorted with her
sister and the fairies by night, and one morning she woke up and snapped her
fingers in a moment of grand epiphany; and flames darted up at the gesture.
And
alone, in the long and quiet days, she learned.
Four
months into her stay, Talia discovered how to unlock the tower door. It was a
simple spell, in fact. More a matter of tricking the tower into doing as she
wished. She strolled the grounds, well away from any guard posts, and found
wild vines and strange plants growing in the tower gardens. There was a book of
plants inside, and so she dragged it out with her the next day, and set about
identifying all the growing things she could not recognize; which, apart from
the dandelions, was nearly everything.
She
dusted off the cauldron, then, and must have burned herself sixteen different
times in attempting to master the various magical recipes involving the garden
plants. And plants from the fairy realm, as well. In one of the big, heavy
tomes, which always seemed to fight her every time she turned the pages, she
discovered a recipe for the sleeping draught which Devorah’s fairy knight had
given her; and by the gleam of a full moon, she gathered ingredients from both
worlds, and set about trying to recreate it.
Success
was difficult to gauge without tasting the end results, though. She was very
sure to label her own attempts accordingly, and dared not drink any of them.
It was
not a bad life. Not at all. It was lonely, at times, but with Devorah and the
spirits, not terribly so. And the freedoms she found were beginning to seem
more and more appealing. As time went on, Talia found herself thinking she
would much rather stay in her tower than see any shining prince approach from
the horizon.
But
when at last he came, she was ready for him.
The
time almost snuck up on her, but the terrain visible up from the tower window
was wide and barren, and one night as she went to bed she chanced to see a
campfire burning. And she counted the days in her head, and then fell into a
flurry of activity. She readied a fine dress, and packed up her things. She
slipped the best staff in amongst her chest of clothes, and packed the skulls
in with her jewellery. She slipped the sleeping potion into her pocket, and
emptied out the bottom of the crate containing her shoes and slippers; and she
did away with half of them, and fit as many of the most important books she
could manage in their place. She hid potions ingredients in among her make up,
and her own notes were kept safely in her diary. And every spare nook or cranny
she could find, she stuffed something she deemed worthy; until the things she
had first arrived with had become like a veil for the things she had uncovered
since.
“You
find yourself in that tower,” her mother had once told her.
And her
mother had found her place as queen; and Adina had found a dragon; and Devorah
had found her doorway out. As the sound of hoofbeats grew closer, Talia stared
towards the horizon of the western kingdom. Her fingers toyed with the stopper
of the sleeping draught.
She
wondered what she had really found.
Why
drink it yourself? one of the spirits had asked her, the first night she had
come back from visiting her sister, with the tiny vial in hand. It seems to me that the logical
thing to do, in an unhappy marriage, is poison the other person. Especially
when that opens a door to you taking his kingdom out from under him.
Such
interesting things, her skulls had to say.
And of
course, the kingdom she would marry into was one ruled by magic. Sometimes
princesses must think of their kingdoms first.
With a
wry little twist of her lips, Talia practised her best expression of swooning
relief, and waited for her prince.
While putting your favorite condiment on a sandwich, you accidentally make a magical occult symbol and summon a demon.
You silently take two more slices of bread out of the package and make another sandwich. You put it on a plate with a handful of potato chips and hand it to the demon. He takes the sandwich, smiles and vanishes in a puff of demonic smoke. The next day you get that job promotion you were after. There was no contract. No words spoken. You owe nothing. But every now and then, another demon pops in for lunch. Demons don’t often get homemade sandwiches.
Can I keep this going? I’m going to keep this going.
It would be a little annoying, if they weren’t so nice about it. You don’t know what you expected demons to be like, but you certainly didn’t expect them to be nice about it. There’s no demands, no voices like wailing babies, no blood on the walls (well, there was that one time, but Balthazak was very apologetic about the whole thing and cleaned it up right quick). Just the occasional demon stopping by for lunch. In fact, you could almost forget that they weren’t just ordinary people, the way they act. Nice people, too.
You start talking with them, as time goes on. In the beginning you carefully pick your words so they couldn’t be spun to even imply a contract or reference a soul, but when they seem politely eager to have a normal chat, your words become a bit looser. You even begin gossiping with them – turns out, demons have breakroom gossip just like anyone else. You listened to Rek’ththththtyr’s account of Drokyarix’s torrid affair with Irkilliz, and Ferkiyan didn’t even know what Drory was doing behind his back, poor dear, and you kept quiet and let Ferkiyan cry on your shoulder after Drokyarix finally broke up with him (the shirt was a bit of a loss, demon tears are ruinous to cloth, but Ferkiyan’s a good sort and you couldn’t just turn him away). You even managed to talk him down from going and starting a fight with Irkiliz, who didn’t even know that Drokyarix was in a relationship, and who was almost as horrified as
Rek’ththththtyr.
After that event in particular, you start to get a sort of a reputation as a place where a demon can come to relax, talk, and – of course – get a sandwich. Your sandwich-making skills have really improved since this whole thing began. Your luck seems to have improved too – you’re not sure if you can attribute the whole thing to the sandwiches and the reputation, but you don’t really want to know anyway.
One day, there’s a bright flash of light from your living room. Nothing unusual in itself – most of the younger demons haven’t quite got the style of their elders, and usually just go for a materialization in a flash of hellfire over your fireplace – except that it’s white instead of the usual red. You look up, and who do you see but an angel looking at you with a spear in his hand. Shrugging, you tell him to sit down and you’ll have a sandwich for him shortly, and meanwhile he can just tell you all about what’s on his mind. This clearly is not at all what he was expecting, but after a moment’s thought, he decides to take you up on your offer and starts talking. Apparently, he’d been dispatched to take care of some demon summoner in the neighborhood, and while he’d evidently got the wrong house the right one shouldn’t be hard to find – have you seen anyone practicing satanic rituals nearby? You laugh, a little, and tell him that you don’t really summon them, they just come on their own. They do like their sandwiches, and they’re quite nice folk.
The angel’s jaw drops, and you remind him to chew with his mouth closed.
And I’m going to take this even further. Here we go.
It took a bit of explaining with the first angel to arrive. Telling him about the first accidental summoning and then how the demons just started stopping by around lunch time on your days off. But once he understood what’s been going on (and finished his sandwich) he nodded solemnly and said he would get this all straightened out “upstairs.”
You eventually start getting more angels coming around for lunch. Sometimes they bring a small dessert for you to share after the sandwiches, and the dishes are always magically clean and back in the cupboard when they leave.
You lean that angels don’t have much of their own drama, but they do know all the truths about human tabloid drama and they’re more than willing to dish on what the Kardashians have been up to.
The first time an angel and a demon show up for lunch on the same day is a little tense. You tell them that ALL are welcome for lunch in your house and that you would prefer it to be a no-conflict zone. It takes a while for them to settle, but eventually they grow comfortable enough to start chatting. Which is when you learn that because demons are technically fallen angels, you’ve been having two sides of an estranged family over for lunch regularly.
Soon, you have an angel and a demon at every lunch. Old friends and estranged siblings meeting up to reconnect over a sandwich at your dinning room table. You help the ones who had a falling out reach an understanding, and you get to hear wild stories of what the “old realm” was like.
One day, as you’re pulling out the bread and cheese, a messenger demon appears. You greet him and tell him a sandwich will be ready soon, but he declines. He is here on behalf of Lucifer to ask if it’s alright by you for him to “enter your dwelling so as to meet with his brother Michael over sandwiches.”
A little stunned, you agree. The demon disappears and you prepare three sandwiches, setting them at the table.
When Lucifer (the actual devil!) appears in small puff of smoke, you welcome him and ask what he’d like to drink. As you’re fetching the apple juice, a blinding flash of light comes from the dinning room indicating Michael’s arrival. You grab a second cup and walk back in to find a tense stand off between the brothers. You set down the cups and juice while calmly reminding them that this is a conflict-free zone, and if they are going to fight, please take it to an alternate plane of existence.
They don’t fight. They sit and enjoy the sandwiches and talk about what happened. You learn a lot about why creation started, what the purpose of humanity was and what it’s grown to be. You only have to diffuse two arguments. And at the end when it’s time for them to leave, they hug each other, agreeing to meet up again somewhere else.
In the following weeks you have the usual assortment of demons and angels stopping by. The regulars ask how you’re mom is doing and if your friend is settling in to their new apartment nicely. At some point during each visit though, they ask if it’s true. Did Lucifer and Michael really come for lunch? You tell them yes, but won’t say what was talked about. They’re disappointed, everyone likes the gossip, but they understand. Before they leave, you ask each angel and demon about this idea you have for the summer, what if you had a barbecue on the back patio for everyone who wanted to come? They think it sounds like a fun idea.
Yep, I’m picking up, here we go!
Everyone had a lot of fun at the barbecue. There wasn’t much fighting, but some sparks and noises made you grateful your neighbors were either out of town or older/deaf. There was a great three-legged race and a small football game with parties on all sides involved, you’d never fixed so much food before.
Then, two latecomers. Angels and demons alike gasped in shock and parted like the Red Sea (Which, apparently, is a VERY exaggerated story) to let them pass.
You smile warmly and ask what they’d like. Both decline to answer that, looking at each other awkwardly. The demon bows its head to let the angel speak first.
God Himself heard the fun and wanted to come join the barbecue.
You look at the messenger demon, the same one as before, and as you insist that “Oh, you really should stay this time!”, you’re told that Lucifer ALSO wants to come to your barbecue.
You look between the two. You tell them you won’t deny one or the other, but that they must keep in mind that this is a neutral zone and you won’t have their conflicts interfere with the atmosphere.
Both vanish momentarily (after each taking a plate of food). There’s a long, awkward silence.
Lucifer arrives first, flash of fire in the firepit, coming over to get a burger. He doesn’t look… displeased. But he’s not necessarily happy.
There’s a beautiful flash of white light and a rainbow, and then God descends onto your back porch. Your long-dead flowers spring back to life in His presence. Shit, now you actually have to go back to taking care of them.
The two regard each other from across the backyard. There’s still complete silence from the crowd of angels and demons.
You clear your throat. “What do you two want to eat? I have burgers, hot dogs, chicken, and some vegetarian alternatives.”
They slowly look at you. You return each of their gazes. “This is a no-conflict zone. We’re all here to have a good time at a good barbecue.”
More silence. Then, Lucifer dishes himself a burger and goes to prepare it the way he wants. God approaches calmly and looks over your vegetarian palette (Not the best, but it would do in a quick pinch, you found out just yesterday that some of the attendees would be vegetarian), fixing Himself some food as well.
As this goes on, the others begin to relax, and soon, everyone goes back to having a good time. The food is great, desserts brought by your angelic guests really compliment the meals you cooked, nobody starts sacrificing anybody or arguements (except later there’s a massive water gun/water balloon fight that knocked Michael into the fire pit and got ashes all over his bRAND NEW ROBES, DROKYARIX! but everyone laughed it off and carried on), and as you sit on your porch, taking in the sights, you wonder to yourself if you should do this kind of thing more often, and if you would have had this situation any other way.
Nope, you decide, when God hits Lucifer with a water balloon as he’s trying to refill his super soaker, you really wouldn’t have this any other way.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But – I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the
earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost
before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath
your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to
rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes
rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the
hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the
temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided
there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache
in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped
from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential
visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny
clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding
meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant
road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled
around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without
him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned,
if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he
thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless
creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them
good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in
return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity.
Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile
kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless
creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the
worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field
with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter
came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth,
and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s
work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a
familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto
curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year
mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of
unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting
friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m
so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will
you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for
visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and
chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There
is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if
you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want
to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting
friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
there is a farmer who has a beautiful and strong wife, and
she bears him three beautiful and strong sons. the eldest is of soft voice and
hard temper, and his name is jae-shin. the second is quick to anger and yells
too much, but is quick to forgive, and his name is ki-tae. the third is of even
temper and soft voice, and his name is min-woo.
the farmer loves his family very much, but he feels as if
it’s incomplete. he loves his sons, but he desperately wants a little girl to
call his own. he prays and prays, asking for a little girl. he doesn’t care if
she’s not like his other children, if she is weak or ugly, he vows to love her
just the same no matter what.
his prayers are answered, and nine months later his wife
gives birth to a baby girl. but she’s not weak, and she’s not ugly. she’s every
bit as strong and beautiful as her brothers.
they call her yeon-saeng.
~
yeon-saeng is smarter and stronger than her brothers, than
her parents, but she doesn’t say anything, never points it out, because she
loves them dearly and would never want to hurt them.
yeon-saeng is ten years old when the hunger grows to be too
much to ignore. she’s hungry constantly, and they are not a rich family, but
her mother gives her all the food she asks for with a smile, pats her hands and
kisses her cheeks and says nothing of the strain her eternal appetite puts on
their household.
but no matter how much she eats, she’s never full. it’s not
what she craves.
she is ten years old, and it’s the night of the full moon
when she sneaks into the barn. she knows what she wants, what she needs, but
she hesitates even now. she wishes there was another way, but she knows if she
doesn’t eat, then she’ll die. she doesn’t’ want to die.
she kills the cow, and eats its liver, bites into its heart,
and her hunger is sated.
the next morning, the cow is found, and her father says it
looks like a fox did it.
yeon-saeng burns with shame, and says nothing.
~
she doesn’t have to eat every night, if she did then they
would run out of cows and her family would go hungry. she doesn’t want them to
go hungry, and she does not want to die, so she waits. she waits until her
stomach is bloated with hunger and she feels ravenous with it, half mad with
it, then sneaks out under the night of the full moon to kill another cow. for
now, she does not need too many, can go months between feeding so long as she
pushed herself.
she’s changing. her nails are sharper, more pointed, and her
hair gleams red in sunlight. she doesn’t think she’s a little girl. she doesn’t
even think she’s truly her parents’ daughter.
but the thought is too heartbreaking to contemplate, so she
doesn’t.
~
the father worries after his livestock, and the fox he can’t
seem to catch. he sends jae-shin to hide in the barn and keep a look out, to
kill whatever is killing their cows.
jae-shin waits, and he hides, and he watches his sister kill
the cow and eat its liver and heart. her hands become claws, her hair turns
red, and fangs sprout from her mouth. she’s a fox demon forced to into human
shape, an abomination to humans and demons alike. he’s horrified, and afraid,
but he can’t bring himself to kill her.
she is his sister.
the next day, he tells his father everything. he says they
have to do something, that she’s a monster, that soon she’ll hurt them.
jae-shin could not bring himself to kill her. but he still
believes she should be killed.
the farmer is furious that his son could say such horrible
things about his beloved daughter. he says that jae-shin must have fallen
asleep, and had a bad dream, that he speaks of madness. but jae-shin will not
back down, and eventually the farmer throws his son from the house, saying
never to darken their doorstep again, that any son that could speak of killing
family is no son of his.
yeon-saeng pleads on her brother’s behalf. she can’t risk
telling them the truth, she should be happy it is jae-shin who is tossed aside
and not her. but she loves her brother. he is mean and surly, quiet in his
misery, but he let her ride on his shoulder when she was little and taught her
to tame a horse and let her huddle into his side when she became frightened by
thunder storms. she does not want him to go.
but father will not listen, and jae-shin is forced to go.
a few months, and another dead cow later, he sends ki-tae to
the barn, to find what is killing the cows and to kill whatever animal it is.
ki-tae is terrified of falling asleep and being thrown out like his elder
brother, so he stays wide awake and vigilant the whole night.
he sees what jae-shin saw – his little sister half
transforming into a fox demon, and killing and eating a cow’s heart and liver.
he’s not afraid. he’s furious. he is quick to anger over small things, but this
is not a small thing. yeon-saeng allowed their father to kick out their
brother, even what he told the truth. she said nothing as he left them, when
she could have saved him. she did nothing.
he sneaks back to the house and wakes his father, bidding
him to come to the barn quickly. but when he returns, yeon-saeng is gone. the
cow is there dead, it’s liver and heart gone, but his sister is nowhere to be
found. he runs back into the house, his father at his heels, and finds
yeon-saeng fast asleep in bed. he pulls her from her bed onto the floor. she
cries out in pain, and his father pushes him against the wall, furious. ki-tae
yells at her, says to tell father what she did, calls her a monster with all
the disgust he can muster.
yeon-saeng pulls her knees to her chest, crying, and for a
single moment ki-tae feels a stab or remorse. but she is a monster, and his father must know. they all have to know. how
long before she kills one of them?
father is just as furious with him as he was with jae-shin.
again, yeon-saeng pleads for brother, begging her father to let him stay. no
matter his temper, ki-tae is always kind in those small moments, in the quiet
lulls between his anger he has bandaged her scraped knees and braided her hair,
and he would roll her rice into the shape of a snake when she was little and would
grow stubborn and refuse to eat. she loves him, and she doesn’t want him to go.
but father will not listen, and ki-tae is forced to go.
a few more months, and another dead cow later, father sends
min-woo to spend the night in the barn, to find out what is killing the cows,
and to kill whatever it is. he sits, and waits, and sees what his brothers saw.
he sees yeon-saeng kill the cow, and eat its heart and liver.
he does nothing at all.
the next morning, he tells his father that he didn’t see
anything. whatever is killing the cows was too quick for him. father wants to
be angry that min-woo failed, but he’s secretly relieved that at least his
youngest son, so calm and even tempered, hasn’t been affected by the madness that
had taken his eldest sons, and resigns himself to the lost livestock.
it is not ideal, but it’s not crippling them, not killing
them.
~
yeon-saeng loves min-woo, but misses her eldest brothers
terribly. on the surface, min-woo is nicer, he’s never made fun of her or
gotten mud on her clothes, never yelled that she was too young to play with
him. he never seeks her out, but always welcomes her when she comes to him.
he’s not as mean as their elder brothers, but he’s not as
nice either.
yeon-saeng is thirteen the first time she eats a cow’s liver
and heart, and still feels the gnawing pains of hunger. she keeps eating,
desperate, because this is her only option. she eats the rest of the internal
organs, the muscle, all of it. she keeps eating until the red of dawn beats
against the barn doors. she’s covered in blood, more fox than girl, and there’s
nothing left of the cow but bones.
she’s still hungry.
~
she hopes it’s a fluke, a mistake. she waits, to see if time
will make her full, but it’s just the opposite. her whole body aches with
hunger, her limbs grow sluggish and heavy. she sleeps the day away, hoping it
will help, that she’ll wake up feeling normal, but it doesn’t work.
her parents fret over her, and her brother watches her with
calm, even eyes that give away nothing at all. the days pass, and she seems to
flip, instead of becoming weaker, she becomes stronger. her body fills with a
frantic, desperate energy to feed, and she huddles under the blankets, afraid
to let her family see her. she can’t get her claws or teeth to go away, her
hair is bright red. she looks like a fox, and nothing she does makes it go
away.
late at night, her hunger becomes too much, and she snaps.
she’s outside her parent’s door when she realizes what she was about to do, her
hand just about to slide open their door.
she’s so certain that a single human heart could sate her
hunger.
yeon-saeng runs. it’s painful to walk away, she can smell
them, smell her brother down the hall, and her mouth waters. she’s so hungry. but
she forces herself to walk away and runs to the barn.
she kills half their heard that night, gobbling up hearts
and livers in a frenzy. she slaughters the next cow while the previous one’s
warm, wet heart is still in her hand.
it’s not quite daybreak, and she’s not hungry anymore. she’s
not quite satisfied, but the ravenous
yearning deep in her gut is gone.
it’s a devastating loss. her father will struggle to survive
now that half his cows are dead. and what’s worse is this – she cannot stay.
she will either eat the other half, and leave them penniless to starve, or she
will give in to her urges, and kill them herself. she’s selfish, but not that
selfish. she loves her family too much to do this to them.
when the sun rises into the sky, she’s gone.
~
her hair never goes back to black. it’s a permanent dark
orange, and her nails are too sharp, and her teeth a little too long. but she
almost looks like a person, as long as no one looks too closely.
the first few years are the hardest. she wanders through towns,
too young to do any real work, but sometimes a kind innkeep would let her clean
tables in exchange for a room. other times, she sneaks into barns and sleeps
among the warm, dry hay.
she has to eat, and she has to eat often. small animals
don’t satisfy her, she tries chickens and rabbits, even sheep don’t sate her
hunger. cows and boars will do, and horses probably would too, but she’s
reluctant to test her theory. partially because killing a horse will certainly
garner more attention than she wants. but also because, well, she likes horses. she thinks they have kind
eyes, and she’ll sooner eat a horse than she will a human, but would prefer to
have neither, honestly.
she misses rice cakes. they were her favorite as a child,
but now they taste like ashes in her mouth.
when possible, she hunts for he own food in the forest,
searching out wild board to feed herself with. but sometimes that’s not
possible, and when that happens she sneaks away to a pasture and kills a cow.
they always say it looks like a fox attack.
she doesn’t want people to go hungry because of her, to
suffer because of her, so she doesn’t stay in one town for long. she moves
around constantly, killing and stealing the livestock of farmers she needs to
live, trying to keep her head down and not cause trouble.
she still craves human hearts more than anything else. but
as long as she keeps herself well fed it’s … well, not easy to ignore it, but manageable.
she’s managing.
~
yeon-saeng is sixteen, and it’s much easier. people hire her
to serve drinks in restaurants now, will hire her to smile at customers now.
she still doesn’t look quiet human, but people never seem to
notice that.
she’s beautiful. they don’t know what she is, they don’t
care, all they care for is her pretty face. she always smiles with her mouth
closed so they don’t see her teeth, but that’s okay. things are easier now.
she is sixteen when she makes a friend.
it’s not one she expected to make, if she ever thought she’d
have one. she keeps everyone way, women are nice to her and men want her, but
she rejects them all, keeping to herself and offering them nothing more than
her close-lipped smile.
she’s a monster. those around her risk one day being eaten
by her, and the pain of that potential loss stops her whenever she fees the
urge to reach out to someone. she thinks of her parents often, of her brothers.
she hopes they’re happy. sometimes she hopes they’ve forgotten her, but she’s
still a selfish girl, and the thought that not one person cares for her cuts
like a knife.
but one person does come to care for her.
his name is bou, and he’s a monk. he is plain, and
nondescript, but there are not many buddhist monks, and he stands out, somehow,
with his calm face and plain grey robes. he follows her from town to town, and at
first she thinks it is a coincidence, that maybe they are simply traveling in
the same direction. but soon it’s too much to be a coincidence, and she can
only think of one reason a monk would have for following her. he must know what
she is, and be here to kill her.
she does not want to die.
yeon-saeng corners him, nails and claws out, eyes blazing
red, and says she will not die easily, says that she does not want to kill him,
but she will to preserve her own life.
she’s already thinking that if she does kill him, she’ll
have to tear out his heart and liver and grind it into the dirt so she does not
eat them. once she starts eating humans, she doesn’t know if she could stop,
and to leave them whole would be a temptation she would be unable to refuse.
he looks at her, unflinching, and tells her a story. he happened
upon two brothers not long ago, with very strange histories. born into
near-poverty, they were separated as teenagers and led remarkable lives. the
eldest was adopted into a noble family and became one of the hwarang, the
refined and cultured warriors who live on the edges of the country. the younger
became the assistant to a yangban, the high level civil servants of the
country. both now had prestigious positions rarely achieved by nobility. they
happened to pass each other on the street one day just a few short months ago,
both visiting a city they were not from, and recognized each other instantly.
they cried to find each other again, and it is here when bou
overheard them talking while at a tavern. they spoke of their sister, who killed
their cows and devoured their hearts and livers, and was the reason they’d been
thrown from their homes. they spoke of their sister, who was not their sister
by blood, but a demon sent from the heavens, for some misdeed none of them knew
of. they spoke of their sister, who they knew to be a monster, and who they
could not face. they spoke of their sister, who they loved in spite of everything,
to this very day.
bou intended to find her, and kill her, to rid the world of
her evil. but he finds her, and finds that she is not evil. that she is kind,
and hurting, and alone, and trying so desperately to do no harm, to be a good
person in a world that does not have enough good people.
a demon she may be, but a monster she is not.
yeon-saeng is sobbing by the end of this, stepping away from
him. bou has decided that she is the best kind of person, and that he would
like to follow her, to travel with her, if she will allow it. she tries to refuse,
says she will put him in danger, but bou does not listen.
she doesn’t have to let him be her friend. but he will
follow her wherever she goes, so she might as well make this easier on both of
them. she does not give in until he makes her a promise – if she ever does
become a monster, he’ll kill her himself. when she cannot trust herself, she
can trust him.
bou and yeon-saeng travel together, and although she worries
constantly, yeon-saeng never harms him. years pass, and she grows stronger, she
leans even further into her demon powers.
she is at least part kumiho, part nine tailed demon, and there
are certain skills that come with that. with bou and his holy powers by her
side, she feels comfortable exploring them for the first time. if she ever goes
too far, bou will stop her.
she is a young woman when bou convinces her to seek out her
family, to try and make amends with them. she cannot yet face her eldest
brothers, whose lives she forced off course so dramatically, but agrees to try
and visit her parents and youngest elder brother at home.
when she arrives, there are no cows in the pasture, and she
worries. the house looks worn, and it feels empty. she knocks on the door, fear
and worry making her shake, and it is only bou’s presence at her back that
steadies her.
but the door opens, and it’s her brother, min-woo. he’s
older, of course, but he looks healthy, looks fine. he’s startled to see her,
but welcomes her inside like nothing has changed, like she hasn’t been missing
for a decade. he doesn’t move to embrace her, and she holds herself back,
uncertain. he tells her she has good timing, because he has invited their elder
brothers home.
min-woo tells her that their parents have died, and she’s
nearly bowled over in her grief. but he implores her to stay, says that now
they can be a family once more. yeon-saeng agrees because she doesn’t know what
else to do, her kind mother and father who loved her so very much are dead, and
even though she hasn’t seen them in years their loss is just as devastating.
min-woo comforts her, tells her they were simply old, and these things happen.
she doesn’t think they were that old, but what does she know, she hasn’t been
there for years.
she agrees, and min-woo tells her he has nothing to feed her
and her companion, but she doesn’t mind. pretending to enjoy rice that tastes
like dirt is a waste on both of them, and bou has endured much worse than a
night’s sleep on an empty stomach. min-woo does offer them water, which they
accept. it doesn’t taste clean, but both are too polite to say anything about
it.
so they settle down, and bou falls asleep at her back, like
he always does, and she eventually falls into a fitful sleep, thoughts of her
dead parents and her living brothers chasing around her head.
when she awakes, everything has somehow gotten even worse.
she’s tied up, and she twists to see bou is as well,
wide-eyed and with a gag in his mouth. min-woo sits in front of them, a cruel
twist to his mouth she’s never seen before. her head is foggy, and it takes her
a moment to process everything. the water must have been drugged.
he tells them their timing is perfect. he’d nearly run out
of their parents’ flesh to eat, and so had invited their elder brothers home,
intent on killing them and eating them. but eating her flesh, consuming the
heart of a kumiho, will sustain him so much longer than mere humans would.
she looks at him in horror, not understanding. she asks if
he was born a demon too, if he’s like her, but he laughs at her. he is just a
human, but if he eats her maybe he will be something more.
min-woo takes a hunk of something folded in butcher paper
and unwraps it, and in the center is a heart. the scent hits her nose all at
once, and she knows it’s a human heart.
that it’s her father’s heart.
he’s been saving this for himself, but the stronger she is
when he kills and eats her, the stronger she will make him. he holds it to her
mouth, and parts of her wants it, it’s not fresh but it hasn’t gone bad, has
been kept frozen and recently defrosted by the smell, and her mouth is already
watering. she lives with a constant low-level hunger, but now it’s out in full
force, begging her to bite into the heart her brother is holding to her lips.
she closes her mouth and shakes her head, turning away from
it. this isn’t right. it’s not fair. she asks why, asks if it was because they
ran out of food, was there truly nothing else for him to eat?
he says business was fine. they had plenty to eat. he just
wanted to eat them, he just wanted to
kill and eat human flesh, says he wanted to become stronger, and this seemed
like the easiest way to do it.
this is incomprehensible to yeon-saeng, who has struggled
against the gnawing in her stomach her whole life. she could break the ropes,
could break min-woo. she’s a kumiho. her power is so far beyond min-woo’s that
it’s laughable.
but guilt and grief swallow her. maybe the true reason she
was born into her family was not divine punishment, maybe she was meant to
protect them, to keep them safe. maybe her true purpose was to protect her
beloved parents from min-woo, and she has failed. her parents are dead, her
brother is a monster, and she has failed at the one thing she supposed to do.
she has no reason to live. once min-woo eats her, he will
have no need of bou, her friend will be fine. she won’t eat her father’s heart,
even now, at the end, but she can’t seem to muster the will to defend herself.
bou is screaming through his gag, surely begging her to do
something, but she can’t move, too numb to do anything at all. min-woo gets
tired of trying to force her to eat the heart, and lifts up a knife, moving to
slit her throat.
before he gets the chance, a blade is shoved through his
chest and out his mouth, killing him instantly. yeon-saeng looks up, wide eyed.
min-woo slides off the blade, revealing the man holding it.
it is her eldest brother, jae-shin. her second eldest brother ki-tae is at his
side. they’re older too, more steady, firmer than she remembers them being. she
bows her head, waiting for her own death blow, but it doesn’t come.
instead ki-tae throws his arms around her, her eldest
brother doing the same. they heard everything, they know everything. they cry
as they hold her, apologies falling from their lips. she is their sister, and
they love her, and they’re sorry they ever doubted her.
they could never bring themselves to hurt her, but did not
hesitate to cut down min-woo. maybe deep down they’d always known who the true
monster was.
jae-shin cuts her free, and does the same for bou. yeon-saeng
is shaking in ki-tae’s arms still, but jae-shin pulls her forward and cups her
face in his hands, kisses her forehead and tells her he’s sorry, that if he
hadn’t acted so rashly so long ago maybe none of this would have happened.
yeon-saeng won’t accept their apologies, instead offering
her own for letting their father throw them out when they only spoke the truth,
for remaining silent in the face of their banishment.
their parents are dead, killed by their brother, who has
been killed by jae-shin. they are as broken as ever, but the three of them are
together once more, are willing and eager to rebuild their relationship. they
all made mistakes, but all are willing to forgive.
bou is furious with yeon-saeng for freezing, for doing
nothing to save herself. but he’s pulled between his anger and his worry that
now she has her brothers back, she won’t need him anymore. but she knows him
just as well as he knows her, so she assuages his worries and apologizes for
freezing, says she won’t do it again. she tells bou that he’s her best friend,
and she never wants him to leave.
so now this incredibly strange group is traveling together,
roaming the country – a short tempered yangban’s assistant, a charming hwarang
warrior, a buddhist monk, and a kumiho.
together, they do their best to figure out the extent of
yeon-saeng’s powers, and try to leave everywhere they go a little better, a
little less broken.
So I know it can be hard to find good original m/m specifically by category. Some publishers offer tagging systems and some don’t.
QueerRomanceInk is a database (free for readers) that allows you to search original published m/m by a lot of different categories, including orientations like asexual and non-binary, tropes and potential trigger warnings. It’s very fandom friendly re: search parameters.
It’s gaining momentum in the m/m world and will be very helpful given so much quality m/m is actually self-published these days and therefore very hard to find (especially given the implosion of Riptide Publishing in the meantime).
But it’ll only get better if folks check it out! So if you’re someone who is interested in having a place to have a to-be-read and favourite authors list, get notifications for books on sale and new books by fave authors, and don’t want the entrenched drama that is GoodReads, I highly recommend you check it out!
just moving along like everyone else 