prompt-prose

[prompt-prose]

Villain: “yeah? Do you not already have that?”

Hero: “…no? How could I? You’re always scheming and commiting your crimes, and..”

Villain: “I have never committed a crime before 10 am or after 5 pm? You should absolutely be able to manage a healthy sleep schedule? Don’t pin that on me.”

Hero: “….fuck. You’re right. You haven’t. Then why have I spent all those late hours researching? Staking out your operations?”

Villain: “Maybe look to your current employers for that answer.”

Hero: “and the manipulation?”

Villain: “You’ve gotta be more specific than that. Sometimes what people call ‘manipulation’ is actually just a difference in point of view. Some people would call this conversation manipulation. I wouldn’t. I’m just answering your questions and offering you a position.”

Hero: “……controlling emotions? Planting thoughts or motivations in people’s minds that weren’t there before?”

Villain: “I can’t do that. If I could, my operations would be going much more smoothly, don’t you think?”

Hero: “Lying to me, tricking me.”

Villain: “I only lie to people I don’t trust. And I only trick people I’m stealing from. If you were one of my employees, I would *have* to trust you, because you’d be involved in my operations; and stealing from you would be pointless because I would pay you, so it’d be like stealing from myself. Neither of those would be an issue if you came to work for me.l

Hero: “You make some good points.”

Villain: “So, will you do it?”

Villian: "I can give you anything you want! Just join me and it could all be yours!"

Hero: "Can you give me a healthy sleep schedule? Oh what about a healthy work environment where you don't manipulate me?"

Villian: "uhhh."

[prompt-prose]

I hate that I do this to myself.

I can’t stop thinking it as I drive home.

I just finished another lovely but awkward family dinner at my parent’s house. Alone. Because he wouldn’t come with me. Because he’s had a long week and is tired, or he’s not feeling well, or he forgot he had these other plans, or whatever fucking excuse he used this time.

It’s never the anger. That isn’t the problem. He’s allowed to decide not to go to things. And I am allowed to be angry that he makes me go alone.

The problem, the thing that I hate, is what comes after the anger. I get mad at him, but then wonder if I’m too mad. Or get mad at myself for being mad, and then mad at myself again because I have to remind myself that I’m allowed to be mad.

And I know this isn’t healthy. Spiraling into emotions like this. Being mad and then getting mad about being mad and getting mad about being mad that I’m mad and getting mad that I’m mad about being mad that I’m mad…and it isn’t even those emotions alone! Cause while that spiral is happening, and none of those feelings are actually being dealt with because I just keep building on it, I’m also sad because we’re supposed to love each other and want to be there for each other and yea it was a nice dinner, but being around my family is hard on me and he knows that and he still left me to it alone, again, and I don’t feel like I get the same support in this relationship that I offer him. But I also feel guilty thinking that, because there’s a lot he does for me, just not this.

You see the problem?

I *argue* with myself, with my own emotions, because I try to logically sort out what is fair and valid and what isn’t, and then by the time I get home, I’m so tired from this, that I just give up. We don’t even have the fight I’ve been gearing up for. I argue with myself, I feed into my own emotions, I break my own heart, and then I don’t even have it in me to fight the fight I actually need to.

Maybe this isn’t a healthy relationship. Or maybe I’m just an unhealthy person, and that makes the dynamics of any relationship with me inherently worse.

I’m inside the apartment and sitting on the couch before I really realize it. I don’t fully remember parking and coming upstairs. Muscle memory, force of habit, whatever. I had been driving. Getting that distracted was dangerous. Another thing to be upset about.

“Babe? Oh, good, you’re home. You would not *believe* the match the guys and I just had, you have to hear this…” I take a breath before looking up, and I see him. I always feel like he should look different after I’ve spent the time spiraling into emotions like this, like the pain he caused me should be reflected on him in some way.

He didn’t cause this. He only wanted to stay home. He caused the first anger. I did the rest.

“Babe, you okay?” I blink and realize I’d been staring at him, but hadn’t complimented whatever video game ability he’d just been describing to me.

“Sorry, I zoned out a bit. It’s been a long day.” I bend back to my shoes, working my fingers under the laces.

“See? This is why I don’t like going with you to your family stuff. You always come back in a weird mood.”

“Fuck, Jason, maybe I’m in a weird mood because you don’t go with me?” I bite out before I realize what I’m saying, before I can think more of it.

“‘Jason’? You’re using my name? You only use my name when you’re mad at me.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’m mad at you.” I look back up to him, still standing in the hallway, like he’s half-torn between coming over to me or going back to his computer. I look back down and start on my second shoe. “Or maybe I’m mad at myself. Or maybe I’m just mad. Or maybe I’m just tired. I don’t know.” I sigh, finally getting both shoes off. I don’t know why I like those shoes. They always hurt. I stay seated on the edge of the couch, and brace my hands on either side of my thighs. I look up at him.

He’s on his fucking phone.

He must realize I’ve stopped talking, because he looks back over at me.

“Shit, sorry, the guys are texting wondering where I am. Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Go back to your game.”

He runs over and gives me a kiss on my forehead. He asks if I want to watch something together once he’s done with his game. He disappears back down the hallway.

__________________________________________________

A month later, and it’s the same all over again.

Another lovely but awkward family dinner. “We’re sorry Jason couldn’t make it. We miss him. We hope he feels better. Tell him we say hi!” Because he wouldn’t come with me, again.

Spiraling into emotions. Being mad and then getting mad about being mad and getting mad about being mad that I’m mad and getting mad that I’m mad about being mad that I’m mad…none of those feelings are actually being dealt with. Being sad because we’re supposed to love each other and want to be there for each other and yea it was a nice dinner, but being around my family is hard on me and he knows that and he still left me to it alone, again, and I don’t feel like I get the same support in this relationship that I offer him. But I also feel guilty thinking that, because there’s a lot he does for me, just not this.

But he doesn’t. Do. This. He does a lot for me, but I don’t actually ask for a lot, and I actually ask for this!

And I’m arguing with myself again.

I’m inside the apartment and sitting on the couch before I really realize it. Driving distracted again. I’m pretty sure I remember checking the rear view mirror a few times. At least there’s that. But I’m mad at myself for it, again.

“Did I hear you come in? Oh, hey! You would not *believe* what happened in my show, there was this…” I take a breath before looking up, and I see him, in the hallway, leaning against the wall instead of just coming to sit next to me. He should look different, but he doesn’t. I should look different, but I won’t. I look to the mirror hanging up by the door and confirm.

“Babe, you okay?” I blink and realize I’d been staring at him, but hadn’t complimented whatever video game ability he’d just been describing to me.

“Sorry, I zoned out a bit. It’s been a long day.” I bend back to my shoes, working my fingers under the laces.

“See? This is why I don’t like going with you to your family stuff. You always come back in a weird mood.”

“Yeah, Jason. I’m in a weird mood because of my family. That’s all. What else could it be?” I bite out before I realize what I’m saying, before I can think more of it.

“‘Jason’? You’re using my name? You only use my name when you’re mad at me.”

“Yeah, well…” I look back up to him, still standing in the hallway, and he’s on his fucking phone.

He must realize I’ve stopped talking, because he looks back over at me.

“Shit, sorry, I had been Googling this actor from the show, trying to remember what else I saw him in. Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. Go back to your game.”

He runs over and gives me a kiss on my forehead. He asks if I want to watch something together when he finishes this episode. He disappears back down the hallway.

___________________________________________________

Two months later.

“Does he not like us? It seems like he never comes with you. We won’t bite, we swear, we just want to get to know him. Try to get him to come to dinner, just the two of us and the two of you.”

Because he wouldn’t come with me, again.

Spiraling into emotions. Being mad and then getting mad about being mad and getting mad about being mad that I’m mad and getting mad that I’m mad about being mad that I’m mad……….

I don’t ask for a lot, and I actually ask for this! And he just won’t come!

I’m inside the apartment and sitting on the couch before I really realize it, again. Driving distracted, again. Mad at myself for it, again.

At least I’m fairly certain I could make the drive between my parent’s house and our apartment blindfolded.

“Are you okay? You weren’t gone for long. Did you even eat?” I hear him coming down the hallway. I stay focused on my shoes, tearing at the laces.

“It’s just been a long day.” I sigh as I remove the shoes. Why do I like these shoes?

“I’m sorry I couldn’t go with you. Is there something I can do for you now?” I lay back into the couch.

Part of me wants to say “You could have gone with me”, but I’m tired. I’m so tired, I don’t even have it in me to fight.

“No, I just need to rest a bit.”

“If you’re sure.” He turns and goes back down the hallway.

____________________________________________________

“Are the two of you having problems? You can talk to us, if you are.”

Two more months, and another awkward family dinner. He wouldn’t come with me, again. I don’t remember his excuses anymore.

Spiraling into emotions. Being mad and then getting mad about being mad and getting mad about being mad that I’m mad and getting mad that I’m mad about being mad that I’m mad……….

I’m inside the apartment and sitting on the couch. I didn’t cause any major accidents, and today I’m calling that a win.

He doesn’t come down the hallway this time. I get my shoes on - God, I hate these shoes - and I head down the hallway to our bedroom.

He’s on his computer, playing whatever new game with his friends. I sit on the bed for a minute before he notices me.

“Hey, I’m gonna hop off mic real quick.” He takes off his headset. “Hey, babe! How was dinner?”

“It was fine.”

“You ok? You seem kinda off.”

“Just been a long day.”

“Do you need to take a break from seeing your family? It seems like lately every time to you see them, you come home upset.”

“Do you love me?”

“What?” He pauses his computer and turns to me. I look him in his eyes, and feel my anger start to crack and fall apart. It’s just a dinner. So what if he doesn’t go with me? Yeah, I want him to go and hurts that he’d rather stay home without me, but it’s really not that big of a deal, right?

“Nothing, never mind…”

He starts to turn back in his chair.

And I feel it.

The spiraling.

“No.”

He turns back to me completely, his eyebrows raised in a question, waiting for me.

“Do you even love me?”

“Do you wanna explain to me where this is coming from?”

So I do. I explain all the spiraling. The loneliness, the anger, the hurt. The anger. The guilt and the second guessing and the excusing. The anger. The exhaustion. The fights I’ve had without him. The anger.

“All of that. All of it. Because you just. Won’t. Come. To. Dinner. With. Me. And you know something’s wrong about it, you always make the shorty comment about ‘This is why I don’t like going with you to your family stuff. You always come back in a weird mood.’ but you don’t fucking put two and two together and realize that I come back in a weird mood alone because you won’t go with me. So. Do you even love me anymore?”

He sits there and stares at me.

Stares.

That asshole.

Finally, he starts.

“Love is complicated…”

“It shouldn’t be. Not for us.”

“Why not for us?” He’s still staring. “Are you and I not human? Are we not allowed complex emotion and idiocy? What makes us special?”

“Because we are us.” Fuck, how do I get him to understand this.

“And we are in love. And love is complicated. You have to acknowledge that you aren’t just you anymore, now there’s this whole other person you’re tied up in and invested in and the lines between you start to blur and sometimes it’s fucking terrifying because you still want to be an individual and maintain your own identity, but it’s also love and some stupid romantic part of you wants to swept away in it, so maybe you dig your heels in and fight for your own identity in some stupid pig headed tiny way that you don’t think matters because maybe the person you’re in love with doesn’t communicate that the way you’ve decided to maintain independence just so happens to be something that’s very important to them and now it’s, fuck, months? years? Into the issue and you’re just learning about it and you feel like an ass for not realizing sooner it’s a problem when you thought everything was fine.” He stands to pace around the room. “Love is complicated, because I love you but I also need some space and time to myself sometimes, and communicating that to you is scary because I don’t want you think that it means something is wrong with our relationship or with you when everything is great, I just need a little me-time.” He pushes his fingers through his hair. “Love is complicated because even though you’re in this complex tangle of emotions and life with another human being and there are places where you aren’t just you anymore and the two of you kinda blend together, you can’t actually read each other’s thoughts and apparently both have been having issues you needed to communicate about that you thought you didn’t need to communicate or couldn’t for whatever reason.” He comes and plops on the bed next to me. “Love is complicated because humans are complicated and that’s that.” He reaches for my hand. “But it’s still love.”

We end up talking for hours. For the dinners, we end up determining that he’ll start coming with me, at least most of them, since now he knows they’re important to me. For the space, we come up with a code word to use that means “I love you, but I need some individual time right now, I’ll talk to you more later” as shorthand so we don’t have to make a big deal out of it if one of us needs space.

Love is complicated, but it can work if the people involved are willing to put the work in

Character A: Do you even love me anymore?

Character B: Love is complicated.

Character A: It shouldn't be. Not for us.

[prompt-prose]

“Nothing.”

The creature blinks at me. It’s claws loosen some, in its’ shock, but it doesn’t let me go. Then it growls, a menacing noise I feel in my bones.

“This is trickery.”

“It’s not.” I meet its gaze directly. It’s black eyes, with golden irises, set into a face I’d only seen in books and paintings before today. Had never dared to imagine existed until the diagnosis.

Stories of wish-granting dragons have existed for millennia. All the tales say the same, they are more likely to eat you out of insult of what you offer than to actually grant your wish. I can’t take that chance.

“I’m not offering you anything. I want you to name your price, I will do what I can to meet it.” It blinks again, and I feel my feet meet the earth again as it sets me down, but it still does not let me go. “I also am not here to bargain for my own life. I am here to bargain for my brother’s.”

The creature finally releases it’s hold on me, but I am not free yet. It’s tail still circles me, a few feet away, but holding me here as surely as the claws did. It states at me, unblinking, and in silence. I wait.

“Why do you bargain for your brother’s life?”

“He’s sick. The doctors say he won’t make it another week. It’s my job to take care of him, to give him the best life he can have. How can I do that if he does not live?”

We enter another period of silence. Staring, and waiting.

I blink, and in that moment, the creature whips its head towards me and, with inches between us, roars. The deepest, loudest noise I have ever heard, that I never want to hear again. I stand my ground.

It…smiles? I’m not sure that’s the right description for the expression on its’ face, but it’s the closest I have. Then it leans back, and draws its tail back up to its body.

“Most humans are the same. They come here to make their wish, and as soon as they feel threatened they abandon their wish and beg for their own life instead. Start naming anything they can think of, any price they can pay, to only be left alive. They don’t understand that their lack of conviction is what leads to their death. If they don’t have a wish they believe in enough to face death for it, it’s not a wish that deserves to come true.” The creature draws back further, straightening to its full height. “Before you, I would have said all humans were like that. You are unique, and you have impressed me.”

“So you will save him?”

“We have not discussed price.”

My stomach drops. I didn’t think I’d get this far, I thought I’d die like all the others I’d read about. I thought maybe with impressing him, it’d be enough to convince him.

“I have nothing I can use to pay you.”

“You have your life.”

So, he will kill me anyways.

“If it means my brother can live, my life is yours.”

“It’s not so simple.” The dragon snakes around me again, moving to behind me, and I see two more come from behind it. I am surrounded by not just the one dragon I came here to face, but now three. “You will give us all your life.”

“I am not sure how one life can be split between three beings.”

“We are the three wishing dragons. There are no more, whatever your silly stories tell you. If ever a human has encountered a wishing dragon, it is one of us. We have performed this duty for eons. And we grow weary.”

“Take our place” one of the new dragons chimes in. “Swear that you will fill the duty of wish granting, that you will fill whatever gap we leave behind, and our last granted wish will be yours, and your brother will be healed.”

“How could I take the place of all three of you? I am one man.”

“And we grant each man one wish. Now instead of three dragons and one wish, it will be one man and three wishes.” The first dragon answers me.

I look at the three of them. Three sets of black and gold eyes stare back at me. I picture my brother, in his sick bed, and I strengthen my resolve.

“I will do it.”

And so, the first genie was made

The beast hissed, its claws enveloping you, “Many humans have tried to bargain with me. Some offered gold for their life, others companionship…. even love. What useless thing will you try to offer me for yours?”

[prompt-prose]

(I realize now I missed the words “pawn shop” in the prompt, but I already wrote this so 🤷‍♀️)

I thought nothing of it that day on the docks.

It was a sunny day, but mild. The breeze blew in off the water, and I played a game of seeing how long I could stand in the shadows before I felt chilly, then jumping to the patches of sunlight to warm back up.

I was 10, following my mother as she ran her errands for the day. My mother walked along, stopping at various stalls and purchasing various fish and crustaceans for our next week’s worth of meals. At the end of the fish market, further from the water, some other merchants had set up stalls as well. Jewelry, driftwood art, and one man selling rugs. Usually, my mother and I walk right past them, but this time, I guess, mom found one of the rugs intriguing. One that the merchant claimed was seal skin.

She spent some time asking questions about it, and haggling for the price, and I spent some time crouched down watching ants march along the stones of the street. Eventually, she was satisfied and the merchant agreed to deliver the rug to our home later that day, and mom pulled me along on the rest of our errands.

When the rug arrived, she laid it out in the “drawing room”, my siblings and father paid her some compliments on her decorative eye, and we didn’t think more of it.

Until the ladies showed up. One lady in particular. A group of them would gather on the beach each day, when the market opened, and they would wander around the beach and docks like they were looking for something, and then most of them would disappear, but one of them would sit on the rocks and cry until the market closed and a man came to collect her and take her home.

Everyone wondered why his wife was so miserable, who those other ladies were, and why he didn’t help her look, but no one said anything to either of them.

This carried on for a couple of weeks.

Then, my teacher started reading us a new book of fairy tales.

It wasn’t the same stories we’d heard before. Poisoned apples, glass slippers, golden thread, mermaids turning to sea foam, or towers hidden in forests. It was about creatures. Magical beings. Some who lived in bodies of water, shaped like horses, who would offer you a ride on their back but then drown you. Some who would fly about in the dark of the night and tie knots into your hair, or some who might steal you away in the night and replace you with a chunk of wood. The stories of these nightmarish, fantastical creatures continued, and I sat listening to each one, enraptured. Creatures who fought in huge battles and celebrated victory by dipping their hats in pools of blood. Creatures you couldn’t even see who could mimic anyone’s voice and lure you into the woods.

Creatures who could wear the skin of a seal, but take it off and walk around as beautiful ladies. Called Selkies.

The next day, I claimed to be ailing with a stomach ache and nausea that would not cease, so my mother had to let me stay home from school. I was to stay in bed all day, but when I heard her leave for errands, I snuck out my window and ran to the beach.

I found the lady sitting alone and crying again, it looked like her friends had left early this time. I walked over to her slowly, carefully.

“Is that the man who takes you away at the end of the day?” I ask her, as I’m pointing to the rug salesman. She startles and looks up at me, and she is gorgeous. Perhaps the prettiest woman I have ever seen. And there is a deep heartbreak in her eyes, a pain that almost scares me. She follows my finger, and I don’t need her to answer. I can tell by the way her face shifts. “He sold my mother a rug a few weeks ago.” She looks back at me, confused now. “He said it was seal skin.”

She reaches out and grasp my shoulders so quickly, I don’t have time to blink, and she pulls me in close to her face. She is still beautiful up close, but right now she might be the most terrifying thing to ever happen to me.

“I know it’s yours!” I blurt out, and watch shock cross her face, then continue. “You can come get it, if you want. I don’t know if I can carry it, but I can show you to my house and you can take it.”

She looks behind me, at the merchant, to make sure he is not watching, and she nods. I take her hand and slowly, carefully, pull her away from the market and the merchants, and through the streets to my home. I open the door and peek my head in first. I don’t see the maid, and I know mom shouldn’t be home yet, so the coast is clear, and I open the door further and lead the lady through the house to the room mom laid the rug in. As soon as she sees it, she gasps and throws herself to the floor, luxuriating in the feel of her second skin. As she stands, and starts to lift the skin from the floor, we hear him.

“I thought selling it might make it harder for you to find.” We turn and see the merchant standing there, in the doorway, and suddenly he is the most terrifying thing to ever happen to me. “You belong to me. You can’t leave.” He stalks further into the room, closer to her. He holds his hand out, glaring at her. “Hand it to me. This time, I’ll hide it where you’ll never find it.”

She stares at him, and seems to shrink, obviously terrified. That is all it takes for me to set my own terror aside. I reach behind me, and grab one of the pokers by the fireplace, moving slowly as to not draw his attention. Then, I heft it above my head and bring it down on his arm with a *crack*. He screams, and I grab her hand and run. Pulling her, and the sealskin she clutches in her other hand with me. When we make it out the door, I whip around and slam the doors behind me, locking them before I reach for her again and we run. We make it to the beach quickly, and I shove her ahead of me, towards the water.

“Go!” She only takes the time to spare me a smile, then she disappears into the water. I see a seal come out of the water, and swim over to join more who were sunning on the rocks. They all dive into the water. As they swim away, I swear one turns back to me.

I head back to my house, and find a police officer on the way, to tell him about the man who broke into my house. He follows me home, and we find the merchant where we had left him. Charges for breaking and entering are made, he’s carted away, and the officer waits with me until my mother returns.

She never knew what happened to her rug. The police believe that he had an accomplice who got the rug and ran before he was trapped. Several eye witnesses reported seeing a woman running through town carrying the rug. But no one knows where she went.

Years pass, and eventually the story dies.

I almost convince myself I had made it up.

Then, one day, when I’m 16, I’m sitting on the beach. Mother is in a bad mood, and I prefer sitting here to sitting at home and listening to her yell.

Suddenly, two seals pull themselves onto a rock near me. I smile at them, then startle when they both change form. Becoming two beautiful women, each holding their seal skin. I recognize one as the woman I had helped. The other seems to be about my age. They both smile at me.

The woman I had helped informs me this is her daughter, who she had been separated from years ago when the merchant had stolen her skin. She thanks me again for helping her, says she’s never forgotten my kindness, and wants to offer me a reward.

“You don’t need to offer me anything. I was happy to help you.”

She shakes her head, and tells me she knows she does not need to, but she wants to. She holds out a sealskin. Not hers, it’s different than the one my family had in our home. I quickly look to her daughter, but she smiles and holds up her own sealskin. I look back to the sealskin in front of me in confusion.

“This is an extra? You both have yours. Why are you giving this to me?”

She smiles, but it’s her daughter who answers with a story of how young women can become a selkie if they wear a sealskin and walk into the ocean.

“You are offering for me to become a selkie?”

They both nod. I reach out, and gingerly take the sealskin. They watch me for a moment, then slip back into their skins and into the water. I see them stop swimming a ways from the shore, and turn back to watch me.

I look behind me, to the only life I’ve ever known, but never really fit into. I look ahead, to the new possibilities. I slip the skin around my shoulders, and take a step forwards.

Years ago, a sailor sold a “rug” to your family’s pawn shop. It turns out to be a selkie skin! How will you return it to its original owner as a poor teenager in the South Pacific?

[prompt-prose]

I turn down the aisle and find the spot I’m looking for on the shelves. I start unloading the stack of books in my arms, lining them carefully on the shelf, exactly where they are meant to go. I walk back to my desk, collect the next stack, and start walking to that aisle.

I am not a known God, and I am content in that. In all of the depictions of the Underworld, no one has ever mentioned my Library. Here, I store an objective, accurate account of every soul’s life. Every soul. All that ever has been, or is currently (the works in progress are stored in the back room, but the Fates have ordered me to leave them alone until the story is done). No one tells of me because they do not care about my work. They care about the prophecies of the future, they care about the embellished and edited stories of the past, but an absolutely accurate unembellished biography? There are other things to amuse them.

But still, I exist, and I tend to my library. Cataloging the finished stories. Checking out the books anyone may request to borrow (no one has, in centuries). Reorganizing the books when I decide to try a new system (currently, the books are arranged in major categories reflecting where in the Underworld the soul is placed, Isles of the Blessed, Elysium, Asphodel Meadows, Tartarus). Occasionally, I will choose a book at random from the shelves and find a chair to sit in while reading it.

It is while I am reading he shows up. I am alerted immediately, as it has been centuries since another soul walked these aisles and I know the sound of footsteps is out of place. I set down the book I had selected (an account of a satyr’s life) and stood to find my guest. When I found him, he was in the Tartarus section, fingers skimming over the spines of the books there. I cleared my throat and he turned to face me.

“Oh! There you are! I’m so sorry, I went to look for you but I got distracted.” He smiles and starts towards me.

“Did you need help finding something?” I ask reflexively, confused why someone would be looking for me. Why someone would be here at all.

“Actually, I wanted to ask what you needed help with. I’m your new intern. I just need to know what my duties will be.”

He explains to me that he was a demigod, who had died on a quest given to him by Hades, his last mortal act being completing his mission. As a reward. Hades offered him a position in the Underworld. Any open position he desired. He had seen my library, asked Hades what it was, and requested a position here.

Not one to go against my king, I explain the organization system to him, and hand him a stack of newly finished books, and send him on his way to shelve them. As he walks away, I let myself feel my anger. This is MY place. Having someone else working here? It felt like a violation. But it was Hades’ doing, and though I may be the God of this library, I still answer to the King of the Underworld.

He learns quickly, works hard, and is content to sit quietly and read when the mood strikes me. As the years pass, I grow accustomed to his presence, his footsteps sound as familiar as my own.

One day, it dawns on me that I have not seen his book. I search the shelves, but to no avail. I use my internal connection to the library to try and find it, but as best I can tell, it does not exist. I wonder if it may be an error, or if maybe he took it. I ask him, if he would want to read his own book, and his eyes darken as he tells me that he lived his life, he does not need to do so again on the pages of a book.

I tell him I would like to reorganize the books, and we start, working from one side of the library to the other. I look at each and every book, but still I do not find his. An idea occurs to me, and while he is distracted by the reorganization, I find myself drifting towards the door in the back of the library. Where the Fates keep the stories still being written, where they have asked me not to tread, lest I disturb the stories. For eons I have kept this library, and heeded their words. Now, a desperate curiosity urges me to open the doors, slide into the room, and look.

As I open the door, I am met with a sprawling room, full of work tables and rows of desks. Each desk with a book open on it’s surface and a pen writing in it, accounting each life’s events as they happen. Each work table covered in materials for binding books, making them before they are placed on the desks, to be filled. I walk the room, careful not to touch any of the desks, careful not to disturb the stories, and search for his. Eventually, I find it. Discarded in a pile of scrap parchment.

I leave it there, at first. Sure that if I were to take it, the Fates would take offense. More years pass, and I find myself continually drawn to the back room, to that scrap pile, to his book sitting there.

Finally, my curiosity wins out, and I take the book.

I open it, only to find that it is not a book at all. On the pages, instead of the clean lines of story I expected, I find a scribbled outline. Notes of ideas, but no actual account of his life. “Demigod - which God?” Reads one note. “Quest for Hades!” Reads another. “Tragedy?”, “Tragedy!”, “Doomed love?”, “Hero’s death.”

Pages and pages of this. All of it considered, nothing truly written.

I take the book, and search for him through the shelves. When I find him, I shove the book at him.

“You said you lived your life. What happened? Why does your book look like this? Your loved your life! Why is nothing written?”

He walks away from me, but I follow. It takes only minutes for me to realize that he is not trying to escape, he is only leading me to chairs, so we can sit to talk. Once seated, he tells me that he did live his life, but it was just as disorganized and incomplete as the notes before me. He had parents, but each day he woke they would be different people. Each day, it would be a different home. They died, but no one could agree whether it had been a fire, or a robbery, or a tragic accident at sea. Even when he took his quest for Hades, the objective and locations changed with each person he talked to, every point of progress he tried to make.

“The Fates never could decide what they wanted my life to be, so everything changed, all the time. I had to navigate a world without ever knowing my place in it, where I came from, or where I was going.”

When he finishes, I walk away. For the first time, I leave my library. I march across the Underworld, right up to Hades’ castle, and demand an audience with him when the Furies try to halt my progress. Hades has them lead me to his throne room, where I throw the book at his feet.

“Let him go back. Give this book to the Fates, make them write him a proper story, and let him go back to live an actual life.”

Hades looks at me, and I am surprised to find a softness in his eyes.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to find his book, to demand this of me.” Hades gestures with his hand, and the book floats up to him. “It is unprecedented. All of this is. The Fates not finishing a story. You, leaving your library. A soul being allowed to properly live again, instead of just being reincarnated.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“I will. I had always planned to.” Hades stood from his throne and walked towards me. “I simply wanted to take the opportunity to give you some company and a test of your dedication to your Library. I suppose now that both are complete.” He reaches me and lays a hand on my shoulder. “The Fates are working on his story. When you return to the Library he will be gone. But I assure you, his fate is that of a hero, and I am certain he will find his way to you and the Library again.”

I walked slowly back to my Library. When I opened the doors, I found Hades was right. He was gone. I sit for a while, but for the first time the silence and solitude feel heavy. So I stand. Walk to the counter and grab a stack of finished stories. Start down the isles to place them where they belong. And find myself wondering how long it would be until I finally saw his book on the counter, his story finished.

Text: Between life and death there is the Library, where I shelve the knowledge of those who pass on. I am content as the sole soul, the only librarian, until a boy arrives claiming to be my intern.

[prompt-prose]

When my seed first sprouted, no one expected much of me. My father had grown a wand shorter than most, stopping at 10 inches. My mother’s only reached 8 inches. My sister’s approximately 6. My brother had barely managed to grow a splinter.

The seed grows quickly, they told me. If it grew at the same speed anything else, it would take years for some to receive their wands or staffs. Most expected my seed to stop growing within the first few days.

When the sprout outgrew my brother’s, my family sighed with relief. At least I’d have some decent ability to aid my family. When it reached the length of my sister’s, she threw a fit that she wasn’t the strongest child anymore. I overheard my parents weeping with relief. When it outgrew my mother’s, my family started getting excited. When it outgrew my father’s, we started talking about how much better I could make our lives once the sprout stopped growing and I achieved my full power. Living a less-than-average life wore on all of us, and the possibility of even just having the same things all our neighbors had was amazing.

But my plant did not stop growing.

People started asking me what care I was giving to the plant, thinking that had some effect on it. I told them I was providing it the same care my family had taught me, that they had all provided theirs.

The truth is, there was something more I did, but I couldn’t tell them that. It was embarrassing. I would simply talk with my plant. Tell it of the jokes my brother told that day, or the songs my sister sang. The herbs my mother grew in the garden, or the enchanted carvings my father made. I would tell my plant how much I loved my family. About my hopes to contribute to our livelihood.

Once my plant stood six feet tall, people started harassing us. No one in our village had grown a staff in decades. People started claiming that I was cheating the system. That our family didn’t deserve this blessing. That we were frauds. Gossiping that we were working some dark magic to exact revenge because we thought we had never been given our due, and that we had truly deserved even less than we’d been given.

My brother stopped joking. My sister stopped singing. My mother would go into her garden to find her herbs trampled or ripped up, and my father would find his carvings burned.

I started begging my plant to stop growing. Pleading that all I wanted was to provide for my family, it had grown plenty, I really didn’t need more.

They tell you that your plant grows in step with your power, but they never really touch on the fact that you can’t USE your power until the plant has stopped growing and become your spell-casting focus. I could feel the power building under my skin. Useless to me now, but promising a bright future.

I didn��t want a bright future. I only wanted to help my family.

We discussed leaving the village, but where would we go?

I found a clearing a couple of miles from the village, and moved my plant there, before it grew too big to move. I visited it daily, and it seemed to grow even faster and stronger in the new space. Every time I visited, I talked.

It seemed with my plant removed from the public eye, our neighbors had calmed down. Mother’s herbs were no longer trampled and father’s work was no longer vandalized. My brother still didn’t joke, and my sister still didn’t sing.

I started experimenting with my plant. Bending the stalk this way, carving a hole in the bark here. Over the months, as the plant grew exponentially, I realized that it and I were working together, shaping it into a home.

As the building formed, as large now as our current house, I started bringing things to it. Extra bedding. A vase of flowers. Dishes. My family wondered what I was doing, where all our things were going. I told them to trust me, to remain patient, that in time they would see.

I continued talking to my plant. Continued telling it of my family, my love for them, my hopes for them. I noticed in a spot on the side of the house, herbs were growing in a neat collection. I noticed a new room with workbenches and display shelves. I noticed a music stand growing in a bedroom, and masks of laughing faces appearing on a wall in another.

Finally, almost a year after I had received my seed, I noticed that the growing had stopped.

I asked my family to collect the last of their belongings and follow me, and lead them to the clearing, to our new home.

They exclaimed to see it. No one had heard of a seed growing quite so large, into so fantastic and unique of a form. They delighted in the touches added for them, delighted to see my attention and love for them given physical form. They settled their belongings and then inquired about my powers. How they have manifested, given my plant’s form.

I showed them.

I could control the temperature in the house, separately for each of us, to keep us at our most comfortable. I could manipulate the sound waves inside the house so that someone’s snoring wouldn’t bother the rest of us, but you also only needed to speak someone’s name to be heard rooms away instead of shouting. I could dim and brighten our lights at will, keep food fresh and warm, keep water cool and clean. Keep the fire in the hearth fed and crackling. I could adjust the walls and sizing of the rooms, the placement of the windows. I could make this home a fortress against invaders, or a safe haven for travelers.

I told my family that my seed and my powers had manifested as the most important and powerful thing I could imagine, a genuine home, to keep us happy and safe and loved for as long as it stood.

We ended that night sitting around the hearth together.

My brother told us jokes.

My sister sang us songs.

All Magic users are gifted a seed, that grows in step with their power. For the average mage it becomes a trusty wand no longer than their forearm. For some it grows into a great staff. These mages can move mountains and part seas. Yours has grown so much that you’ve decided to live inside it.

[prompt-prose]

“You killed my mother!” I slam my sword into his. “My father!” I slash for his side, but his blade blocks mine. “My brother! My lover! My friend!” With each person I list, I attack. Stab for his shoulder, slash at his arm, angle my blade to run him through. Each time, our weapons clash as he meets my attacks. As their faces fill my mind, each person I have lost, I continue to attack. He continues to defend. I do not land a single blow, and my energy wanes. He can tell, and he is amused. The next time our swords meet, I hold the position, our swords crossed between us as I push against him and try to gain an upper hand, and he smiles at me. If looks could kill, the glare on my face would win me this fight. I spit in his face “How many? How many others have you slain? Stolen from those who loved them? How many people have died to achieve this world domination of yours?”

“769.”

I am shocked, and my sword slips. Before I can right my footing, I feel my shoulder slide against his sword, feel the edge cut into my skin. I step back, before too much damage can be done.

“What?”

“769 people have died for me to achieve my plans. I counted them, and had each of their names etched on my throne so I never forget what my victory cost the world.” He gestures behind him, to the throne standing on the dias before the stained glass. Now that the sun has risen, and the light is cast onto the stones, I can see the textures carved into the stone. The elegant designs looping all around and over the surface. And looking closer, I see there do seem to be words woven through the designs. Could he be telling the truth? Could the words be the names of his victims? Memorialized and honored for the blood they gave for his kingdom, for some the only memorial they would receive. My focus is interrupted as he steps in front of me, knocking my sword from my hands as he grasps the collar of my leather armor and pulls me closer, til I am mere inches from his face. “Now tell me, how many have you killed to see me dead?”

The questions shocks me, yet again, as does the fire that lights his cold eyes. He uses his grip on my collar to throw me to the ground, closer to the throne. My knee hits the stone edge of the dias, but I do not pay the pain any heed. I can see the words clearer now. They are indeed names.

“Your mother.” He points to one line of text looping through the patterned vines. He is right. There, her name. “Your father.” He points again. “Your brother. Your lover. Your friend.” Each time, he moves his finger and finds their name. Each time, something in my chest caves in a little more.

“How did you know their names?” The words are barely a whisper out of my mouth. I don’t believe he heard me. His foot finds my side and pushes me onto my back, so I am now looking up at him, as he stands over me.

“How many. Have you killed. To see me dead.” His sword point comes to a rest at the hollow of my throat. “Do you know? Can you even guess?” New faces fill my mind. The guards and henchmen I cut down. Tortured for information. Poisoned. Tricked into an alley and stabbed in the back. All in the name of bringing this man before me down. “MY friends.” His sword point leaves me throat, slashing into my left arm, before it returns to the hollow. “My employees.” This time, he slashes into my right arm, and the sword finds its home against my throat again. “…My love.” His voice breaks, and I wonder who it was. Which of my kills was his lover. If I even remembered their face, or if they hadn’t even warranted that much memory from me.

“Say something.” He presses the point into my skin, and I feel the smallest trickle of blood begin. “Moments ago, you were so vocal about my crimes. Yet, when faced with your own, you refuse to answer for them.” He looks away, but I dare not move. Not with the steadiness of his hand, holding his sword so surely. He looks at his throne. “I have built a monument to my sins. Etched their names into stone as surely as they are etched on my soul.” He looks down, and I find his eyes full of disdain, and am shocked to feel myself ashamed. “You can’t even remember yours. You never knew their names. Never tried to. Content to kill in the name of what you believed was right, and trust that there was nothing to atone for, to answer for. You trusted that the blood on your hands would be washed clean without you ever paying it any mind.”

“Tell me their names.” He stared down at me, unblinking. I tried again. “Tell me who they were. Grant me the burden of the knowledge. Let me carry their names with me. Let me know. Let me learn from you, how to carry the burden of blood spilled for a cause. Let me be better.”

I meet his eyes. Cold, but burning. I feel a matching fire light in my chest, and I make a silent swear that for each name he tells me, I will find a way to atone. I swear that while learning the names, I will learn this man. I realize I never knew why he wanted dominion. If the names on his throne are any indication, maybe there are better reasons than I was lead to believe. I swear that I will not fight blindly in the name of a kingdom anymore, but instead that I will fight for the betterment of the world, whatever side that puts me on. I silently swear all this, and more, in the moments we stare at each other. Once I have finished swearing, I simply pray he sees the resolve burning in my eyes, that answering flame to the burning in his own. Finally, he answers.

“No.”

I don’t have time to feel the shock of his answer before I feel his sword slice through my throat. I lay on the steps of his dias, choking on my blood, dying. He steps over me, and pulls a chisel from the ground near his throne. The last thing I see is him. Carving my name into the stone, entwined with all the others. 770 names, now.

“How many people have died to achieve this world domination of yours?” “769.” “…What?” “769 people died to achieve my plans. I counted them, and had each of their names etched on my throne so I never forget what my victory cost the world. Now tell me, how many have you killed to see me dead?”