Wanderer

"Wanderer above a Sea of Fog" is something of a mascot in my current English class. We were asked to think on it, and make some questions, and I did. Have been.

This post will be...hm. As self-indulgent as a musing, at any rate. My thoughts around the painting. I will be referring to the man as Herr Wanderer, to differentiate.

The first thing that came to my mind in English class was, "That looks familiar." After thinking a moment, I remembered that I my brother had seen this when he was in this English class--in fact, he wrote a blog post on it.* I haven't reread that post, though I plan to after I post this one.

And I thought: We're plunging into the unknown.

This is the last year where teachers will say, "Oh, you're Chris's sister?" This is the last year I will see many of my acquaintances, and the last year I will ever see some of my friends. Neither of those will be intentional, but...friendship is proximity. That can manifest as proximate--or complementary--interests as easily as physical proximity, but physical proximity plays a part. Sometimes drifting apart just means moving houses.

To a greater extent, I am moving. I am taking the first steps outside my ivory tower. I am school smart; I play the harp; I have good music theory. Those are all skills that can be fun at parties--though the first is usually only fun if brought up sideways--but I have yet to test them in a practical arena. I have been called on to help--with a safety net of (an) adult(s) and my peers at my back. I have tutored--for pocket money. I have never needed something to work out for me. I'm on the ground for the moment, and I can climb back in if I need to, but if I fall, I hit the ground.

I wrote this down as one of my questions, though before thinking of the stuff in either of those latter paragraphs: "What comes next?"

Next, I wrote, "Was the clothing normal for the age it was painted?" Once I was thinking on clothing, I linked to Loki, because I saw The Ring Cycle semi-recently--within the last year--and their Loki, in addition to wearing something superficially similar, also had the same sort of air I felt from the piece. The man clearly stands apart, but looks confident in rough terrain. Once I got a close-up--in the middle of writing this paragraph--I re-thought that interpretation, because of the hair. The tilt of the head and the hair being mussed as it is makes him seem a bit less comfortable, a bit more tired/resigned, but every other angle in his body speaks of firmness to me. And, though this didn't occur to me until I looked at the close-up again, the tilt of the head could also be a reaction to some form of trick gone wrong. Once I've made the link with Loki, I almost have to bring up his house with four doors (so he can see enemies approaching from any side): the painting has the same sort of feel to it, with one man who can see all around. Yet it's worth remembering that sight didn't help Loki, he was still caught. This man's high vantage point helps him as much; for all the possible planning, he's caught in the fog. The wanderer also doesn't look like the type to have a Sigyn, but then, Loki generally doesn't either.

Once I've hit on Norse mythology and have a character called "The Wanderer", I almost must think of Odin. (One of Odin's epithets/forms is the Wanderer.) Given that I've already associated Herr Wanderer with Loki, what associating him with Odin brings to mind is the idea I've read that Odin and Loki were, originally, the same being. This idea makes some sense, given that Loki is the clever one and Odin is the ruler. The idea also occurred to me in the Ring, when Odin is stalling for time while Loki revels in keeping everyone else in the dark while flat-out telling them exactly what they need to know. It didn't work to take them as separate personalities or anything like that; it just seemed like their actions fit together--Odin's "Hold on, I'm sure Loki will come up with a grand plan in a moment," with Loki's delight in pretending to be flippantly speaking of nothing of importance, while he--still flippantly--speaks of a plan. I can just imagine Odin's lines being delivered with suppressed laughter, and Loki's are stalling in their own way, if for another purpose.

The next main question I thought up was, "Is the similarity to The Fool intentional?" There are differences from what I have usually seen--the colors are duller; we cannot see the man's face; he doesn't appear to be about to step off the cliff (unintentionally); the Herr Wanderer has no animal companion--but the basic idea is similar. A man, who appears to (have) be(en) wandering stands on a cliff edge. The painting could be The Fool with a touch of ennui, or a few more bad experiences.

The class came together to discuss at this point. Our teacher brought up how he used "question", and that contained the word, "quest", where we were going. The next few ideas that came up revolved around that basic idea, though given the painting, it's hard to do otherwise: "Why is he wandering?" "Does he have a destination?" "What is he seeking?" which naturally brought, "if anything." "Is he starting or finishing his journey?"--the teacher brought up that one hopes he's finishing, since he's on the cliff edge, to which I thought, Well then, he's probably about to finish one way or another. He could turn around; if he got up he can probably get down, but... Anyway. "What's his purpose for climbing?" "Is he running from something?" "What is he looking at?"

Now that those are out there: The first three are nearly the same, though with different opinions and degrees of certainty about whether he is traveling point A to B, or wandering. "Does he have a point in mind to reach, and if so, what marks it?" There's something about living an unexamined life in there, and also about how you don't need to know where you're going to be doing what you want to do.

Starting or finishing the journey is something of a more complex question than the teacher's words or my knee-jerk thought implied. As I already hinted at, this may be the point where the man turns around. That could signify the end, doubling back as in the classical Hero's Journey, but there are other reason to do it. I can imagine going to my bridge and watching the fog roll one last time before leaving home. I would watch, leaning on a rail, or weight on one hip, breathing and existing in that last moment of home...and then I turn and I start off. On the subject of the implied possibility of suicide, I don't think that makes sense outside a joke. He looks remarkably accepting of life as it is, if not happy about it. My teacher described the German art period this was a part of as being about the dark things, and...yes. This is a man who sees dark. He may be scared--he may not be--but he is at peace with its existence. I cannot imagine him being careless enough to step off accidentally, nor do I see him deciding to jump. Mulling it over as an option, yes, perhaps even as we look at him. But not jumping. Not at this point in the journey.

"What's his purpose for climbing?" feels like the right question to ask to me. It neatly summarizes what is there. Is he, as another suggested, running from something? Is he running to something? Is he seeking something, looking for it? Is he observing, looking at it? Was the purpose observation or discovery? Has the purpose remained static, or did it shift? That is true wandering, to me: one's purpose shifts from moment to moment. A traveler hopes the wind will be at his back and plans that it won't be; a wanderer merely turns so it is.

My teacher was on talking, and I don't know if he would even remember this, but it was a question he spoke that hit me: "How high do you want to go?"

How big a star do you want to be? How quiet a life do you want to lead? How much do you want to help? Forget what you can do for a moment; nearly everything is something you can learn or work around, if you're willing to make the right sacrifice. How high do you want to go?

And, tightly related: How badly do you want it?

I thought of a song to go with the line, as I am wont to do. There's a song in The Protomen called "The Fall". The true lyrics and a scene description are here. What I wrote in my notebook was, "Climb, climb to the top of the world, and know that when you fall, you fall from a height most men never reach." I've never seen The Protomen, and really wasn't even thinking about the scene described when I thought of the song. It was just...in the moment, it was the fear. But even in the middle of the fear, I thought of the triumphant music to the inspiring, cynical lyrics. I will fall. I will get up every time but the last.

These are not reasons to stop climbing. These are reasons to make the fall breathtaking.

* He calls it "Wanderer before a Sea of Mists". To be fair, my teacher called it "Wanderer over a Sea of Fog" and "Wanderer in the Sea of Fog" during the course of the class period. I'm just going off what gets the most hits on Google.

Temptation

As always, make of Loki's motives what you will.

Sigyn was a project.

She knew she was a project. One would think this fact would make resisting Loki easier. Occasionally, Sigyn wondered if it did, and Loki would simply be impossible to resist if she believed, for one moment, that he actually wanted her.

Loki's hands were gentle on her skin.

The point was irrelevant. She was a project; she knew she was a project. There was no fathomable universe in which Loki showed any interest and either fact was false.

Those clever kisses were soft and warm, or at least warmed her.

Loki would toss Sigyn aside as soon as he grew bored. Any glimmer of a smile she saw in his eyes was solely amusement at the fact that she was resisting him, that she'd found his game.

He was fire; he was ice. He was Loki.

The kisses she could ignore. Teasing touches were more difficult, but possible. But the words echoed in her ears, impossible to dismiss on an emotional level even if she knew every syllable was a lie.

Loki's pull was subtle, ever-present: Thor was magnetic; Loki was gravitational.

Kisses he must have given to others; Sigyn had seen kisses traded in brief moments of pleasure, not even linked to the other person, just to a warm body. Caresses were transient things, and the part of her that insisted she wasn't a game to him could still believe they meant something just as transient.

The words followed her; words finally brought her to him.

Loki had whispered, too gently, "I love you, Sigyn." No other would lie that way. Even as Sigyn knew this was Loki Lie-Smith, even as she knew he could make even an insult drip enough honey to sound like the most splendid compliment, even as she knew that if she gave in his attention would fall away, she followed him. Just once.

"Steadfast Sigyn," he murmured, warm in her ear. He might have said, 'Mine.'

She woke before he did, in the half-light of false dawn. The same part of Sigyn that had insisted everything was a lie asked if one night had been worth it. Worth knowing she had lost their game, that she was no longer Loki's focus.

She watched him sleep, tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear.

"Clever Loki."

She might have said, 'Love.'

Some Fall (Prose)

Referent: Some Fall

"That's it, then?"

"That's it," the demon said with a smile. I would've expected it to be overly charismatic, or slimy, or wrong, but it was just...a smile. A friendly turn of the lips that felt honest, but not exceptionally so. Had it not been for the odd movements, I would have doubted that the being was a demon.

"I just...give my soul, and I get whatever I want in this life?"

The entity's eyes crinkled in a way that made me think of suppressed laughter. "Yes. I realize what you've been told of me, but honestly, I do keep my word."

And that...did fit the stories. Any number of tricks, any number of exact words and twisted language, but the being on the other end never lied.

"I want...I want to go back," I said softly. "To how I was before the accident. Body and...abilities." I had developed several phobias, one of enclosed spaces that I could get over fairly easily, one of restricted movement that I could avoid fairly easily, and one of cars that I couldn't do anything about. "I don't want to lose any memories, but I want to be, well." I gestured at my wheelchair. "As able-bodied as I was beforehand, and without the phobias the dang thing gave me. Free of scars." I realized I had looked away, and looked back up at those truly human eyes. "Can you do that?"

The demon nodded. "Yes. It's not the most common request, but it's certainly within my power." A piece of parchment--parchment, seriously, not paper and not human skin or anything, just parchment--appeared in a miniscule puff of not-acrid smoke.

"May I?" I asked, holding my hand out.

"Of course. Mind not to bleed on it."

I checked my hands for any wounds, then just slid a pair of thin gloves on to be safe. The demon nodded in approval. "The whole signing in blood thing is true, then?" I asked, glancing up.

"Yeah. It's the only thing the higher-ups accept." The entity shrugged. "Doesn't take much. A drop would work, and should you wish to avoid injuring yourself intentionally, I could just as easily wait for the next time you bled for another reason." And even that didn't sound threatening. Just...like when you've met someone from another culture, and the speech patterns are a bit off.

I read, occasionally looking up at the humanoid. I wanted to see hunger, some unwholesome desire for my soul. All I saw was a decent salesperson, good at the job and a reasonably good person.

"Thanks." I read over the contract carefully, twice. It said, in clear language, that I would be as physically healthy and fit as I had been before the accident--with specifics around to make clear which accident--and that any phobias or mental illnesses I'd developed as a result would also be healed. "Mental illness" was what my doctor would define as such, were she being completely honest. I would lose no memories.

A simple clause at the end stated that, in exchange for the previously mentioned help, I would lose my soul.

There was a little twist in my chest, about where my heart was. I wanted to walk again. I really did. But this was so permanent. This is so tempting; this is so permanent; which am I going to let decide me?

I slipped off the gloves, flipped out my swiss army knife, and bled on the paper.

Even then, when I still expected some final gotcha, some wicked grin or evil laugh, the demon merely smiled. The blood dried, not-quite-human hands folded the paper, and the being was gone.

Ragged breath. Mine. It had been so easy, far to easy, to completely miss every sign.

The demon had looked human. So unbelievably human, and I'd assumed glamour; I'd assumed practice; I'd heard every hoofbeat and assumed I was listening to a zebra. I'd never quite thought that maybe, as I stared at the being that was so human and just slightly off, I was simply looking at a human without a soul.

I had found the being, and noticed for the first time that I had not idea whether the entity was male, female, somewhere between or somewhere outside. It seemed an odd thing to miss.

"Can I undo it?"

"I don't see why not."

"How?"

The demon shrugged. "How should I know?"

"What? But--"

Index finger held up. "We made our deal. If you want your soul back, then it's your right to try and find it." The same finger, tapping the folded contract. "You've given. I never said I'd taken away."

Priorities and Sanity

Emilia steps into the old office. Everything is immaculate from perfectly lined books to the man's own perfectly fitted suit, and it all feels so...still. There's a window that lets the sun shine in, since it's as clean as the rest of the office, but it might as well be nailed shut as far as the stale air was concerned.

She planned this for so long that Emilia jolts when she realizes she has nothing to say. Blunt, then?

The words tumble out. "Can you teach me any magic?"

She kicks herself, immediately. Sloppy, clearly sloppy, hardly fit for anyone who cares to ever become a mage, much less one studying under Dr. Johnson. He would just say she was there because her mother had taught him, and he'd be wrong, but how could she say that to him--

He turns. "I was wondering when you'd ask."

Emilia, for all that she had not planned what to say, had an outline in her head. And then he had to go and say that.

"Um," she says, eloquently.

"Though I do admit, when I was your age I was still attempting to plan my speech to convince the mage I wanted to study under," he says. Dr. Johnson isn't quite smiling, but his face is softer than Emilia had ever seen it.

"I rather skipped that part."

The mage shrugs. His suit wrinkles very slightly, and he does not fix it. "I forgot the whole thing anyway. More work than one would think, memorizing a speech."

"...Does this mean you'll teach me?"

"Depends." The man holds up his index finger to tell the fifteen-year-old to wait. "And I will know if you simply say something you think I want to hear."

Emilia nods and straightens, ready for any difficult question he might pose.

"Why do you want to be a mage?"

"I want to help people," she says immediately. "I want to heal people, and I want to be able to make shields so people don't need healing."

"That's not an easy path."

The healer's daughter nods. "But it's easier than watching. For me."

"Second question." Emilia swallows. "Why do you want me for a teacher?"

"Because you're the best at teaching the fields I want to learn."

"What would you do if you can't learn healing?"

"I'd learn other spells and adapt them to healing, and I'd learn more mundane methods of healing."

Still not a smile on the doctor's face, but a hint of approval. "And if you could not learn any magic?"

Emilia blinks. It sounds an innocuous enough question, she supposes, especially in light of her previous response. She's already declared herself willing to take other paths to her destination, and there are non-magical routes.

But that's not it, really. Learning difficult spells like this...some people can only ever make sparks, not fires. Trying can burn them out. It was rare, spectacularly rare with a good teacher--which was part of why she had chosen him, she supposes, but that wasn't really the point. Emilia found the person who could teach her the most.

"I'd retreat into my room for...a little while, I think," she says. "Then I'd look for more mundane methods of healing. Probably Watch." There's a feeling, to someone pushing the magic too far. Some excellent teachers could sense it, but everyone who had gone through the loss knew it, instinctively, immediately. Knew when to stop someone else. Watchers are rare; they rarely want anything to do with magic. But they are useful.

"You are sure you could be around magic, even after losing yours?" The teacher's voice is low now, soft and deep. Gentle, Emilia supposes.

The mage-in-training realizes her posture had slumped and stands back up, squaring her shoulders. "Yes. It might take me a little while, but I'd do it."

He nods, then drops a book she realized he must have grabbed as she walked through the door. "Good. Have that read by Monday, and take good notes. Your training starts in earnest then."

Emilia nods, takes the book gently, and walks to the library.

After the door clicks behind her, the man allows himself a smile.

Names

It's spring, by the turn of the weather if not the calendar. Snow melting, a few bare patches of almost-dry among the steadily fading patches of snow and the steadily increasing damp. The two lovers are sitting in a field. They meander through a conversation, familiar enough with each other to barely need to pay attention, interested enough to focus on each other anyway.

"No one's quite sure," he says. "I named myself, you see. Chose it from some names I heard floating around. For all I know I crossed two names, or more. I've mostly heard it associated with fire, and most would likely accept that."

"You're being honest today."

His grin glints in the rare sunlight. "You have no way to be sure of that."

The woman rolls her eyes and corrects herself. "You are being exceptionally lengthy if you lie."

"Not as if you've ever had to worry about your clear name, Miss Victory," he replies.

"What else have you heard?"

"Hm?"

"You said you've mostly heard your name associated with fire. What else have you heard?"

"Oh..." He hasn't had to dig this up for a while, and sorts through the memories. "White light. Air, more rarely."

"Nothing else?"

"Everything else is to do with me," he says, turning to smirk at her this time, brighter for all that the sunlight doesn't hit as directly. "Trickster, sly, clever..."

She laughs, though more for the bald-faced satisfaction in his voice than his words. "Your humility becomes you." She lies down on the grass, staring up at the break in the clouds that got them to choose this spot in the field. "Maybe you're that," she says, almost absently.

"I'm which?"

"Your name. That," she says, gesturing towards the light breaking through the clouds, though the sun was still hidden from this angle. "Fire, air, light...burns, the motes that flutter through, shining down." She looks amused. "When he deigns to, of course."

"Of course," he replies, every inch the gracious king.

She throws a handful of melting snow at him; they laugh and start a scuffle, ending up soaking, a little muddy, and laughing fully.

Unimpressed

A/N: So...some weird stuff happened with my computer, so this is late and I had less time to work on it. ...Yeah.

Setting: The Alcatraz
Plot: Despite The Plan
Narrative Device: Thirty Xanatos Pileup
Hero: Broken Hero
Villain: Villain Decay
Character As Device: Wacky Guy
Characterization Device: Extraversion Tropes

A/N: Read as dialogue.

Most of the guards are actually okay people.

I say this to explain why I'm not starting with some guard shouting my ear off about how inescapable the place is. It is nigh impossible, of course, but they don't feel the need to rub your nose in it. Either that, or the warden--don't mess with him--told his employees that most of the inmates here would take that as a challenge, and added that anyone caught stating the prison was inescapable would be cleaning up the next mess the next inmate who tried to escape made.

You ever try getting all the chips of wall out of a mattress? Not fun.

The issue, of course, is when you get people who realize that the sort of people who feel no need to brag about having an inescapable prison are those with and inescapable prison. Naturally, this is perceived as a challenge, and instead of getting every second guy trying, you get the quietly intelligent ones. Meaning that you don't have the eyes and ears of the loud ones, because they've given up finding someone who can get out. Meaning that, in the middle of this place, we've got to have guards who are watching for schemes that would probably fail who make sure that they certainly fail without alerting the other inmates to the possibility of success. And that the quiet ones try to take advantage of this by making the only way to stop them really strikingly obvious, because as annoying as this set-up is, it is not half as annoying as having everyone make a break for it at once.

But anyway.

It's a pretty okay place to be. Granted, almost no one likes being in a place they have to be in, but I'm sure that if the people here were given a choice, most of us would at least want to vacation here. That's part simple location--the weather is mild, and though the sleeping spaces are rather cramped, someone somewhere along the line noted that inmates were less likely to go crazy and start literally climbing the walls if we had the opportunity for exercise and thought. A friend of mine and I are co-authoring a novel, actually.

The other part's simple company. I didn't just mention the quietly intelligent ones to show something that shows up occasionally; we tend to get the quietly intelligent criminals. Their backgrounds are absolutely fascinating. Not often the sorts of things they'll tell you about, but really, even what they make up is rather good. Almost everyone bothers to create either realistic horror or some sort of almost-believable tragedy. Then there's the one guy who just has fun with it every time, but he's great for a break.

Ah, shoot, the inmates are fighting again; Michael must be trying to get out.

"All right guys, break it up," I muttered, stepping between them. "Let's try and not get any guards called, all right?"

Winter's

A breath huffed out. Hard to keep it up for too long, but worth it, worth it.

I am the edge to your blade
I am the knife of your steel
I am what you can't quite remember
And I am all that is real

Slipping through between the air, the pattern of slices the being. Slippery as water, slippery as fire.

Watch the silver flash by
Watch the sun set near
Listen, my darling, and wait
Soon it shall appear

Partnerless sparring, a fierce dance. No difference between the two, just the slide of blade on air. How beautiful, to breathe in ice.

Something swallowed, now in my breast
A sense to which only I can attest

Wild and free, there, alone, in the frosted over training ground, slip and no one knows, succeed and no one sees, just the frost, just the trees.

The beauty of crystal and the beauty of ice
The beauty that one sees once, twice
Here I stand among snowflakes that freeze
And nothing can touch me but the slice of the breeze

Tracks of sweat freezing as another hour passes by. Body pushing limits, mind rolling only enough to adjust to shifting wind and ground.

Something touches me, cuts through my sleeves
A sharp slice of winter through glacial breeze
Not painful, no slice, nothing so tame
Winter's call to heart breathes my name

Sigyn & Loki

Loki was bound in his son's entrails-turned-iron. He lay under a spring, but more immediately, under a snake that streamed venom. Sigyn holds a basin between snake and bound husband. When she empties the basin, Loki writhes from pain, and the Earth writhes with him.

A lull fell in their conversation as Sigyn focused on the venom-catcher, nearly full.

Loki was a trickster. The trickster, if you went by anyone Sigyn had ever known, anyone who had ever met the man. Anyone who had been around him for long enough to see one change on that exterior, one second looking wholly calculating man who was interested enough to help, the next smiling as it all tumbled down, clever enough to dance through the falling ruins without a scratch.

Sigyn thought of this, and also thought he had never broken his word. She'd always wondered if the other gods would ever figure that one out, that you merely needed to get his word and watch the wording--but then, of course, Loki was ever the trickster. He'd dance through the words, quickest, be just as free as he ever was, and smile when you realized it was your fault.

She smiled down at him the best she could. The snake dripped its venom on him whenever she emptied the basin, and she had long lost any hope of cleaning off what fell. She had learned enough of him, saw the tension in his eyes. He stayed silent through even the worst of it, sparing her ears or his throat. Only his attempts to break the chain gave him away.

The smile was weak, and by now Loki knew it to be her warning. She took the basin, quickly, emptied it to the side, then held it back above him, high enough that the first splashes out the side would harm neither half of the pair.

Sigyn was faithful. Any proper description needed to include that. She was loyal, and it still surprised some that loyal, steadfast Sigyn had chosen changeable Loki. Trickster, who would hardly ever bind himself to anything.

Sigyn would smile, and look at their sons--whenever they thought of them now, Loki flinched, or Sigyn bit back tears--and think, quietly, that changeable Loki was her trickster.

By the time Loki had been bound, no one was surprised to see Sigyn at his side. She had enough foresight to have a large bowl, and was faithful enough that leaving him did not occur to her. That fact was Sigyn, as surely as clever Loki was trickster and taunter.

Loki's pain echoed between them. She felt she should be able to do more, but any deflection melted, or fell, or splashed burning venom against him. Loki felt he should have been able to hide his pain completely, to have that much trickery in him.

Loki could speak again without screaming, without telling his Sigyn how much he hurt. The silver tongue returned, as did his playful smirk, though the tension never did leave his eyes.

He spoke a handful of soft words, borrowed from better times. She smiled at him, a true smile, and they laughed together.

When he shakes enough, the bonds will break, and Ragnarok will come. Until then, ever-faithful Sigyn dwells by bound Loki.

"What are the most important words you know?"

" 'I love you,' of course!"

The little girl had a pink dress on, and bounced and skipped everywhere. When she spoke, she beamed as only a secure optimist can.

" 'I love you.'"

The woman said it calmly. She had dark hair, dark eyes, and showed more age in her gaze than on her skin. Her time on this Earth spoke of manipulation, on both sides. But there was still a hint, in the edge of that gaze, that she believed the words could be spoken honestly. And that was what she meant.

" 'This I believe.' For good or ill, they make the most difference."

And old man, this one. Grey hair and a long beard. From an era too few really remember existed, and none have lived through, anymore. From the first crusade, lived through so many. Saw them bring culture; saw them bring bloodshed; saw men who had been innocent a few years, a few months, a few eyeblinks ago take things that weren't theirs, take people...

Seen courage given in dark places; seen new, good ideas brought to life; seen friendship grow into families because when you lived together, ate together, slept together, that's what you were.

" 'You are not alone.'"

" 'I trust you.'"

Some might call this one an honorable idiot. Or a loyal fool. Honest to a fault. Any number of things that these people would, almost, intend as insults, and this one would smile and nod. Trust, loyalty. They were more important than your oath, more important to this speaker than this speaker than the speaker's own self.

" 'I believe in you.'"

The gaze was gentle, and a touch proud in reminiscing. The sort of pride one gets when one's time was earlier, may be later, but is not now. A teacher's pride. A parent's pride. One who cared for the fledgling, then watched the no-longer-little one fly.

" 'I will wait for you.'"

This is more story than moment. You know it. The princess, old enough to be married off and firm, clever enough to be where she wants to be. To finish the promise. Not quite a rebel, just using every tradition her people have to keep her oath.

Another came in, and gave his answer to my question.

"I'm glad."

Alternates

She stared forward. She knew, in the odd way this place had given her, that left no doubt, that she had just enough energy to finish the journey. Should she stumble, or turn back for the Lethe's reprieve, she'd die here. Die at the bottom of the rabbit hole. It wouldn't be so bad, after all she'd been through.

She paused, just a moment, with any number of ideas fluttering through her head.

She turned, and walked. Stumbled when she met the Lethe's flow. She had forgotten the force behind it, even before she forgot almost everything.

Five steps. An unrecognized echo of her last words.

Five steps. Get up.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

The nameless touched the doctor’s skin, and almost all was as it had been.
*
She rolled to her side, and wrote down scraps of the fading dream. She met the man from it, but he was different here, too immature for her tastes, as if he had never walked through any fire, never even been sunburned.

She looked at everything she could do, and most of it suddenly felt empty.

It was the last day, but she got everything together to apply for the right school. She did well. She did what she could do, and, for the geological eyeblink of a few centuries, she changed the world.

The nameless nodded silently.

I knelt and put a hand on his shoulder. I said what I prayed someone else would say, were I in his place.

"You're not alone."

He stared at me. It was an interesting experience, looking into someone's eyes as he tried to put himself back together.

He collapsed into a sob, and I held him, and I healed him as best I could. He would never be a pillar again, but perhaps that was for the best. Too easy to just stand, unbending. Far better to adjust, be flexible, to fight only the important battles.

I'm water, and I'll find every sneaky crack if you don't built carefully; wear you down even if you do.

I'm water. I'll tend the sapling.

With the quiet scrutiny of a focused child, "Did you heal with her, or hunt?"

My lips twisted into something like a smile. "I hunted her. She healed me. Everything else just happened."

Remembering

Five steps, she thought in the absolute silence, Five steps.

It wasn't that far. She had to remember that. Just five steps up. She'd done the sheer cliff, she'd done a part that required going wholly upside-down. Climbed, clambered, slipped and grabbed for a handhold, any handhold, and frozen on it a moment, until the adrenaline faded enough for her eyes to clear. Then move on, next handhold in what wasn't quite pitch black, something that turned even the most vibrant colors gray, but she could still see. And so she went on.

It was hard, so hard to remember that. It should be as if someone were at her back, pressing her on and protecting her, helping. But all she could think was that, whatever had pushed her so far, she could not remember it. It had fallen away, and she could not remember when. All she had was now. It wasn't that hard. Just one step forward, one step up. It was dark, but she had seen the way, and knew it yet. Straight ahead.

A sob tore from her chest. She had forgotten why she was crying, and now cried over the forgetting.

Five steps. Get up.

"Okay," she said, voice hoarse from the raw throat she did not remember getting. "Okay."

Unsteadily, ankles wavering from exertion she could not remember, she rose. Five steps. She said it aloud for the first time. "Five steps."

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

It hit her. All of it. She'd come here, and it had been empty, but she'd kept her momentum, and now that it had been broken, now that she had to come at it from the outside, she froze and couldn't breathe. She had wanted to prove she could do it.

No noble objective. No waiting dependent. Nothing good, no motivator.

She closed her eyes and wept, remembering everything. Not even a "Betcha can't." Just chasing, like Alice with her little white rabbit, and then she didn't stop, and then she'd made excuses for why she couldn't.

She turned, looking over her shoulder. It had been easier in the blackness. She knew, without particularly wanting to know how, that there were sleeping forms there, hidden. Dying. She knew that that was why she was as tired as she was. The first time had been too much of a shock, she had stumbled back and barely caught herself. Caught herself five steps from the top, and two from the edge. She hadn't had an order before, but now knew the sheer cliff was just before the staircase Lethe. And she knew that she had not stumbled every time. Sometimes she had chosen.

But I could not sleep. The Lethe grants me no rest.

It wasn't true. It granted her some rest, in clarity of purpose. It was easier, in the darkness, sure she was right. Sure there was something that kept her going that wasn't just, "I can't stop now." The Lethe granted her respite.

She stared forward. She knew, in the odd way this place had given her, that left no doubt, that she had just enough energy to finish the journey. Should she stumble, or turn back for the Lethe's reprieve, she'd die here. Die at the bottom of the rabbit hole. It wouldn't be so bad, after all she'd been through.

A wisp of memory fluttered past her train of thought, her mother saying her name.

She closed her eyes, then opened them. She walked on.

The World

A/N: Between the previous post and this one, this blog hit 2,000 views.

“No.”

“Dr. Johnson—”

“No! I’m not giving away everything I’ve built just because you-—you decided that it’s better for you!”

The unnamed man did not flinch. He would not react so obviously. But, had the good doctor looked at him, she might have seen him pause.

“Michelle,” he said softly. “Think about how many died in a few moments. All over, all at once. I can undo that.”

“And lose me every cure I’ve found!”

He let out a breath. “Michelle…I’m so sorry.”

“About wha—no!’ He reached for her and she jerked back, thinking he was going to do it, going to take everything she’d learned and shove her a year back because he, with his orthogonal morality, had decided it was better—-

Listen.

Data flashed by, frozen diamonds slicing through every wall of denial she had tried to put up. She had helped some, yes. More than she had even known before. But that was a fraction (3/127ths) of everyone the disaster had killed. A fraction even of the survivors (don't look at the number). Transportation had broken down too much, and worsened every day, with each disparate tribe barely the size of a small town in the world as it had been.

“I am so sorry.” His voice betrayed no emotion. She believes him, even so.

“Why?” she cried. “Why ask me, if you know, and you already decided—-“

“I did not. Have not. Not everything.” He brushed her hair back, and Michelle realized he was trying to be kind.

“What,” she whispered, eyes on the ground.

“I can…I am capable of allowing you to retain your memories.”

Dr. Johnson’s eyes jerked to his. “Yes.”

“You would eventually go insane.”

“I don’t care; do you realize how many-—”

“Stop. Please,” he added, remembering how manners went. “You do care; you just don’t know it yet. You found each cure on your own; you could find them again. I could…help you, but not guarantee anything. You might not even be able to spread the cures.”

She twisted and began pacing. “But I wasn’t even going to be a doctor back then…I don’t know; I don’t know…” Her head jerked back to him. "That's not all."

“Dr. Johnson… Your children.”

She went utterly still. “Oh.”

“Yes.”

Of course, she thought. The chances of me meeting him again are slim enough, but both are million-to-one chances even if I have the same egg. They’d be different by surroundings, even if genetically identical. I’d be erasing them, erasing everyone born, and erasing the versions of people here…

Though, honestly, I don’t know any who wouldn’t go back.

It was the easiest decision of her life, but the words stuck in her throat. It was the hardest decision of her life, but she made it anyway.

“Can I keep those memories, at least?” she forced out. “They wouldn’t change anything. No way of differentiating them from a fantasy of mine, not like the cures. Nothing.” She turned and looked at the nameless man. “Please?”

The look held for a moment. “Just that.”

“Just that,” she echoed.

There was a long stretch of silence. “If you will allow the rest to be as if none of this ever happened…then yes. I am allowed that.”

She sighed in relief. “Yes.” Difficult, but not truly different from raising them in a better environment—wait. What? “Allowed? There’s someone I could ask?”

“No. I am sorry.”

“Sorry because you misspoke, or sorry because you can’t get me to—-”

The nameless touched the doctor’s skin, and almost all was as it had been.

She took out a piece of paper, and wrote everything she remembered of her children, and of raising them. Not enough to call attention, but…perhaps, just a few hints. Her children getting their shots, how right some things felt in her hands. Enough to bring her into the proper field, now with the proper tools.

“Risky,” the companion said.

“Worth every risk,” the nameless man replied.

“You are lucky you superior never found out,” his superior noted. "Make sure that I don't."

Schrödinger's Cat Is Gray

Setting: The Dark Times
Plot: Teach Him Anger
Narrative Device: My Greatest Failure
Hero: Smith Of The Yard
Villain: Mister Danger
Character As Device: Mysterious Past
Characterization Device: Mysterious Past

I've got to admit it's getting better (Better)
A little better all the time (It can't get no worse)
The Beatles

Once upon a time, in a beautiful far-off kingdom, everything was perfect. In the beginning, we were in Paradise, then we got kicked out. Back then, when people were closer to creatures and creatures were closer to people...

I'm sure you get the point.

That's supposed to be a comforting little tale. Everything was perfect, and now it's not, and here's why. Neat and tidy. Every bit of suffering can be traced back to this event, with maybe some build-up before the tipping point.

Yeah. Right. There never was a perfect time.

Oh, for the love of--quit that look, would ya? Honestly. Mine's brighter, y'know. Ooh, everything was perfect and now it never will be again--give me a break. The world's getting better. We can help people we couldn't before, and we're helping them.

Don't ask my name. It wouldn't mean anything to you. Or rather, it would, but you wouldn't believe me, which is almost the same thing. Like if I say I'm Sherlock Holmes, or Scarlett Johansson. It doesn't even cross your mind to believe me, so the declaration means nothing except that I'm not trustworthy.

There are points in time where things do get worse, of course. See bubonic plague, Dark Ages, or people fighting progress out of a desire to make the old patterns fit. Even if the old patterns mean more people die, more people are terrified, more people are hurt. Not that all changes are good, either. Progress is always change; change is not always progress. I learned that pretty hard.

I'm rambling. But what else do I do here? I don't even know why I'm dictating this. I told you, if I said who I am then you wouldn't believe me. Hm (laugh). I suppose that actually gives you a better chance, doesn't it? If I say I'm Ms. Johansson, then you wouldn't believe me. But if I simply tell you I'm famous, and perhaps drop some hints--for instance, I happen to be male, and you know me, and I dictate like I converse--then maybe you work it out on your own. We trust our own minds first. Probably because we think we know if we're tricking ourselves, or perhaps just don't want to think of the alternative.

And still rambling. I guess, I just want to say...don't assume. People tend to filter things; childhood is overexposed from remembering too much; weird shades jump out. We could sleep in the backseat and trust the adults to figure it all out. Goes through the filter, maybe we think it was a better time when we were just younger, with fewer responsibilities, or more power, or both. Maybe it just looks better because it isn't here. But it's all but impossible to simply go back by trying to force the pieces back together. Things change. Or it's like putting someone on a pedestal: someone can be predominantly good and still have flaws. An era can be golden and still have room to grow. All we can do is be the growth. Fighting growth because the tree was better as a sapling can maybe give you a bonsai, or a perfectly groomed tree. But you can't bring back the sapling unless you grow a new seed.

By default: Stay in school and eat your vegetables. And if inspiration grabs your collar and pulls, roll with absolutely everything and shine bright' as you can.

Dearly Beloved

Setting: Here There Were Dragons
Plot: Quest For The Rest
Narrative Device: Attending Your Own Funeral
Hero: Faux Action Girl
Villain: Villain Ball Magnet
Character As Device: Escape Artist
Characterization Device: Holy Hitman

"...we are gathered here today..." he continued, in the tone of one reciting something that had been memorized for more than three-quarters of one's life.

It was a little depressing how quickly they bought it. Granted, I wasn't as strong as my spread-as-a-joke-and-never-lived-down reputation had people believe, but I had some skills. They just weren't brass knuckles-to-the-gut fighting.

Honestly. "No, sorry, the woman you've seen escape locks, chains, boxes, tombs and, oh yeah, strait jackets--six times!--couldn't escape a strait jacket. Because she was underwater." Give me strength.

"Knockety-knock," said my new company in the tree.

"Hush. They're about to get to the part where the presenter has to work around my utter lack of accomplishments."

My companion smothered a laugh and choked out, "Poor guy," before shutting up.

The guy really did have a rather difficult job. I had done some tricky "How will she get out of this?", but he hardly approved in the first place. Jeremiads about the distractions of the non-educational entertainment community were pretty much half of what he did. Not that I particularly blame him. I bored me.

"Jane..." I blinked. That was the first time he'd used my first name. It sounded so weird. "Was a good, forgiving soul." I nodded. Now say, "She will be missed," so you don't have to claim me or not-claim me and look bad. I don't know how many people figured out that's what he was doing, but since he talked to himself while he wrote his speeches, I knew.

"We will all miss her." I started and froze. "I know she has found peace."

Inconsequential things happened. Some teared up, but they were all accomplished liars; I didn't take it very seriously. Eventually, the crowd finished and filed away.

It hadn't been a fantastic service. I hadn't been a fantastic person. But he seemed genuinely hurt. I hadn't realize anyone would be.

"Janey," my partner murmured from ground level. "Time to get."

I nodded. "Yeah."

We walked down the trodden path and I thought about what it meant to be part of the order.

Extreme makeover, of course. I had to fool my own mother, if it somehow came to it, so I had to look different. And act, too. Literally, acting, to complete the makeover, and action. I already has escapology skills, and that was going to be my specialty. Thing was, I was also supposed to get other people out, which I was still relatively new to. I'm fine on the tests, but I keep failing the practicals. It's so weird to have the locks facing me.

I was guessing that my partner was either a tracker or someone lethal. No one's told me exactly what the lethal ones hunt, or what the trackers track, but hey, experience. And I am allowed to quit, if it comes to that. This is just to get me out of here, really.

"Hey, partner?"

"Yeah?"

"What should I call you?"

"Partner."

"Um," I said, articulately. "Should I capitalize that, or...?"

"As you wish."

I stared, then fell turned my eyes ahead and tried to find something more productive to think about. Like communicating the escapology. If I could get basics to the people I'd be helping, then they might be half out by the time I get to them, and then I'd have that many more out...

Dance

The feeling starts when friends invite you out to the new place that just opened up, that slight curiosity.

It starts when you come in and you get a touch of contact adrenaline high from the sweat, freedom.

Starts when you smile at that cute one you've never had the excuse to flirt with, with the hair that made you realize how absolutely distracting hair could be; intent.

Starts when you get a smile in return. Interesting.

Starts with a riff on an electric guitar.

Might've been messy, or graceless, or off-beat, and no one would've cared. Here, now, you just move with the music and the tide of humanity. You two are on the same beat. The song sings of something that dilates pupils and darkens eyes, and you finally get to run fingers through that hair when you move off with your partner. A quick kiss before a longer one. Feel before form, moving as one eddy in the tide. The nook, the connection, the moment.

"Beautiful."

What You See

Setting: The Bright Castle
Plot: Plot
Narrative Device: Fauxshadow
Hero: Kid Hero
Villain: Trigger Happy
Character As Device: Perpetual Smiler
Characterization Device: I Want To Be A Real Man

Once upon a time, there was a village that waited for a hero. The prophecy was foretold by a smiling young girl passing through, and in a tongue without genders, though the common consensus was that the hero would be a boy, and that he would be born in a great castle. Given that, many villagers set about building a castle.

As you might guess from the fact that they built this place because they wanted the setting to fit a storybook, rather than any particular need for a fortress, they did not build a castle. A castle is something made of strong stone, and made to hold off the many enemies this village did not have. No one knew how to build a castle, or really why one would.

Rather, they built a palace.

Now, as one might also guess, there was a bit of trouble over who got to live in the castle. The villagers eventually agreed that the castle should house the bravest warrior and the fairest maiden. That was how the story went, after all. Many of them braced for a long argument over who was the fairest, who was the best warrior, etc. Failing that, the warrior would obviously be married. Or the maiden would be freshly married. No prima nocta, given the absence of close nobles, so marriages occasionally went a little while without consummation, if the couple happened to be busy enough.

Failing that, clearly, there would be some issue with the couple. They would hate each other, at least at first, if not for so long. Several romantics insisted the first child would dissolve any troubles; several parents saw the flaw in that. Children were lovely little darlings, of course, but being woken up in the middle of the night several nights in a row was not the sort of thing to build a relationship on. The romantics said the others had no vision, and that clearly the child would give the man the chance to show his sensitive side, which would have the woman swooning over him in gratitude, and then everything would be fine.

So both sides felt a little cheated when there was such swift consensus. Everyone immediately agreed who the fairest maiden was, and who the bravest warrior was. The only exceptions were the maiden and the warrior themselves, who wouldn't vote for themselves out of modesty, but no one else even really considered their choices.

The couple worried, of course. But, disappointing again, they met, and they fell in love, and they moved into the wonderful palace and lived happily ever after to raise a beautiful baby boy with an absurdly heroic build. Though he never brushed his hair, it was always that perfect, shining blond that only babies, angels, and a handful of blessed and rich nobles ever seem to manage. His teeth were perfect enough that they would have looked outright disturbing on anyone else, stuck out too much, if it weren't for the fact that the rest of him was perfect, too.

He reached the age, and because it was a story they expected, it was the age, 13. They waited for the monster.

Almost funny, really. They hadn't any idea of what a hero should be, but figured he looked right. Yet every villager had an idea of what the monster would be. No one needed to be told about what lurks beneath the bed, or beyond the mountain, or in the hearts of men. Priorities: Find the hero eventually; avoid the danger now.

And here is the first place our story disagrees.

The hero can have good works, but at the age, in his thirteenth year, he was supposed to have an obvious enemy. Dragon, ogre, evil king, anything really, just that someone was supposed to do something like lay siege to the "castle" or start kidnapping all the village's maidens.

There was the man who got drunk every night and took out a blade he was a little too careless with. The hero had figured out his power, and explained that it was of the utmost importance to stop giving this man alcohol. That might have been it. It might also have been when he made sure the man got help, did not simply ride out the withdrawal on his own.

There was a woman with a child. She could not afford to feed them both, and was wasting. He saw to it they got food, for people brought gifts to him often, and there was always extra to spread around. The child, upon growing up under the care of a sweet and determined mother, started something like an informal soup kitchen.

Might've been the cat in the tree. Might've been any number of things that only one or two people really knew he'd had a hand it, that changed the people because The chosen one had helped me with something so inconsequential, so I must be special. I must be destined for something great, so now I'll go out and find it.

The hero was having trouble feeling satisfied. As I said, the thirteenth year was supposed to bring a great, world-changing adventure. If not truly planet-changing, at least something that would change his world, change the village. He struck out to find it.

Long after, when his parents had died peacefully of old age and he had been traveling the world for the better part of his life any way you slice it, he sat in a busy market.

The smiling prophetess sat down beside him. "It took many good masons to make that palace."

He nodded, having recognized her, and having found the difference between a palace and a castle on his journeys. It was a compliment to his home, since the townsfolk had insisted on doing the building themselves. "They brought in many good teachers, I'm told."

The old woman nodded. "And created a magnificent one."

The hero blinked. The old woman smiled a little wider as the translation danced through his head.

He will change the world, and pass on the torch so that it keeps changing.

"...I thought I chose one. When I was dying."

"And they all, to a one, thought you chose them. People're funny that way." The woman, who suddenly seemed hardly older than he was, smiled right at him.

And they traveled, and taught, and smiled, and lived.

Hm.

Setting: Underwater Base
Plot: Yet Another Christmas Carol
Narrative Device: Promoted To Scapegoat
Hero: First Person Smartass
Villain: Villain With Good Publicity
Character As Device: Iron Buttmonkey
Characterization Device: Compliment Fishing

My friend looked straight at the person who was quite possibly the best-known figure. I knew where this was going, so looked out the window to watch the fish. Boring conversations I can fake interest in, but I could mouth along with this one if I wanted to.

"You know, your colleague there would make a splendid commander." I heard and didn't react. The man wasn't addressing me, I'd always survived before, and the school looked like a white fish had swum through a prism.

"I'm sure you'd know better than I." I suppressed a smile that the best-known might see reflected in the glass. Three...two...one...

"But you have the most insightful opinions. I really would like to hear." The first time I'd heard the man speak like this, I'd been confused. His persona was so carefully crafted. It honestly hadn't occurred to me that he was charading. I suppose I wanted the world to be as it seemed.

"Very well." My lips did twitch then, as I turned to look at the two who were moving past the traditional back-and-forth. My friend sat cross-legged and we followed suit, though I was still clearly outside the conversation. Not that they'd notice if I did mind, wrapped up as they are in each other. Honestly, I should just bring candles and lobster one of these times.

"Let me tell you three stories. They're about you."

Setting: Premiseville
Plot: Legion Of Doom
Narrative Device: Hostile Weather
Hero: Technical Pacifist
Villain: Non Action Big Bad
Character As Device: Fantasy Character Classes
Characterization Device: Kick Them While They Are Down

I sighed at the dim light of false dawn as rain poured down. There wasn't time to run back and grab my jacket unless I wanted to miss the sunrise.

The only particular reason one would run across this particular place was because of its name. First, because out here, far from Earth, the names were traditionally quite long and two words at a minimum. Second, because out here, people had come to find fresh and new; very few used any piece of the old Earth languages or names. No Plymouth, no New London, always something different. And then here we were, old enough to be part of a dead language, but in the fresh land, barely a generation and a half settled.

Tomorrow, I would be fighting. I'd been in something like this before, and figured this would be worse. Some would be with me, but I'd be darting to reach where I needed to be, and I'd be alone. It'd feel like me against the world. And, of course, the world as a whole would have no trouble killing me, even if I were lucky enough to find some with a code like mine.

Avoiding killing them wouldn't be a problem once I reached the heart. The leader wasn't much for physical fighting, really. Guile, yes, of course. I'd have to be on my toes, when I'd probably be bruised and suffering from minor-to-severe blood loss. I briefly entertained the thought that the injuries might make someone go easy on my before my suspension of disbelief shattered.

But still. I was fighter enough from my mother, and had smarts enough from my father. Even if this didn't work, I'd probably survive. Bruises, blood, broken bones and all.

I watched the green and gold of a drenched Pax sunrise.

Setting: Big Fancy House
Plot: Forgotten Birthday
Narrative Device: Explosive Leash
Hero: Hurting Hero
Villain: What Measure Is A Mook
Character As Device: Reformed Criminal
Characterization Device: Ridiculously Successful Future Self

The ballroom was the definition of opulence. If you stuck the picture in the dictionary and left no other definition, people would get the basic idea. A more thorough idea would probably also require the living rooms, the bedrooms, and the fireplace. Oh, and the guest kitchen.

It was a terrible place to dust.

The place would have been awfully time-consuming even if I wore comfortable clothing. As it was, the jumpsuit itched, and the collar chafed. Of course, the collar was not quite as uncomfortable as it would be, should I move three steps outside this room.

Everyone forgets us. It's not that I really expect them to care most of the time, but I feel like they should care when I do something wrong, at least. Some iota of concern. But nope. Uncomfortable outfit, choke collar, and beyond that we're just forced labor that did something wrong. Something, somehow, somewhere, somewhen, but not quite someone. I rubbed at my eyes with the heel of my hand. It was the dust in my eye.

It was my birthday, the day before the one I'm writing of. As I write this, three years have past, and I celebrated my birthday for the first time in a decade. Chelsea's is in a month, and I'm already planning the party.

The old house is still a terrible place to dust, but I make sure none of us work on our own. After all, I can afford it.

Speaker and Author, Author and Speaker

Sometimes the same and sometimes one's meeker.

Matter-of-factly.

I scare you, you know. When you let yourself think of me. When you let me be here, in front of you, not behind, not out in the corner of your eye, not flickering or glimmering through a cloud or a crowd. When you genuinely, honestly, accept that I am.

I am what I am, and I translate poorly.

You know, I don't have to be scary. I didn't scare you when you were littler. You made a game of me, actually; do you remember? Figuring out what sort of person you were. Most of your firsts. First book read all through, first time you listened to a piece of music because you liked it, not because your parents were playing it. I was there with your first lie, the first thing you took without asking. The first time manipulation failed, too.

With a note of annoyance.

I can help you. But only if I'm standing in front. Not all the time; I'd block your view of everything else. But every once and a while, let me hold up the mirror. Remember where you're worse than you dare admit and that you are better than you recall. Look. Look! You're getting comfortable as yourself; that's what growing up is. But not if you're so dead set against looking at me that you only bother to see your sunburns and scars. Not if you're so determined to never let me in front that you never see your face, until you almost doubt you have one.

Calmer, and tired.

I know. You can see your hands; you can see what you're doing; you can look into still lakes on clear days and see your face. And maybe if you've forgotten me, forgotten even my glimmers, even how I look in the clouds, only notice me when I flicker through crowds of half-remembered faces and spotted mirrors, you might forget that I don't only show you.

Not an order, but still firm enough to be heard.

Call me. Look at the edges. I remind you of yourself, yes, but around the corners where I keep myself clean but that the lakes cut off with blurs and shores and odd angles, where that old mirrors cut off with dots of tarnish, look. You can see the crowd around you. What they say when they think you're not listening. They're not all insults; there's admiration. It's getting better. I swear it's getting better. I swear it will get better.

As one asking for an old friend back.

Come on. Call me. You know the name. You can't have forgotten that much. Even if you only remember the mirror, only the wisp of a dream, you can't have.

A pause. Then, perhaps, a note of desperation.

You can't.

Moments

The odd feeling of falling, tumbling up as two quick eighth notes precede a held belt.

Pain rumbling through your stomach as the junk food catches up with you.

Discovering that the reason your favorite snack is out is because the fresh batch finished as you walked in.

Skimming along different sources to procrastinate and finding a quotation that explains, exactly and succinctly, that odd thought that had been running through your head all week.

Sprinting for the sheer joy of feeling bare feet pound dew-damp grass.

Staring at someone who called you out. Watching calmly as the light flickers on behind those arrogant eyes that start to recognize a fighter.

Watching the sunset in midsummer, harvesting done and safe for the moment, babe in arms. Your lover puts a warm hand on your shoulder and shares the moment.

Yelling, "Echo!" in an empty cavern.

Glancing at the clock and realizing with a jolt that it's two hours later than you thought it was.

Finding that piece of candy that you'd come to think was something you'd dreamt, rather than something you'd truly eaten.

Stabbing yourself with the pig-dissecting scalpel without piercing your glove.

The moment after a terrible day where you fall into someone's arms and cry so hard you shake without any control.

Realizing that what you just did was the last item on your to-do list.

Finding an author with a writing style you love, then finding nineteen other books by the same one at the library.

Shyly holding hands on the first date.

Feeling your breath stop as your eyes meet with the person you've never quite gotten the courage to ask out...and realizing the other person stopped breathing, too.

Finding that someone else feels the same way you do.

Figuring out what on Earth made that piece. Why this chord sounds happy, what this archaic language means, why the cadence works as it does.

Standing confidently to a challenge and exceeding even your own expectations.

Extending a hand to that person you've never been close to without thinking about it, then seeing the spark of friendship start in those eyes. A smile echoes in yours.

Seeing everyone you care about safe. Laying down to rest.

After Rose's Tale: Part 1

Merry Friday the 13th
Story Generator
Setting: Bazaar Of The Bizarre
Plot: The Siege
Narrative Device: Mind Rape
Hero: The Drifter
Villain: The Evil Genius
Character As Device: Walking Disaster Area
Characterization Device: Squee

Rosetail got its name a while ago. No one's entirely sure where, anymore, though my favorite one tells that some determined young thing named Rose got the people here, then no one bothered to write it down.

Whatever the story, the place is absolute heaven for someone looking for weird stuff. You know that thing you had when you were seven, and you've never been able to find it since? You can find it here. Eventually.

The man's mouth twitched as he walked.

If you've got money to spare for a guide, then you can even find the thing efficiently. The vaguer the description, the better the guide, the more the money.

That was what Daniel Riverside was here for, at the moment. He traveled all over, but always ended up back at Rosetail, one way or another. For a few supplies he couldn't find elsewhere, to be a guide for a little extra cash, just to breath air that had touched coral-kissed sand and dry desert nights. Never had a place to call home, but Rosetail came pretty close. When the rain soaked through his coat, or someone got a little too close to...

That night, the one he didn't talk about, the one he wasn't going to think about here, the one he would not tie to Rosetail if it would save his life because Rosetail was still home, still here, still the same, even if he wasn't...

Riverside gestured to the shop with a polite smile. "I believe you were looking for the tintinnabulator, miss." The name didn't really matter. It was a pretty little machine that made lovely, lightly jingly and twinkly. The thing wasn't particularly rare, but the young woman had an odd cadence that made her a little more difficult to understand, so she had gone to Riverside anyway. The uselessness of the object didn't bother him. He got his rate.

Riverside wandered back to where the guide-seekers lingered, though he took a scenic route. For business, it was good to check for anything new, and for pleasure...

"Fresh apples even in the driest regions!"

"Here, rub a little honey into the back of your hand, and it'll make your soft skin even softer--"

"Oh, my, these are beautiful..."

The guide smiled at the thrumming market. It remained enough to bring back old memories, and changed enough that the old drifter might not much mind calling it home, if he ever tired of drifting.

The not-that-tired drifter glanced over the walls absentmindedly, not really expecting to see what he'd become accustomed to looking for...

Riverside sighed and swung up and through the hole in the wall nearest the new cracks.

"River!" Happy, but still jittery little Jen.

"Jennifer," he drawled, as she expected and he was used to. "Fancy finding you here."

One Day

Her voice kept the cadence, and she didn't look at him.

"One day...when the Earth burns cold and fire is a distant dream, when warmth is rarer than diamonds and burning is indescribable, perhaps I will lie down to rest. Perhaps I will have that respite, will have gone long enough and have no more promises to keep. Nothing to keep me clawing back up."

Her eyes closed.

"My little ones will be grown--unless they don't, and I end up spending my life hunting who hurt them. But, should life work out as I would have it, they will grow. They will live. They won't need me anymore. I'll be here and find that no one calls for me to save them from dark creatures they barely understand"--without opening her eyes, she nodded towards the two, though one had moved--"and I'll be done."

A dark, genuine smile touched her lips.

"Perhaps it will be death. Given how I live, I would guess that I'll see it coming, if only by a few seconds. Have a moment to myself when I simply know there's nothing left to do, no one left to save, nothing to do to extend a life or a helping hand. Just feel it...end."

A few people shivered. She opened her eyes, glittering with a sun-bright smile.
The hearth crackled, and the usual hum of background conversation gradually started back up. Everyone could figure out how much she dedicated. Very few liked to think of it.

"But not today, I think."

Understanding

A/N: Mm...yep. One of these again.

I am of the opinion that any hate I feel is a failure in my own understanding. I might hate a person, but the fact that I am feeling hate is an expression of my own ignorance: I do not hate the person, I hate the incomplete collection of facts and theories I have cloaked the person in.

Therefore, the idea of an omniscient being hating anyone feels too simply wrong to express. This is a being that understands every moment, every thought, every justification and doubt and fear and hope and whisper of change, and that being can hate?

I have spoken of my obsession with communication. If I had to pick something I believe in, I would say connections. If one tries to communicate and one tries to listen, we can connect.

This feeling is not just an expression of poor communication, a thinned connection. It perpetuates it. Hate, prejudice, old feuds. They're not just things that split communications, that isolate, though that would be enough. They connect to shadows, shadows that layer until it's so dark you can't see what you're doing, much less the person across from you.

And that is simply too much. That is not violence, though violence may come. That is not suppression, though that may come. But it's before that, when maybe no one even realizes what is going wrong. For as you see my shadow, I see yours. When you react to my shadow, when you react poorly, I add that to my information of you. I create a you that does these things in reaction to me as I am. And as I react to that, my shadow becomes richer, I become the person who does that.

Ticking and tocking through darkness, slowly we look to see shadows and epiphanies.

Statistics at time of posting:
God hates:
Bing: 8,180,000 results
Google: About 1,540,000 results
God loves:
Bing: 198,000,000 results
Google: About 4,560,000 results

(I updated this list just before posting. The former had gone down, the latter up. Cheers.)

Messy Moral Mathematics

Inspiration for this post comes from the oft-spoken argument that Gotham would be better off with The Joker simply dead, not in the Cardboard Prison of Arkham Asylum, so Batman should just shoot him already.

The authors'/Batman's argument against this is that it would make him "just as bad" as The Joker. The common response of the fan in question is that it totally wouldn't. The Joker is literally irrecoverable, and even if he can, eventually, be reformed, the number of people he will kill/maim/drive insane before he would change clearly outweighs the loss of one person.

In a sense, I agree with both parties. It's not that Batman would be as bad as The Joker because this one act would be so horrible on an objective scale. Batman would become just as bad.

My reasoning for this can be divided in two parts. The first is the Mirror side, which works in a vacuum, and the second is the eponymous Messy Mathematics, which remembers all of Gotham.

Mirror: The Joker is essentially a mirror image of Batman. Batman went through a wrenching experience, went insane, and went dark and good. The Joker went through a disfiguring experience and saw life as a joke--he went light and harmfully insane. Both are hurt, costumed, insane, spreading their world view, and terrifying--even to their allies.

They're so similar. If one is beyond salvation...

Mathematics: I'm going to draw on another example for this one. Let's say you have two people in a fire, and a hero willing to save them. The math at first appears fairly simple: 2 > 1. The hero should risk life and limb to save the two who need saving.

But it's not, really. Let t=time left alive. Let n=average number of people saved. Let the end goal=maximum number of people alive. The hero isn't 1, the hero is 1nt, and so are the two people. If the two civilians are frail, or dying soon, or cowardly, or any number of other things, then their variable-adjusted 2nt < 1nt. The math gets messy. But the problem isn't even that simple. If the hero is the sort of person who allows two people to die in a fire because the hero can save someone else tomorrow, chances are good that the same excuse is going to come up tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow...and that changes the value of n.

And that's not even taking into account inspiration. Let i=inspiration. The act of saving the two people adds an i to other's equations, rippling out, and it's impossible to calculate the exact effect that has.

It isn't that killing The Joker is an act of such outright, objective evil that it could not be construed as a good act. But the equation changes. If Batman is the sort of person who can kill The Joker, that taints him. The man, who has broken his one rule, the one thing that stops him from becoming Templar. The idea, that was the one beacon of hope, clothed in shadows and terrifying, but there to make the monsters scared.

The man becomes a killer. Someone who takes the law into his own hands, until it isn't even the law anymore, just the code of an insane man--and the image is as cracked as the dead reflection.

The idea is a monster. The shadow will find you. You won't see it coming. You'll have time to draw breath but not scream, time to be terrified, an unbearable eternity, but barely a moment. No trial. No justice. Just the swish that you hear when the wind blows the curtains, when cardboard runs against cardboard, when you're about to die.

Titleless

Little lost. Little fool. Little ignorant little thing, trying stupidly, never finding anything but a place to run from run from, to never run to. No desire, no ecstasy, no fire or fate. Just a vague delusion that she's too little, too late.

Patterns? Oh, once they were hers. She was the smartest. She could reach things others couldn't, even when she was shorter. She was impressive. It wouldn't matter if they all deserted her. She stood, she walked, she ran, she rose, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes.

Ah, but she grew. It's quite impressive to read when you're two. It's a stunning adventure to reach that view, to stretch up eight feet when you're five foot two. Amazing, astounding, and then...not so new.

She grew up and stretched to her very best, but the drive went away with no rewards nor a rest. They would grant, surely would, those who would smile were plenty--but no one cheered when she soared. She felt empty.

The logical part of her mind will say no, of course they're still cheering, still watching that show. But all she can see, beating heart in her chest, is they're not surprised--how can she let herself rest? She fed on perfection, or so close flaws unseen; she flew on being blue in center of green.

She popped, no comparison, no one that would thwart; what else can be when there's but one in that sport?

And still she is good, she knows herself great: she's pretty, she's smart, her friends love when she bakes. But she can't help but feel, in the back of her head, this odd little feeling of unending dread.

Here comes the last of the structure and schooling. Soon she'll be all alone, and it, life, will be grueling. She holds herself up and sees herself short--she cooks just desserts, what's that say of her worth? She could not support herself, not if she tried, she doesn't have the skills--she knows that she lies.

She could, if she tried. She knows she could. And that's the greatest terror, the one even she can't face, the one that makes her flee from her place. Not that she falls short, not that she lacks the reason, but that she simply, normally, pays that, come her season.

To be incapable--that she would hate. To be a dependent--what worse fate? But she knows one, though she bare' dare admit:

To be fully capable, and still to quit.

My Line on Secrets

60 summarized posts+13 musings+26 somethings+this post=100 Posts

To start with the simplest way I can think of to say it: Any person should be able to keep secrets that do no harm. No person should be forced to keep a secret.

What I mean to say by the first is that I am not writing this as a part of a crusade to completely do away with secrets. I recognize that saying something like, "Ugh, you are [insult]" is something you might want to keep to yourself. Particularly if there's nothing constructive about the insult--"Your clothes are messed up" is worse than, "You're tag's sticking out," for instance. I also recognize that some secrets are simply difficult to communicate. I...obviously can't give an example of that one.

And, simply, I believe people deserve a certain level of privacy. Unless I am interested in a relationship/one-night stand with you, I don't need to know your orientation. I would say I don't even need to know that, only if you're interested, but there's an entire part of the courtship ritual devoted to winning over a potential mate so...gray area.

Simply put: maybe it's none of my business. I'm fine with that. As one of my goals is to know everything, I want to know, and as a friend I hope that if my friends wants to tell someone they can tell me, but I would not intentionally force an invasion of privacy.

And here comes the flip.

All that stuff I just said about being forced to tell a secret? Combine that with a need to communicate and understand, and a reflexive feeling of wrong about anyone being forced to keep a secret, and you begin to have how I feel about a person made to keep one.

Then there's the more conventional way to force: make it unsafe. If I have no particular thing standing in my way, I personally am open about my bisexuality. If I would become a target...well, I personally would probably be fiercely open out of spite, though that's not exactly the healthiest way to be open, but someone else might hide, and it certainly makes things more difficult. If I would be putting my family (or friends, or partner) in danger...that would stop me. At least for a while. And that lack of choice is not healthy.

There are multiple methods of force, of course. The simplest is one I've alluded to in talking about the right of secrecy: intentionally creating a situation where people are incapable of saying it. Back to sexual orientation--if a person does not know the word bisexual, nor that such an orientation exists, it suddenly becomes a lot harder to recognize that orientation in one's self, never mind explaining it to someone else. It's not as flagrantly dangerous, and yet...

If I'm under threat, I'm under threat, but if I lack the ideas, then I have no idea what is happening. I cannot speak for more than myself, but I would rather understand.

Another Origin

A/N: Just hit 1500 hits, and coming up on 100 posts. Wow.

It amazes me, as I edit old things I wrote, how redundant I was. Wonder what I'll notice in another few years.

“In the beginning, there was nothing.”

That’s how I’m supposed to start, right? But that can't be right. Because when someone says in the beginning, it means that there was the beginning. There is something present. The beginning is there. Were there truly nothing, it would not be a story.

If you merely wish to hear what happened, here it is: There was nothing, or so little that none would notice it. And then it became everything.

But the story is a story:

In the beginning, there was everything.

All wrapped up together, there was everything, tight as a bond between lovers, between mother and child, between trust and belief. And it was still.

There is no word left or yet for how absolutely motionless it was. A still pond has thousands of things moving in it, even in the tiniest drop. Motionless implies that motion is the basic state. But here, things were simply still because they were. None of the little particles in the universe had gotten the idea that one might turn yet.

So they were, and they were still—though ‘still’ is a shadow cast from that first stillness. And perhaps this is what some mean when they say, “In the beginning, there was nothing.”

And then, one tiny, miniscule little particle got the idea to move.

This was not easy. This was not moving against a strong wind, or moving against an ocean current pushing you the wrong way. This was not even moving against surrounding granite. A strong wind is still a force, and can be worked against; an ocean current can only push so hard; granite can be worn down. This was not merely moving against something tough. This was moving when ‘moving,’ ‘against,’ and, ‘force’ were not even ideas. They weren’t.

Yet this little, tiniest piece off a whole that had never been apart from anything managed to figure out that it could be done.

This was the first thought.

Then there was a slight movement, and the little piece—and ‘piece’ was as new as ‘slight,’ as ‘thought’—found itself doing something that was impossible.
This was the first action.

Then the first piece that had had the first thought and made the first action passed the idea to another.

It was possible for the piece to leave movement to itself. To be able to see all. To leave the universe an eternity before anything began to turn. But the piece simply shared the idea: the thought of being known or keeping this to itself as foreign as ‘moving’ had been a moment before. More, the idea of moving eventually came to this little one’s mind.

When I have been saying ‘little’, the only comparison I have had has been the universe. Our little one may have been larger than anything we could imagine. Or it might have been smaller than the smallest thing any will ever experience. The size does not matter, for, at this time, it was the smallest thing in the universe.

The idea being passed on was the first gift.

And something else picked up on the idea. There was a moment, an impossible moment. How do you introduce the idea of movement to one who has never felt it, never experienced anything like it? When it is not merely that you do not share a language, but there is no language, where do you begin?

This was the first story.

And the other piece, somehow, miraculously, understood. And they realized, together, that this was amazing. That this should have been impossible. That the little one should have sought for weary eternities, looking for one who could understand.

And then awareness sparked and they realized that this was simple. It was not luck. Once the first barrier had been broken, it was simple. For it is impossible to describe movement without movement, but descriptions are movement. They moved together, in the indescribable joy of two who have realized not just that they might be happy, but that everyone might be, and truly understanding.

This was the first emotion.

This was the first moment. The rest was background, now.

This was quickly followed by the first silence. Not because it had not been quiet before, but because there had never before been sound for silence to dance with.
And suddenly, one wondered about the other’s motives. Perhaps both. But then, one, the other, both, reached out for the other.

For each other.

This was the first trust.

This was the first truth.

This was the first time two souls, two pieces of collective divine, met.

They might have been together before, but they had not known each other, not even known of each other. They had simply had the universe, and were the universe. And that had been something.

But being able to be together, stand together, mind to mind, heart to heart, soul to soul, love to love, was something else.

This is why some people will insist that lust in any form is evil. Because that profound connection echoes through us still, and each any every one of us can feel that, in some way. And there is a fury in some spirits for doing something so similar, but so much less.

And, for the first time, they looked at each other. Then they realized that everything was moving. Had this been a sudden shift? Had it always been? How could everything have happened so quickly? They couldn’t’ve missed it, but they must have, hadn’t they?

And maybe they had. And maybe it hadn’t. It didn’t matter then, and it does not matter now. The two oldest souls are a part of each other.

They are just as old as everything else, but they came apart first.

They met first.

Why I'm Writing

This is not quite "Why I'm Blogging", though blogging does reside under the umbrella of the written word.

For the basis of this article, "communication" will refer only to an honest attempt to deliver information. For instance, bullshitting or lying would not be communication.

Context: I'm attracted on a basis distinct from the male-female spectrum, which is usually called bisexual. (Given that there are more than two sexes, I dislike the term, but there you go.) I'm open about this, so people tend to know.

I'm walking down a street with two girls from school, because it's a school trip and we need to go in buddy groups of three to go shopping. Girl A asks if I'm religious (I'm not, but I never answer), and how that fits together with being bisexual, since the Bible forbids it. I point out that the Biblical book she was referring to also forbids things like wearing cotton and wool together. Or wearing linen. She says that clothing requirements "are obviously different from sex stuff." I ask why. She's turned away and moved on.

There. That is why I am writing. If I am in the middle of a conversation, the other person gets to interrupt, to turn away and stop. And I can't do anything short of grabbing them bodily and yelling, which isn't particularly helpful at communication anyway.

When I write, I put up a roadblock to that. If I had written a page and she read half of it, something is missing. If she responds to the first half, essentially interrupting me in text, then I can just go "...You didn't finish it, did you?" It goes from turning away and ignoring what I say to end the conversation to sticking fingers in one's ears and singing. It isn't an end to a conversation; it is immature and absurd.

I want to explain exactly how important this is to me. I am absolutely obsessed with communication. I love learning new words and concepts, because each new thing is not only something new to know, but another chance to explain something to someone, anyone. Understand me. This is the closest I will ever come to touching you, to knowing you are there; see me; try to understand; please listen.

I need to communicate.

That is not a poetic way of saying that I like having people around, or that I find people who don't understand what I'm saying annoying. I need someone to understand, and every time someone turns away without even explaining why they're so annoyed as to fully shut me out, it hurts. I don't know what I did, so I can't fix it, so I am going to fail at communication again. In the same way.

That is why I'm writing. Each step that makes it likelier that someone will see my full point is a step that makes communication likelier. I want to learn; I want to teach; I want to talk.

I want to communicate.