#who against all odds seizes control of her own destiny

[bowbowis]

Edelgard the Underdog

Something that tends to get overlooked because the Empire has the biggest army in Fódlan is that Edelgard herself is by far the biggest underdog among Three Houses' leaders. Yes, she is a princess of the Adrestian Empire but she was never meant to be Emperor, she only became the heir because she alone among her siblings was able to withstand the torturous experiments they were subjected to. By that point the Insurrection of the Seven had already happened and whoever held the position of Emperor was little more than a puppet dancing on the Prime Minister's strings. Dimitri's status was assured the moment he popped out of the womb with a Crest. Claude just had to convince his grandfather he was who he claimed to be and could always fall back on trying to stake his claim to the Almyran throne if things in Leicester didn't pan out. Rhea and Thales have run their respective organizations for over a thousand years. In contrast, Edelgard's position granted her right to little more than a fancy title and a gilded cage (once they let her out of the literal torture dungeon that is). She didn't have any power, and she was never meant to have any power, whereas everyone else either already had power or was set to inherit it in due time.

So yeah, she ends up with the best army by the start of Part II, but only because she fought tooth and nail for it, using every ounce of cunning and political acumen she had, all while keeping the Those Who Slither in the Dark in... well... the dark, as to her plans.

[mimisempai]

Do you really care for me or is it just a trick?

Summary:

Loki, destabilized by the versatile behavior of Mobius, can't figure out if the man really cares about him or if Loki is just a means to an end for him.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32050993

1392 words - Rating G

"Look, I know you have a soft spot for broken things."

Loki, with his head pressed against the door, managed to hear a few fragments of the conversation between Mobius and Ravonna, the judge of the TVA who seemed to be his superior.

"But Loki is an evil, lying scourge.

Loki couldn't even blame her for saying that, she was just one in a long list of people who thought they knew him.

"That is the part he plays on the Sacred Timeline."

Especially since for this "world" -he didn't even know what to call it- it was apparently his destiny. So here even less than anywhere else, no one would try to find out if he was someone else.

"Maybe he wants to mix it up."

Until this particular odd man.

The first person to question his destiny.

Loki didn't understand Mobius. He seemed convinced that Loki was someone else and yet believed hard that the Time Keepers and all that crap was real.

Mobius was to Loki a strange mixture of candor and trickery.

He had never met anyone like that.

"Sometimes you get tired of playing the same part."

If he only knew...

Hearing nothing more distinct, Loki returned to sit where Mobius had left him.

He had to admit that once again the man had read him perfectly, and that scared him a little. No one until now had really been able to see beyond his antics.

He had to try to take control, he couldn't let anyone see his flaws. The other man had already seen too much.

So when Mobius came out of his superior's office, Loki went straight on the attack.

He jumped around the advancing man and tried to lock him in a stream of words, "You're probably wondering what happened out on the mission. That was your first lesson in catching a Loki. Half the fun of being a trickster is knowing everyone knows you're a trickster, and then, many of your tricks can come from exploiting the fact that you know that they know..."

Mobius raised his arms to stop him, "Okay. Just… just shut up!"

Oh, this was getting interesting, for the first time, the man was breaking out of his smile and showed an uncontrolled emotion.

Oblivious to what was going on in Loki's head, he continued, "Please. What happened to the guy I met on the elevator? Who didn't like to talk. Remember him? Now I'm stuck with this guy who won't stop yacking away about what makes a Loki tick!"

What a hypocrite, he was the one who had told him that he wanted to know what makes a Loki tick. And now that he had it, he didn't want it anymore?

Loki asked him, "What? Isn't that precisely why I'm here?"

Mobius, annoyed, replied, "No. I don't care what makes you tick. You're here to help me catch the superior version of yourself."

This was it.

Loki should have known better.

It had been another smoke and mirrors. Mobius had only told him that, made him think he was interested in Loki, to achieve his goal. Loki was only a means to an end.

He wouldn't show him. Loki wouldn't show him that he was troubled.

Mobius added to make his point,"That's it!"

Loki tried to stop him, "Hang on. I'm not sure 'superior' is actually quite the right word."

They stopped in front of the elevator, face to face.

Mobius got even more annoyed and retorted, "See? There it is. Right there. I believed, stupidly, that insecure need for validation would motivate you to find the killer. Not 'cause you care about the TVA mission or bein' a hero, but because you know this Variant is better than you and you can't take it."

Wow, talk about a low blow.

Loki smiled, deceptively of course and replied, "Very nice."

Then he approached Mobius, and adjusted the man's tie as he spoke, "I mean, it is adorable that you think you could possibly manipulate me.  I'm ten steps ahead of you. I've been playing a game of my own all along."

If Mobius believed that he was Loki as the world saw him, willing to whore himself out to get what he wanted, well, he'd let him believe it.

Mobius replied, that familiar smirk on his lips, "What, charm your way in front of the Time-Keepers, hustle them, and seize control of the TVA?"

Well done Loki. Mobius has proven to you once again that men and gods are all the same.They don't care who you are, they just want to fool you. You are not disappointed.

"Am I getting warm? A double cross by history's most reliable liar." Mobius added while going to call the elevator.

However, in spite of all this, something didn't add up. If Loki was just a means to an end for Mobius, then why bother defending him like that in front of Ravonna?

Loki couldn't help but ask him, "Okay. Why are you in there sticking your neck out for me?"

Mobius came back to him and replied vehemently, "I'll give you two options, and you can believe whichever one you want. A, because I see a scared little boy shivering in the cold. And you kinda feel bad for that ice runt. Or B, I just wanna catch this guy, and I'll tell you whatever I need to tell you."

Wow, when Mobius was pissed, he didn't mince words. But no matter how much it hurt, no matter how condescending it sounded, Loki wanted to believe in answer A. To believe that, as Loki thought just before, Mobius was the person who was able to see who Loki was.

But that meant doing something Loki had never done.

Trusting.

As the elevator doors closed, he couldn't help but make another brash statement, "I don't need your sympathy," because he wasn't going to be pitied.

Mobius replied in a tired tone, "Good, 'cause I'm runnin' out of it."

Loki continued on, "I have a tendency to provoke this reaction in-"

"Oh once again, shut up!"

Loki replied with a mocking smile on his lips, "Make me."

And it was as if a dam broke in Mobius.

He grabbed Loki's tie to pull him to him and before the god had time to wonder what he was doing, Mobius leaned in and placed his lips against Loki's.

The kiss was sweet but messy, their lips moved together repeatedly, both coordinated and chaotic. Just like them.

Mobius didn't pull back until Loki grabbed the front of his shirt and squeezed the fabric in both hands. Mobius looked at him and couldn't help but laugh as they bumped noses together, a flush spread across Loki's cheeks and nose, which contrasted with the paleness of his skin in the dim light of the elevator.

Loki stared at him with wide eyes and a stunned look.

It seemed that Mobius had succeeded in silencing him.

Mobius let go of him, smiled, and went out the doors that had just opened.

Loki held him back by the sleeve.

"Wait, what was that for?"

Mobius put a finger over Loki's mouth before telling him, "Well, you asked me to make you shut up, mission completed."

Loki lost his smile and asked in a lower voice, "Was it just for that reason?"

Mobius pushed a strand of Loki's hair behind his ear, then as he walked back, he replied in a mysterious tone, "Who knows?"

Loki ran behind him until he was walking beside him, closer than before.

"You know that's not going to stop me from talking, right?"

He knew he was trying to hold on to a twig, but he couldn't help but hope.

Mobius turned his head towards him and said, a playful sparkle in his eyes, "I sure hope so, the more you talk, the more I'm going to want to shut you up, and now that I know how, I'm not going to stop myself from doing it."

"And that' s me the God of Mischief...?!!"

Loki rolled his eyes, but his smile wouldn't fool anyone, and it didn't fool Mobius, who just gave him a little nudge with his shoulder.

So for now, Loki decided to let go, just a little, to let hope take a little place in his heart.

________

The whole serie here : The story of Loki and Mobius

Not beta'd

I hope you enjoyed it 🥰

[chunhua-s]

congrats on your milestone event!!! id like to request for kita soulmate!au with angst to fluff genre 👉👈 yknow sumn rejection shit bcs im hopeless like that wehee once again congrats! and i love your writing style :3

anon you’re gonna make me cry 🥺 seriously i’m happy you enjoy my writing and that you think my style’s okay! most of the time i go off of what kind of feelings i get when i’m writing or the imagery that comes up in my head and i’m never sure that it translates well enough for you guys to feel or see the same thing. hopefully as i keep writing then i’ll be able to show you guys what’s on my mind better when i’m writing! thank you again for requesting — seriously, it means a lot! and like always, you guys, don’t be afraid to come and talk to me on and off anon! your interactions mean a lot, especially for content creators! we love hearing what you all think, what you like/dislike about our work, what you think of certain characters — absolutely anything! come and talk with us more whenever you can 💕

writing for kita feels calming somehow. normally the things that come up in my chest or my mind when i write gets nearly overwhelming if that makes sense? like i’ll have to pause and remind myself to breathe because it takes up so much of my attention that i kinda get lost, but with kita, it feels more flowey to me. it’s not demanding but more like a gentle coaxing kind of thing or like looking at the surface of a calm river. i was initially scared to write for him because i was worried i wouldn’t get him right, but i feel satisfied with how this turned out, i think. i hope you guys will find it as calming as i found it too! it might not be exactly what you wanted, but because i had already written the rejection of a person for atsumu’s soulmate oneshot, i wanted to play around with kita’s character and make it instead the rejection of a concept/idea? which would indirectly lead to him... you know, rejecting his soulmate initially, but— ahhhhhh it might make sense to just read it!! these rambles keep getting longer and longer :v i’m sorry for that!! please go ahead and read and tell me what you think in the end! 💕

NOTNING MORE THAN HUMAN ➽ KITA SHINSUKE x READER

genre: angst to fluff

au: soulmate

warnings: none

shinsuke kita is human.

and of course, that much is obvious. he isn’t a machine that’s incapable of feelings and emotions, whose heart is unfamiliar with melodies of an overwhelming joy, or the quiet hymns of deep rooted sadness. his skin still burns under righteous fury and anger, his tongue still weighs heavy under hesitance and silent worries. at the end of every long day, he’s still human.

it’s because he’s human that the words on his collarbone feel so heavy, as if they might cave into the bone and destroy him under their weight. it’s because he’s human that the sight of black markings in the mirror clouds his mind with a new kind of fear and worry. shinsuke kita is human, but he’s long since taught himself how to abandon anxiety and nervousness. he surrounds himself in familiar routines that calm the turbulent voices of doubt, he builds habits that ground him to the earth lest he should be swept away by the current. shinsuke has taught himself not to be afraid for the things that will happen everyday, but meeting his soulmate isn’t one of those things he can prepare for.

it’s a strange concept, he considers to himself. shinsuke doesn’t believe in words like fate or destiny, doesn’t care for the higher powers that should judge his actions. as far as he’s concerned, his own will is what dictates where his life goes — he’s in control, and that’s how it’s always been for him. let the gods watch, if they must, but he’s already decided that he’ll live by what is right, and he wouldn’t dare falter in the face of it. and yet — and it’s such a strange thing for him to do so — he pauses under the notion of a soulmate, of a destined partner who’s supposedly bound to him for as long as he should live. at first, he hadn’t given the idea much thought; it wouldn’t serve any purpose to worry about something that would happen whether or not he wants it, he decided. the truth of it is inevitable, just as the leaves must fall in autumn and the earth should be buried under clouds of white in winter. shinsuke is human — what more can he do but to accept it?

the black words that spread across his skin like droplets of ink became the bitter seeds of doubt that he hadn’t felt in a long time. it’s raining a lot today, isn’t it? the sentence by itself is so bland, like something maybe aran or anyone else might say to him in passing, and at first, it didn’t shake him too much, until he was caught one day under a sudden summer storm. seventeen year old kita somehow found himself stranded beneath a small shelter, where the wooden covering could protect him more than his umbrella until the rain passed. it was nearly unconscious, but he somehow found himself on edge, his breath faltered with the harsh pitter patter of rainfall that tumbled from green leaves and tore ripples from the surface of the lake. shinsuke kita found himself with a stomach full of butterflies and a thundering heartbeat that stole him away from solace and calm, cast the peace that he would so often carry with him away and left him stranded among chopping waves. every trembling breath he took stung on cold air and left him with a burning feeling on his lungs. it’s unfamiliar in its presence and shakes him to his core, but shinsuke kita is reminded of his own humanity when he realizes that what he feels, is anticipation and nervousness.

and it’s an odd thing. as he becomes aware of it, he finds himself twisting his fingers together during spring time; he worries his bottom lip between his teeth during unexpected showers. he feels like a child who stands in line to ride a roller coaster for the first time in his life — wide-eyed and drowning in the millions of feelings that race throughout his body. the feeling itself is nothing new, though it’s unfamiliar and intense in its ferocity and demand, seizes his heart and squeezes so tightly that whenever it rains, he’s left breathless.

it’s almost enough to drive him mad.

his very foundation seems to fall apart with the thunder that rolls across grey skies. for every drop of rain that hits the pavement, he finds himself a jittery mess as his heartbeat tears through his chest. the man who taught himself to abandon his fears reverts into the young boy who watched out for god, for the higher beings who watched his every move. and the thought that comes with every brilliant bolt of lightning burns him just as hotly, invasive and demanding when it flashes through his mind on a single, low whisper:

will you be happy?

shinsuke kita is human. he learns as he sees and lives as he’s learned, and what he saw growing up was that soulmates were bounded together till death do them part. a connection that’s set deep in stone, never to be erased by unforgiving weather and to persevere during the cruelest of storms. it’s an inevitable reality that the gods designed, so that mortals like himself should dance on stage and tell them a story. but shinsuke knows that not all these stories have a happy ending.

there are plays that end in tragedy and loss, those that only knew memories of pain and sang with death’s violin. man becomes the actor to a play that he has no choice in and dances on the puppet master’s strings, he surrenders control and gives himself up to the music, and he has no way of knowing the end of it until the curtains should fall. shinsuke has never been one to lay down his will, and yet, as winter melts once more into gray rain clouds and scattered showers, he’s reminded of his mortality, of the fate that’s been sealed away in the falling of rain. shinsuke kita is human, and so he must, like all men do, bend to fate’s will and never utter a word against her.

and for a long time, the sentiment caused him to completely reject the idea of a soulmate.

that feeling of helplessness that would wash over him with the rain turned into a bitterness that crushed his lungs between tightened fist. the acceptance of an inevitable waltz — whether it be to eternal happiness or to a cruel melody — turned into rebellious loathing that spat in the face of destiny. it’s entirely childish in its tale, like a toddler throwing a tantrum because he doesn’t want to give up his precious toy. that toy is his control, the power he had to live his life by his truth, not by that of a higher being. he’s human, after all, and humans are selfish and resentful by nature.

he finds himself with a heavy chest today, as well, as he waits for the pouring rain to subside. the small shelter in the middle of the garden park is familiar, and carries with it the memories of his epiphany, the one that created thunder storms in his once tranquil heart, and for that, he hates this place. the sound of the rain hitting the roof is like nails scratching against the chalkboard; the sound of droplets hitting the lake like an annoying whining that he can’t get out of his head. shinsuke curses this little pocket away from the world with all the childish anger in the world — let it be damned that doing so wouldn’t change anything. for once, he let himself go on a petty grudge against the universe, and against that looming stage and its heavy curtains.

it’s nearly faint, but he picks up on the patter-patter of footfalls that quickly approach him, and he turns bronze coloured eyes to find your rain-drenched figure running for shelter under the little gazebo. you’re out of breath by the time you make it underneath, letting out an exhausted and frustrated sigh as you press your hands to your knees, and shinsuke finds himself sympathizing with the way you bitterly push your hair from your face. you’re an ordinary office worker, from what he can see; you’ve hidden what looks to be a messenger back beneath your coat, leaving you to tremble in a thin button-up. this day’s downpour had been sudden, unexpected as spring would soon surrender to the approaching summer, and he imagines that he would have been in a similar position as yourself had he not packed his umbrella beforehand.

a silence settles over the both of you that’s only broken by the heavy rain, but the presence of it is so soothing that shinsuke finds himself breathing on a lighter air. suddenly the smell of petrichor turns sweeter, the melody of raindrops melting into a distant lullaby, and for the first time, shinsuke feels his heart melt under an indescribable sense of warmth despite the weather. and when your eyes turn to find his, a helpless grin on your lips, he feels that warmth explode under summer fireworks and coarse throhgh his veins like liquid lightning.

“it’s raining a lot today, isn’t it?”

for the second time in his life, shinsuke has an epiphany under the shelter in the garden.

he feels every bit of resentment vanish on a sudden gust of wind, one that sends raindrops splashing against his skin, but he doesn’t seem to notice. not when grey clouds suddenly reveal to him pillars of sunlight that embrace your figure and makes you glow against a background of green leaves. the rain turns into something sweet and enticing, and it suddenly gives shinsuke this unexplainable urge to grab your hand and dance with you underneath the pouring showers, where he can hear your voice ring out on chimes of laughter and innocent bliss. in mere seconds, he manages to let go of the dark clouds that he’d unintentionally harboured on his chest, he let them burst with the weight of anger and childish fury so that they would hit the earth on giant droplets of rain.

shinsuke kita is human — he’s imperfect, mortal. he feels and he thinks and he speaks what’s on his mind. he can hate, and he can love: he can make that decision on whether or not to hold useless grudges and to curse a destiny he can’t change, or to welcome that inevitability with the willingness to learn and grow.

today, as he stands beneath a wooden shelter, hiding from the heavy rains, he decides to stretch his hand out and let the water hit his skin.

davi hits 200 followers — haikyuu!! au writing event! 💕

taglist: @aiiishiiiteru @bootylikepeachy @tsumue

send an ask to be added!

[blueares]

Ruination Rewrite: Character List

Sentinels

Vayne

Having devoted her life to fighting back monsters that prowl in the dark, Vayne joined the Sentinels to aid in their struggle against Viego and his ceaseless tide of the undead. Her years of experience and hatred for monsters of any kind makes her a perfect fit for the order, though her cold and ruthless personality sometimes puts Vayne at odds with some of the team's more unscrupulous members.

Olaf

In his relentless pursuit of a worthy death, Olaf joined the Sentinels hoping that the Harrowing will conjure a foe capable of slaying him at last. Having lost an eye to the corrupted Barbarian King Tryndamere, Olaf charges headlong into the swarm of wraiths spreading across Runeterra with his newly-forged Relic axes, hoping to solidify his legend in a world on the brink of Ruination.

Riven

After narrowly escaping Draven's arena with the aid of the Sentinels, Riven found herself lost and seeking purpose. A wanted fugitive in Noxus and unable to return to Ionia, Riven was prepared to wander alone in search of a new home until she was unexpectedly invited to join the Sentinels of Light. Now, she wields a new blade for a new cause: to drive back the Ruined King's forces in the hopes that doing so will at last bring her the redemption she seeks for her past.

Shen

When the Black Mist came to Ionia, the Eye of Twilight felt the scales of balance tip in favor of darkness. Seeking to rectify this imbalance, Shen confronted Viego on the beaches of his homeland, only to be overwhelmed by the Ruined King's power. Narrowly saved by the Sentinels' intervention, Shen agreed to an alliance between their orders, taking up a Relicstone sword in place of his Ionian steel saber to better combat the forces of the undead.

Diana

After a near-death confrontation with Ruined Pantheon, Diana found her connection to the Celestial realm shaken by a blow from the war god's spear. As the Aspect of the Moon recovers, Diana must take up Sentinel armaments to combat the growing tide of Black Mist if she is to ensure that her people, the Lunari, live to see another moonrise.

Jayce

The self-proclaimed "Hero of Piltover," Jayce joined the Sentinels in a bid to save his city from Ruination. Combining Sentinel craftsmanship with Piltover engineering, Jayce has upgraded his beloved Mercury Hammer with Relicstone to better combat the undead. Unbeknownst to his allies, though, Jayce wishes not only to save Piltover, but also the one man he ever called a friend...

Graves

A lawless scoundrel from Bilgewater, Graves joined the Sentinels for one reason and one reason only: to find his missing partner. After Twisted Fate's mysterious disappearance at the start of the Harrowing, Graves deduced that the Black Mist must be behind the card mage's sudden disappearance and that fighting Viego may reveal Fate’s whereabouts. Though Graves’ attitude and complete disregard for Sentinel code grates on his allies, he more than makes up for it when blasting through hordes of undead with his custom-made Destiny III.

Rengar

Once the apex predator of the Kumungu Jungles, Rengar finds himself now relentlessly hunted through his own territory by the ghosts of his former prey. Seeking to drive out the Black Mist and restore his place at the top of the food chain, Rengar joins the Sentinels to hunt down the one responsible for its invasion: Viego, the Ruined King himself.

Ruined

Shyvana

Years of prejudice and discrimination in Demacia have stirred bitterness and contempt in Shyvana's soul. Though once able to find comfort in those few she called friends, the Black Mist has fueled Shyvana’s resentment for the world that so often tries to condemn her. Now, she embraces the monster that so many believe her to be, unleashing her burning fury on anyone who draws breath.

Tryndamere

When the Black Mist took hold on Tryndamere's soul, it unleashed the fury that he has spent years tempering as king of the Avarosa. Now driven to a near-constant state of Berserker rage, Tryndamere is more beast than man, rampaging endlessly and cutting down anyone or anything that dares to get in his way. Even Viego struggles to truly control the Ruined Barbarian King, instead turning Tryndamere on his enemies and letting the beast run wild.

Draven

Little changed when the Black Mist took hold on Draven's soul. In fact, Ruination has only stoked the executioner's ego even further. No longer content to be the best in Noxus, Draven seeks the eternal praises of all Runeterra: an undying global audience which can cheer his name for all time, even if he has to perform for the Ruined King himself.

Lillia

Once a peaceful and timid spirit devoted to safeguarding dreams, Lillia has now devoted herself to protecting one dream in-particular: that of the Ruined King. Lillia now believes that only the beauty and purity of Viego's twisted love can save her Mother Tree and restore peaceful dreams to the world forevermore.

Pantheon

Through the necromantic powers of the Black Mist, the fallen god Pantheon has returned. Seeking retribution for his demise at the hands of the Darkin Aatrox, Pantheon readies himself to wage war on the living world and bring Ruination to all Runeterra. Before he can see his ambition to fruition, however, Pantheon must first win the war within himself for control over Atreus's body, who remains stubbornly defiant...

Viktor

Seeing a new path toward advancement, Viktor has embraced Ruination as the next logical step in human evolution. Able to transform fragile flesh and remove unnecessary emotion, the Black Mist is all that Viktor desires and more. With it, he can upgrade not just humanity, but Runeterra itself...

Gangplank

Desperate to take back his throne as the pirate lord of Bilgewater, Gangplank turned to Viego in a bid for power. Through the Black Mist, Gangplank has not only resurrected his old crew and ship, but finally acquired the strength to challenge Sarah Fortune's reign over the city of Bilgewater.

Other

Rookie

A young Sentinel recruit with next to no combat experience or training. Despite this, Rookie was still chosen by the Wayfinder, a unique Relic capable of allowing instantaneous travel between Sentinel outposts and a means of instantly traveling to the organization’s headquarters. Though Rookie is oft considered the weakest member of the group, they possess a knack for words and inspiring others in dire situations.

Unbound Thresh

With the aid of Mordekaiser’s magic, Thresh has at last freed himself from the confines of the Black Mist. With this new freedom comes the ability to transform himself, taking on a guise similar to the flesh and blood he once possessed in life without any of the limitations. Thresh now wanders the world unfettered, gathering souls for his collection while aiding in Mordekaiser's conquest.

-----

When the Ruination came and transformed the Blessed Isles into the now-infamous Shadow Isles, Thresh embraced the change wholeheartedly. For years he delighted in tormenting the living and the dead alike by trapping them in his lantern, but it eventually became apparent to Thresh that he, himself, was a prisoner.

Bound to the Black Mist and unable to leave the Shadow Isles for much longer than the span of a Harrowing, Thresh realized that this existence wasn’t so different from the years he spent isolated in the darkness of the vaults of Helia. Eventually, he began seeking a means of escaping the Mist, even if it meant dethroning the Ruined King himself.Eventually, Thresh’s search brought him back to the Vaults of Helia, where he perused the forbidden artifacts once placed under his care in the hopes that one might contain the key to his freedom.

After searching tirelessly through the many forsaken relics locked away by his order, Thresh came upon one that thrummed with an eerily familiar power: the skull of an ancient tyrant said to have once conquered death itself. As Thresh grasped the skull, a voice spoke out to him in an ancient tongue the warden did not recognize, but somehow understood. It promised him freedom and power in exchange for one thing: to help restore the warlord’s spirit to the land of the living.

It was then that an unholy pact was formed, and Thresh soon learned the name of the ancient spirit in question: Mordekaiser. For years, Mordekaiser and Thresh cooperated in secret, working together to undermine Viego’s search for the fetters of his queen, Isolde.

When the Ruined King was foiled by the Sentinels of Light, Thresh and Mordekaiser seized their opportunity. Now, as the lords of undeath contest each other control of the Shadow Isles, Thresh ventures to Noxus to aid in infiltrating the Immortal Bastion... While relishing in the new powers granted to him by his patron along the way.

[mymelodyheart]

Highland Destiny Chapter 11 ~Lock the Door~

Although Joe should have been home hours ago, he had opted to stay in the doctor's mess room. He didn't think he could unwind after the previous night's events, and besides, Gail's shift would be over soon-it was nearly 5 am. 

Wandering through the cafeteria, he was surprised to see Jamie sitting alone and staring into space. He went and bought them both a cup of coffee before approaching him.

"Hey, need some company?"

"Oh! Aye, take a seat." Jamie rubbed his face in rapid motion and sat up and smiled at the sight of coffee. "Thank ye, I was about to get one."

"Out on bail?" Joe knew already he wouldn't stay long in jail.

"Aye. How's Christie?"

"He'll live. That was some punch you threw at Tom. What were you thinking, Jamie?"

"I dinna ken. I saw red, I suppose. The coppers weren't impressed at all," he joked, not feeling guilty about last night's misdemeanour.

There was a moment of silence between the two men as they drank their coffee.

"You need not be here, you know. You should go home and rest. Claire is no longer in danger," Joe said in-between sips of his coffee.

"Ye said she's pregnant. How did that happen?"

Joe looked incredulous. "Seriously, Jamie? You had sex, that's what happened. Don't you guys use any form of protection or birth control? I know she said she couldn't have any babies...but still!"

Jamie ignored his question. "Does she know?"

"I haven't told her yet...she's still unconscious. Anyway, I intended to tell you first because I was unsure of the effects of Ketamine on the fetus. You see, she received quite a high dose. Out there it's often used as a recreational drug, but recently there are a lot of cases of it being used as a date rape drug. Its effect is almost immediate, making it more effective for its sinister use. In the right amount of dosage, it should wear off in an hour, but Claire ingested a substantial amount and to make matters worse, it was mixed in alcohol. It could have been fatal if she had not received medical attention immediately. There is no antidote for its overdoses, but we have given her a drug to counteract the symptoms. So you might find her drugged to her eyeball for a couple of days. As for the fetus, there is no telling...I'm sorry."

"Christ! I thought it would have just been a matter of flushing the drug out of her system...fuck." Jamie slammed his fist on the table, rattling the coffee cups. "So, ye think Christie had some ill intentions towards Claire?" He was about to say rape, but he couldn't bring himself to say the word. Jamie could feel his anger rising again.

"Pure speculations Jamie. But he will remain detained until proven innocent. It is plausible that he put the Ketamine in her drink because we have them here in the hospital, and it is accessible to him. We use them for anaesthetic purposes. Now the thing is, the drug comes in a variety of forms. Pharmaceutical Ketamine is usually liquid. On the street, it is more common to see tablets or white crystalline powder. And Claire ingested the liquid form."

Jamie shut his eyes tight, inhaling deeply through his nostrils. When he finally exhaled, he noticed his hands were clenched tightly. "I'm no sorry now that I punched the daylight outa that prick."

Noticing his anger, Joe quickly changed the subject. "Don't get your hopes up but if the fetus does survive, have you thought what that would mean for you?"

His tactic worked, Jamie's face broke into a grin. "I'm going to be a da. Can ye tell already if it's a boy or girl?" 

Joe coughed, not expecting that reaction. He is now unsure if he made the right choice asking him that question in case there was a disappointment in the end. "No, Jamie...not for another at least 7 weeks. And by the way, I saw on the report that Claire is 5 weeks pregnant...that's around the time when she first arrived here in Inverness. Didn't one of you think of using a condom? It's not just about birth control we're talking about here...there's also sexually transmitted diseases to think about. Oh God, did you have sex on the first day you met? "

"Aye we did," he replied grinning, looking very pleased with himself. "Weel... normally I would have used a condom, it's just that we had a lot to drink and Claire was so beautiful and then..." 

Joe stopped him, not wanting to hear anymore. "You know what? Forget that I asked. I don't want to know what happened before conception!" He rolled his eyes as he let out a frustrated sigh.

"But ye're a doctor. Surely ye hear it all the time..."

He glared at him. "Jamie, for crying out loud! We're talking about Claire here. She's like my sister. I'm not interested in hearing about her or your sexual escapade. Jesus!"

Now it was Jamie's turn to change the subject. "Anyway, can ye picture me being a da?"

"No. Not really."

"What do ye mean, no? If ye think I'm going to leave Claire because of her pregnancy..."

"Jamie, listen. It's not as simple as that. A baby will need a family...a father. Are you ready to have a family of your own? Have you thought about marriage?"

"Aye, of course, I have. Weel, what I mean to say is, I was thinking about it before ye came. And what do ye take me for? Ye think I'll run away because Claire is pregnant?" Jamie looked shocked that Joe would think he would abandon Claire.

"It's not only about what Claire wants Jaime. It's also about what you want. Do you really want this? Baby, Claire and the whole family thing..."

"Joe, I know ye're concerned about yer friend. I want ye to know that I will be doing the right thing for Claire, not because it is the right thing, but because I love her."

"Yeah, that's nice, and all, but both of you have been separated longer than you've been together. Falling in love is not the same as loving someone..."

"You know Joe, once I asked my da how ye knew which was the right woman, weel, he told me when the time came, I'd have no doubt. My da was right. That night when I first laid eyes on her at St. Agnes, I knew she was the one."

"Did you tell Claire how you feel?"

"Aye, but I don't know if she feels the same way. What do ye think? Did she tell ye?"

Joe shifted uncomfortably. "Well Jaime, the only way to find out is to ask her yourself."

..........

Jamie slowly opened the door, careful not to make a noise. He had been explicitly told by Joe that Claire needed a lot of bed rest. So he was surprised to see Claire awake and smiling when he came in. 

"Och, ye're awake..." He had brought her a tray of assorted Danish pastry which he knew she loved and placed them on the table before pulling a chair next to her bed. Before he could sit down, he noticed Claire had an odd look on her face.

He smiled at her as he placed a hand on her cheek. "Are ye alright, Sassenach? How are ye feeling?" 

Claire extended her arms towards him and said dreamily, "Give me a kiss lover boy!"

His eyes widened at the greeting. Finding Claire's response a bit unusual, Jamie hesitantly leaned down to kiss her on the forehead. But before he could raise his head, her strong arms had pulled him down by the neck. She kissed him passionately, her tongue darting daintily to get a taste of him. He responded but pulled away abruptly, thinking she was not herself. "Christ Claire, what are ye doing?"

To his surprise, she unexpectedly sat up and looked at Jamie with twinkling golden eyes and an impish grin. Biting her lower lip, she provocatively looked him over. "Come 'ere Jamie and give me some of your sweet lovin'," Claire slurred. She was staring at him like he was some savoury dish to be devoured.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, Sassenach, ye're still drugged. Ye should lie down!" Jamie tried to gently force her down back to bed, but instead, she threw the covers aside and got onto her knees facing him, her hands reaching for the buckle of his belt. Wearing only a thin hospital gown and the hazy glow of sunlight casting a shadow, he could see the outline of her body and her breasts.  Oh, God!  Disengaging her hands from the front of his jeans, took a mammoth effort. Not because of her strength but more because of his rapidly dwindling self-control. He firmly put her hands away from him and backed away. "Claire, listen to me, ye need to lie down..." he said slowly and deliberate, not quite sure how to deal with the situation.

"I don't need to lie down...I feel good, and you look good. So, come here, love and give me a kiss." She puckered her lips in invitation.

Jamie was beginning to get nervous. "Sassenach, ye're heavily medicated, so ye're not acting yourself. So be a good lass and get under the covers. I'll only come to ye once ye're lying down." he said in an unsteady voice.

She sat back on her heels and pouted prettily, one hand resting on her thigh and the other slowly raising the hem of her gown. "Don't you want me, Jamie love?"  Oh Christ Almighty, of course, I want ye! 

Taking big deep breaths and braving the risk of what could potentially happen if he touched her again, Jamie made another attempt. "Claire, please, ye need rest and all these excitement cannae be good for ye. Well...it's certainly not good for me," he muttered, reaching out to grab her so he can lift her and lay her down. 

Instead of cooperating, Claire dodged Jamie's hands, raised herself on her knees and flung both arms around his neck. "Lock the door..." she whispered huskily into his ears, "...and then kiss me." She ran her tongue on the edge of his ear before biting his earlobe.

His hands having a mind of their own, landed on her round arse, fondling it as Claire rubbed herself against Jamie. "Now, Sassenach, why would I want to lock the door?" he replied hoarsely. He could hear hospital activities happening outside on the corridor, and he was on the verge of committing public indecency. It's been over 3 weeks since they had made love and his restraint is about to snap.

"Because I want to take a peek," she giggled as one hand suddenly grabbed Jamie between his thighs.

Gasping, he seized her wrist away from his growing bulge. "Oh, fuck! Sassenach! For someone who has small hands, ye have some firm grip on ye. And I dinna want ye taking a peek!"

"Why not?! How about I let you see mine first? Then I'll take a peek at yours" she grinned coquettishly, leaning back to take a better look at his face, "After all, fair is fair, right, Jamie?"

He grabbed both her hands and held them behind her back, gripping them in place, making her head tilt to the side. "No, Claire! Naebody is taking a peek at anything..." His words trailed off as his eyes rested on the smooth line of her neck. He could almost see the pulsation of her vein as Claire struggled to set her hands free. On impulse, Jaime kissed the spot, before trailing down to the base of her throat, making her quiver. Then he remembered and backed away. "Christ Sassenach, ye're not making this easy for me are ye?"

She winked as she grinned wickedly, "Well if you won't come here, you can watch me instead. Would you like to watch Jaime?" Her hands were already sliding between her thighs, and he knew anyone can come through the door any minute.

"Fine Sassenach, I'll lock the door and don't ye dare make a sound..." he said, giving her warning look.

Door safely locked, he turned back once more to Claire to find her standing barefoot beside the bed, swaying on her feet. "Go back to bed now!" he growled.  Damn ye woman!  He was amused by how quickly she scrambled under the covers.

Claire settled in, he got into bed with her, lying on his side with his head propped by his elbow. "Jamie..." She was looking expectantly at him, her eyes, although dilated was dark with want. Gone was the giddy, sultry seductress she was moments ago. He knew he wanted to take her there and then, but he couldn't. Not here and not like this even though he was dying inside. Instead...

"Shh Sassenach," he whispered softly as he moved his free hand slowly under the cover and under her gown. There he squeezed the soft, warm flesh before parting her thighs gently. Her golden eyes widened, and her hips began to move, as his forefinger travelled to the moist patch of her panties, tracing the lines of her cleft and her sensitive spot. A faint moan escaped her lips as she closed her eyes in ecstasy, making him dizzy with want. Then he slipped his hand under the waistband, cupping the heat between her legs before dipping his forefinger into her wetness and stroking the silky fold long and slow. She let out a loud gasp as she arched her back, her hand reaching for him to take her.

"I want you inside me..." she whimpered, her breath quickening.

Jamie could see her hard nipples against the thin fabric of her gown, as her chest heaved at every stroke of his finger. "No, Sassenach, I want to watch ye," he murmured as he lightly touched her lips with his, resisting the urge to kiss her thoroughly. He pressed his fingers inside her, thrusting, stroking, dipping and rubbing, her hips lifting to push herself against his hands. She writhed and squirmed with wanton abandonment, her thighs spreading wider apart for deeper penetration. She was so hot and wet, and her throaty moans were making his head swim. He plunged deeper, his thumb grinding the sensitive spot until he felt her clamped around his fingers tightly and her body began to shake uncontrollably. She let out a cry before collapsing next to him, her breaths warm against his neck, and her thighs tightly clamped around his hands. Claire held on to him like that until tiredness took over and her body began to relax.

Claire smiled, drowsily at him as her body eased. "Jamie, I never got to take a peek."

"Sshh sleep now, mo chridhe," he murmured, kissing her on the forehead, before releasing his hands from between her thighs. Then he got up and straightened her gown before pulling the covers to her neck. 

"Jamie?" 

"Aye Sassenach?" He took her hand in his as he watched her eyes began to get heavier, and her head bobbed, as she struggled to stay lucid.

"I love you," she whispered before drifting off to sleep, her hands going limp in his. He smiled a very broad smile. Jamie wanted to hug her but thought better of it. She needed her rest, so he watched her sleep instead, feeling content with the world.

Today's problems can be tomorrow's, he thought.

Then Jaime received a phone text from Finn, the bartender from the Scotch & Rye Pub.

 Jamie, please come ASAP to the bar. I have some footage from our surveillance camera I want you to see.

[annelixa]

Trust Chapter 20

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Can also be read on AO3

Summary: Cassandra seeks Varian shortly after she stole the Moonstone so that she can use his intellectual gifts. Lucky for her, no one seems to be telling him what happened at the Dark Kingdom and he still sees her as the wise and trusted person he always knew. Utilizing that image of herself, she takes him for herself while under the guise of protection.

Fandom: Tangled the Series

Before the Sun had risen, the Saporians had joined the strange girl in the large automaton. Once again the large blue stone was shown to the group.

“This will give you control of the Brotherhood of the Dark Kingdom,” she explained, handing it to Andrew. “They will fight tirelessly for you, turning against previous alliances or relationships. Not even family will be spared from their wrath. Take care of it. If it is broken, the influence will be lost.” She started for the machine’s controls but paused and turned back. “Oh, and your dear alchemist’s father is in that Brotherhood.” She walked away. “Do with that information as you will.”

A dark smile spread across Andrew’s face and he glanced at the boy who was still asleep in the corner. He would deal with him later. Right now, he had a coup to start.

Joining the girl at the front of the machine, he sat beside her. Following his directions, she steered the monstrosity to a nearby village. Weeks before, Andrew had sent word to the other disgruntled residents of Corona and those sympathetic to the Saporian cause. His letters had told them of the coming attack and that, if they should want to join the revolt, to gather in the small village. The previous night, Clementine had been sent to alert the people that the time had come and if they still wanted to take part, they needed to gather in the town square at daybreak.

The machine stopped and the hatch in the back opened to let those inside jump out. Landing in the square, Andrew was pleased to see that a small crowd was waiting for them. About 50 people were standing quietly, waiting for him to speak.

“Friends!” he called, taking a few steps closer. “I’m thrilled to see that you all want to join us in our noble crusade! We have plenty of supplies for you, crafted by Corona’s own little alchemist. He has generously prepared them so that our uprising will be unstoppable.” Behind him, the other Saporians dragged out the crates that Varian had carefully packaged. “Come forward and receive your armaments.” The group lined up and received plenty of weapons from the supply. Letting the others handle the dispersal, he hopped back into the automaton. He had already taken his share of the supply, a fully stocked alchemy belt over his shoulder while a sword and a coiled whip were strapped to his hips. “Things are going better than I expected,” he told the girl as he rejoined her.

“Did you believe your plan would fail?”

“Of course not.” Once again, he turned to look at the alchemist. “What are we going to do with him?”

Rising to her feet gracefully, the girl approached the sleeping boy.

“Don’t worry,” she replied, gently reaching out to the touch him. “I shall keep him here so he can’t escape.” Focusing on the Moonstone she had hidden on her wrist, she created black rock manacles around his wrists that attached to the pipe running along the wall that he was leaning against. Grinning at her success, she also attached a black rock chain to the collar Cassandra had stupidly forgotten to remove. Satisfied that he would be unable to move for that spot, she draped two strips of cloth on the collar around his neck. If he tried to get loud, he wouldn’t be for long. She faced the Saporian again. “You will lead the invasion and I will control this machine, following your orders.”

Crossing his arms, Andrew frowned.

“Why does the kid stay with you?” he demanded. “What if I want my old buddy with me?”

Trying not to lose her patience, the girl took a deep breath.

“If you believe having him at your side would be for the best, then by all means go ahead. However, who will repair this machine if it starts to malfunction?”

“I will command the machine,” he argued back.

The man was stubborn, too dedicated to his cause. That wasn’t the worst quality though. It was the trait that she could control, similar to how Cassandra’s wish for recognition was her folly.

Stepping closer, she kept her voice calm.

“That would be a fine choice. I must ask though, do you know how to operate this machine?” His face flushed at her words. Realizing something, he opened his mouth but she continued. “The alchemist cannot operate it for you. If he was allowed to be in charge, he would sabotage your attack. Even if it killed him, he would do so. You know this to be true.” Placing her hand on his arm to soothe him, she smiled. “And if you are in here, who will lead your troops?”

She knew she had him cornered, the frustrated realization crossing his face.

“Fine.” He stomped out of the hatch. “You control the machine and follow my orders.”

Smirking, she replied, “Of course.” Once he was back in the square, she closed the hatch. The sounds of the alchemist waking reached her ears and she stepped in front of him. “And now for you.”

Drowsy, Varian yawned and blinked slowly. The room was dark and fuzzy so he reached his hand up to rub his eyes. After a moment, he noticed that his hand couldn’t reach. Confused, he looked around and noticed the unfamiliar surroundings. This wasn’t the cottage or the tower. Had he escaped? No. That couldn’t be it. He had never seen this place before. As he pondered, he tried to reach his eyes again and finally realized the problem; his wrists were chained to something behind him.

“What the…?” he muttered, pulling against his bonds.

“Good morning, dear alchemist,” the girl called warmly, moving into his line of sight.

“What? Who are you?” The girl seemed oddly familiar but he couldn’t figure out where he had seen her. Suddenly it hit him. He reached out, trying to point at her, but only succeeded in bruising his wrists as the manacles firmly held him in place. “You! You were in my dream! Why are you here?! Where am I?!”

Patting his head, she smiled brightly.

“Very good, sweet boy.” He jerked his head away from her. He wasn’t a dog and he wasn’t going to let this odd girl treat him like one. “Cassandra has decided to forgo her destiny but I found a group more than willing to follow the path. I believe they are old friends of yours?”

Feeling dread growing in his stomach, he quietly asked, “The Saporians…?”

Again, the girl patted his head, Varian glaring at her.

“You truly are clever, aren’t you, child? It’s quite impressive for someone of your young age.” The compliment did nothing to quell the unease the alchemist was feeling. “Yes, the Saporians. They are rather eager to destroy Corona.” She leaned forward, only inches away from his face. Uncomfortable with the sudden closeness, Varian tried to slide away but his back was already flush with the pipe behind him. “From what I understand, you were once more than willing to help them with that goal. Isn’t that correct, dear alchemist?”

Ashamed of his past, he turned away.

“That…that was a different time,” he tried to defend. “I’ve done better since then. I’ve been better!”

Seizing the opening, the girl tsked sadly and sat beside him. Varian scooted as far away as he could but she wasn’t dissuaded. Instead, she reached out and cupped his cheek, gently turning his face back to her with a sympathetic look.

“I know how hard you’ve been trying to do better but are you truly? All those weapons you made for Cassandra are now in the hands of dozens of angry people. Can you honestly say that is the success you were aiming for?” Unable to pull out of her grasp, he settled for simply glaring at her and trying not to let her words phase him. “You allowed Cassandra to steal you away, holding you prisoner and manipulating you into creating such dangerous items.” Varian tried to defend himself, indignant that she would even think to say something like that, but she just shushed him and rubbed his cheek with her thumb. “There there. I know it’s difficult to look back on your actions but can you truly believe that you had no idea what she was doing? That you didn’t follow her because you still wish harm and vengeance on Corona?”

“I…I…”

Did he want to do that? His mind screamed obviously not but his heart was wavering. He never asked for proof of the war she had spoken of so frequently. He had been content for so long to just continue creating. Had his previous friendship blinded him to what he was doing or had he known all along and tried to suppress it? He thought he wanted to be better, to make up for his mistakes, but did he actually want Corona to fall?

Noticing his distress, the girl pulled away.

“I will let you consider. I apologize for troubling you.”

She returned to the machine’s controls and grinned. He was just as easy to manipulate as all the others. Out of the glass in front of her, she noticed that all the people had been armed and were waiting on horses or in carts. Andrew was motioning for them to move out from his place in a balloon. Quickly starting the machine, she followed. The beast could easily overtake them all but she kept it moving slowly, wanting to let them reach the capital first. Behind her, she could hear the boy muttering to himself but she tuned it out.

Within an hour, the group could see the many buildings of the island city. Those riding in the carts jumped out, drawing their weapons and charged forward with those on horseback. Again she followed slowly until the machine was on the other side of the bridge. Once there, she could see how the people were already closing in on the palace. With a wide grin, the girl moved the arm of the automaton to crash into the nearest building. That would surely alert someone to the invasion. Stalking forward, she kept smashing the arms into buildings as the machine approached the palace. Guards scurried out, trying to fend off the attackers but were slowly being overpowered by the angry crowd. Some were slashing at them with swords or maces while others were using Varian’s various chemical compounds. Yells of surprise reached her ears as Adira and Hector blocked the castle’s entrance, preventing any from entering or escaping.

“Yes,” she whispered, full of a savage happiness.

Corona would fall.

[haphapner]

The Madonna of Allentown

It happened again at Big Len's place in Allentown, Pennsylvania.  A steady flow of true humanity came through there every day.  Big Len's specialized in cold beer to go and weekly room rentals, an odd mix but it had been around for years.

I had just returned from buying a carton of cheap cigarettes.

It was my daughter’s sixteenth birthday.  I hadn’t been pregnant for fifteen years, eleven months and nineteen days.  On that morning, I experienced a miraculous conception.  What would come from my womb some months later would not, indeed could not, be, from a man.

Long ago, I recognized that one should take these things as they come.  The years and more than five-hundred-fifty pregnancies have tempered my weariness and bone crushing sadness with wisdom.  Inexplicably I felt driven to invest in this child so that it would be more successful than all the others combined.

One minute, I was walking up the backstairs to my bug-infested room, a communal toilet and shower down the hall.  The next, a fresh new soul spontaneously generated in my ancient womb.  The cigarettes slipped from my grasp and bounced down the dingy stairs, bounding higher as they picked up speed.  The carton cracked against the door and burst open spewing cellophane wrapped pleasure across the sun-lit landing.

“Shit!”

I can’t explain it; I just knew it had happened again.  It’s like Zen, if you’ve experienced sartori, you get it; otherwise, you’re shit-out-of-luck.

I sat down three quarters of the way up the steep stairs.  “Shit, shit, shit … I’m too tired for this.”  I slammed my elbow against the wall; dingy, faded wallpaper fluttered. “How does this always catch me off-guard?”  I took a long drag on a generic cigarette, my last.  “So many myths about gods becoming men and walking among us, the gods of mythology were too chicken-shit to become women.”  I ripped at a piece of wallpaper exposing years of corrupted paint.  “Woman’s work my ass,” a sarcastic laugh slipped out. “Men should try motherhood.”

My story starts in the mists of time, before I conceived the collective unconscious of humankind. Known by a thousand names – Eve, Ishtar, Isis, Mother Earth – I am the Oracle of Delphi who doled out visions, generation upon generation, ad infinitum.  The Greeks referred to me as Gaia, the one who sprang from Chaos and became the mother of all things.

Myth cloaks the truth trapping humanity in ancient prisons of ignorance.  A son once said, “The Truth shall set you free.”[1]  I have born more grief than the mind can conceive.  In vain, I have staggered through humanity searching, always searching for true companionship, a true equal.

Jung wrote, “Whenever the earth mother appears it means that things are going to happen in reality; this is an absolute law.”[2]  His words were confused.  I do not appear.  I never disappear.  I keep moving, looking into eyes that cannot see, listening for words that convey meaning. Carl understood one thing.  For those who come to know me, reality takes hold.  Through the mind-numbing millennia, I have witnessed pockets of hope, people whose peaceful coexistence drew me toward the mainstream.  Such communities were but flickering flames blown out by human progress.

Every sixteen years I become pregnant and carry the baby to term – which is usually some time during the twenty-fourth lunar month.  I neither consult nor require a patriarch to participate in these sacred events. These children of fiat are my offering, my sacrifice to humanity, gifts meant to foster evolution so that humanity might come to a full realization of their divine nature.

Through the centuries, I have mothered some famous and infamous people.  Ishmael and Isaac, those naughty boys who denied the goddess, were mine.  Siddhartha and Jesus were my sons as were Attila the Hun, Genghis Khan, and Mohamed. You see, I am doomed to have sons, boys and men who must throw off the fear and oppression of women or die.  Warriors, orators, gurus, and shaman alike I have birthed, but very few wise men.

Sid was a rebellious boy in the beginning.  Jesus died too soon.  I fled the Christian lands after seeing so much harm done in his name.  Humans constantly teeter on the brink of madness.  After the first jihad, Mohamed tried to honor me in his book, “Christ, the son of Mary, was no more than a messenger; many were the messengers that passed away before him.  His mother was a woman of truth.  But they had both to eat their food.”[3]  Can you imagine?  My own son did not understand the divine reality of the one who bore him into this world.  With a broken heart, I slowly made my way north and west.

Sadly, most of my sons turned out to be self-centered egomaniacs.  Tragedy seemed my only companion.  Witnessing their utter lack of respect for women and the goddess, I began to desert my boys by their sixteenth birthday.  Hitler broke my heart long before he broke the world.  I fled to the west.

I arrived in the new world just after the turn of the century.  My next child, Sunnyland Slim, soulfully interpreted my heart through his fingers and songs.  But the moral decay and utter inhumanity of the last several centuries had brought me low. I took a long vacation, which brought me to Big Len’s with my only daughter.

Human potential for greatness is exceeded only by its arrogant individualism.

Around each child’s thirty-third birthday, when the calendars of the sun and the moon align, is a powerful opportunity in their lives.  At those times, the collective unconsciousness draws toward the surface of conscious thought throughout the earth’s inhabitants.  At that time, every generation faces the great question – will they accept their maker as she is.  Only during that powerful alignment of the lunar and solar phases, is vision able to break the bonds of human limitation and broach the domain of collective reality.  That unified vision is the key to human evolution.

I loved the renaissance when men nearly grasped the divine nature of humanity.  Rubens honored me, and all women, with his exquisite art. Things had always been dicey with the boys, but they really went downhill fast during the industrial revolution. My son Karl wrote about a community of equals, but he was no Jesus.  He thought economics could alter the human condition.  He could not see that lasting social change will only come through an evolved race.

For thousands of years, since the men of this species overthrew the goddess, violence toward women and children has run rampant.  The prehistoric patriarchal revolt disfigured the male capacity for love, trust, and connection.  In the process, my heart fractured and so began my perpetual search for wholeness.

The myth of the ages is that human men become mature. Their adult lives are lived as an extension of their boyhood.  They do not mature they merely age.  Their deeply buried true self rarely surfaces.  Panic ensues in the hearts of men when they glimpse their feminine side. The fear of homosexuality is but a disguise.  Their terror lies in something sinister and primal that they cannot face.

They fear me in them.  In the gap between Eden’s fall and recorded history, they knew me as the goddess of all things dark and uncanny.  Men’s hearts filled with fear, knowing I could strike them down with arrows of conscience even from afar.  In rebellion against the true nature of all things, they have subjugated women since the dawn of human history.  Once they seized control, they denied their essence and proclaimed their superiority.

To survive I had to go on the lam.  Of course, modern humans have no recollection or understanding of these things.  Primeval instinct leads men to oppress and deny their nature and needs.  They do not comprehend that their claims of physical superiority and manifest destiny are born of fear.

Men need not fear.  I am the self-existent One.  Ex nihilo I made all things.  I am woman and man, the beginning and the end, the lover of all things.  I draw many into oneness creating a race of divine equals, who knowing their origins choose to embrace their divine nature.  I alone procreate – the divine begetting the divine.

A sign flashed above my head, Sacred Heart Hospital.  I floated along into an elevator.  Everything smelled clean and white.  Doors parted, closed, and opened again.  People rushed past my horizontal floating frame.

“She’s in trouble.  Get her into surgery.”

Who could they be talking about?  How long had I been here?

I hear my daughter’s voice, “What is it?  What is wrong?”

“She’s hemorrhaging.  We need to take the baby now.”

“Looks like a lot of scar tissue, possibly an acute ectopic. Get the on-call surgeon.

“Blood pressure’s dropping, pulse is dropping.”

“She’s going into shock; we’re losing her.  Come on people!”

~

The doctor explained that they had done a “clean house” hysterectomy.  I would never have another child.

My firstborn daughter, now eighteen stepped forward and looked into my eyes.  She held her new little sister with pride and hope.  “Mama, she’s the one; the last one.”

[1] Holy Bible, New International Version, John 8:38

[2] Douglas, Claire, Editor.  Visions: Notes of the Seminar Given in 1930 – 1934 C.G. Jung. Princeton University Press.  1997. Page 790.

[3] Koran 5:75

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Willows

Algernon Blackwood (1907)

I

After leaving Vienna, and long before you come to Budapest, the Danube enters a region of singular loneliness and desolation, where its waters spread away on all sides regardless of a main channel, and the country becomes a swamp for miles upon miles, covered by a vast sea of low willow-bushes. On the big maps this deserted area is painted in a fluffy blue, growing fainter in color as it leaves the banks, and across it may be seen in large straggling letters the word Sumpfe, meaning marshes.

In high flood this great acreage of sand, shingle-beds, and willow-grown islands is almost topped by the water, but in normal seasons the bushes bend and rustle in the free winds, showing their silver leaves to the sunshine in an ever-moving plain of bewildering beauty. These willows never attain to the dignity of trees; they have no rigid trunks; they remain humble bushes, with rounded tops and soft outline, swaying on slender stems that answer to the least pressure of the wind; supple as grasses, and so continually shifting that they somehow give the impression that the entire plain is moving and alive. For the wind sends waves rising and falling over the whole surface, waves of leaves instead of waves of water, green swells like the sea, too, until the branches turn and lift, and then silvery white as their underside turns to the sun.

Happy to slip beyond the control of the stern banks, the Danube here wanders about at will among the intricate network of channels intersecting the islands everywhere with broad avenues down which the waters pour with a shouting sound; making whirlpools, eddies, and foaming rapids; tearing at the sandy banks; carrying away masses of shore and willow-clumps; and forming new islands innumerably which shift daily in size and shape and possess at best an impermanent life, since the flood-time obliterates their very existence.

Properly speaking, this fascinating part of the river's life begins soon after leaving Pressburg, and we, in our Canadian canoe, with gipsy tent and frying-pan on board, reached it on the crest of a rising flood about mid-July. That very same morning, when the sky was reddening before sunrise, we had slipped swiftly through still-sleeping Vienna, leaving it a couple of hours later a mere patch of smoke against the blue hills of the Wienerwald on the horizon; we had breakfasted below Fischeramend under a grove of birch trees roaring in the wind; and had then swept on the tearing current past Orth, Hainburg, Petronell (the old Roman Carnuntum of Marcus Aurelius), and so under the frowning heights of Thelsen on a spur of the Carpathians, where the March steals in quietly from the left and the frontier is crossed between Austria and Hungary.

Racing along at twelve kilometers an hour soon took us well into Hungary, and the muddy waters—sure sign of flood—sent us aground on many a shingle-bed, and twisted us like a cork in many a sudden belching whirlpool before the towers of Pressburg (Hungarian, Poszony) showed against the sky; and then the canoe, leaping like a spirited horse, flew at top speed under the grey walls, negotiated safely the sunken chain of the Fliegende Brucke ferry, turned the corner sharply to the left, and plunged on yellow foam into the wilderness of islands, sandbanks, and swamp-land beyond—the land of the willows.

The change came suddenly, as when a series of bioscope pictures snaps down on the streets of a town and shifts without warning into the scenery of lake and forest. We entered the land of desolation on wings, and in less than half an hour there was neither boat nor fishing-hut nor red roof, nor any single sign of human habitation and civilization within sight. The sense of remoteness from the world of humankind, the utter isolation, the fascination of this singular world of willows, winds, and waters, instantly laid its spell upon us both, so that we allowed laughingly to one another that we ought by rights to have held some special kind of passport to admit us, and that we had, somewhat audaciously, come without asking leave into a separate little kingdom of wonder and magic—a kingdom that was reserved for the use of others who had a right to it, with everywhere unwritten warnings to trespassers for those who had the imagination to discover them.

Though still early in the afternoon, the ceaseless buffetings of a most tempestuous wind made us feel weary, and we at once began casting about for a suitable camping-ground for the night. But the bewildering character of the islands made landing difficult; the swirling flood carried us in shore and then swept us out again; the willow branches tore our hands as we seized them to stop the canoe, and we pulled many a yard of sandy bank into the water before at length we shot with a great sideways blow from the wind into a backwater and managed to beach the bows in a cloud of spray. Then we lay panting and laughing after our exertions on the hot yellow sand, sheltered from the wind, and in the full blaze of a scorching sun, a cloudless blue sky above, and an immense army of dancing, shouting willow bushes, closing in from all sides, shining with spray and clapping their thousand little hands as though to applaud the success of our efforts.

"What a river!" I said to my companion, thinking of all the way we had traveled from the source in the Black Forest, and how he had often been obliged to wade and push in the upper shallows at the beginning of June.

"Won't stand much nonsense now, will it?" he said, pulling the canoe a little farther into safety up the sand, and then composing himself for a nap.

I lay by his side, happy and peaceful in the bath of the elements—water, wind, sand, and the great fire of the sun—thinking of the long journey that lay behind us, and of the great stretch before us to the Black Sea, and how lucky I was to have such a delightful and charming traveling companion as my friend, the Swede.

We had made many similar journeys together, but the Danube, more than any other river I knew, impressed us from the very beginning with its aliveness. From its tiny bubbling entry into the world among the pinewood gardens of Donaueschingen, until this moment when it began to play the great river-game of losing itself among the deserted swamps, unobserved, unrestrained, it had seemed to us like following the grown of some living creature. Sleepy at first, but later developing violent desires as it became conscious of its deep soul, it rolled, like some huge fluid being, through all the countries we had passed, holding our little craft on its mighty shoulders, playing roughly with us sometimes, yet always friendly and well-meaning, till at length we had come inevitably to regard it as a Great Personage.

How, indeed, could it be otherwise, since it told us so much of its secret life? At night we heard it singing to the moon as we lay in our tent, uttering that odd sibilant note peculiar to itself and said to be caused by the rapid tearing of the pebbles along its bed, so great is its hurrying speed. We knew, too, the voice of its gurgling whirlpools, suddenly bubbling up on a surface previously quite calm; the roar of its shallows and swift rapids; its constant steady thundering below all mere surface sounds; and that ceaseless tearing of its icy waters at the banks. How it stood up and shouted when the rains fell flat upon its face! And how its laughter roared out when the wind blew up-stream and tried to stop its growing speed! We knew all its sounds and voices, its tumblings and foamings, its unnecessary splashing against the bridges; that self-conscious chatter when there were hills to look on; the affected dignity of its speech when it passed through the little towns, far too important to laugh; and all these faint, sweet whisperings when the sun caught it fairly in some slow curve and poured down upon it till the steam rose.

It was full of tricks, too, in its early life before the great world knew it. There were places in the upper reaches among the Swabian forests, when yet the first whispers of its destiny had not reached it, where it elected to disappear through holes in the ground, to appear again on the other side of the porous limestone hills and start a new river with another name; leaving, too, so little water in its own bed that we had to climb out and wade and push the canoe through miles of shallows.

And a chief pleasure, in those early days of its irresponsible youth, was to lie low, like Brer Fox, just before the little turbulent tributaries came to join it from the Alps, and to refuse to acknowledge them when in, but to run for miles side by side, the dividing line well marked, the very levels different, the Danube utterly declining to recognize the newcomer. Below Passau, however, it gave up this particular trick, for there the Inn comes in with a thundering power impossible to ignore, and so pushes and incommodes the parent river that there is hardly room for them in the long twisting gorge that follows, and the Danube is shoved this way and that against the cliffs, and forced to hurry itself with great waves and much dashing to and fro in order to get through in time. And during the fight our canoe slipped down from its shoulder to its breast, and had the time of its life among the struggling waves. But the Inn taught the old river a lesson, and after Passau it no longer pretended to ignore new arrivals.

This was many days back, of course, and since then we had come to know other aspects of the great creature, and across the Bavarian wheat plain of Straubing she wandered so slowly under the blazing June sun that we could well imagine only the surface inches were water, while below there moved, concealed as by a silken mantle, a whole army of Undines, passing silently and unseen down to the sea, and very leisurely too, lest they be discovered.

Much, too, we forgave her because of her friendliness to the birds and animals that haunted the shores. Cormorants lined the banks in lonely places in rows like short black palings; grey crows crowded the shingle-beds; storks stood fishing in the vistas of shallower water that opened up between the islands, and hawks, swans, and marsh birds of all sorts filled the air with glinting wings and singing, petulant cries. It was impossible to feel annoyed with the river's vagaries after seeing a deer leap with a splash into the water at sunrise and swim past the bows of the canoe; and often we saw fawns peering at us from the underbrush, or looked straight into the brown eyes of a stag as we charged full tilt round a corner and entered another reach of the river. Foxes, too, everywhere haunted the banks, tripping daintily among the driftwood and disappearing so suddenly that it was impossible to see how they managed it.

But now, after leaving Pressburg, everything changed a little, and the Danube became more serious. It ceased trifling. It was half-way to the Black Sea, within seeming distance almost of other, stranger countries where no tricks would be permitted or understood. It became suddenly grown-up, and claimed our respect and even our awe. It broke out into three arms, for one thing, that only met again a hundred kilometers farther down, and for a canoe there were no indications which one was intended to be followed.

"If you take a side channel," said the Hungarian officer we met in the Pressburg shop while buying provisions, "you may find yourselves, when the flood subsides, forty miles from anywhere, high and dry, and you may easily starve. There are no people, no farms, no fishermen. I warn you not to continue. The river, too, is still rising, and this wind will increase."

The rising river did not alarm us in the least, but the matter of being left high and dry by a sudden subsidence of the waters might be serious, and we had consequently laid in an extra stock of provisions. For the rest, the officer's prophecy held true, and the wind, blowing down a perfectly clear sky, increased steadily till it reached the dignity of a westerly gale.

It was earlier than usual when we camped, for the sun was a good hour or two from the horizon, and leaving my friend still asleep on the hot sand, I wandered about in desultory examination of our hotel. The island, I found, was less than an acre in extent, a mere sandy bank standing some two or three feet above the level of the river. The far end, pointing into the sunset, was covered with flying spray which the tremendous wind drove off the crests of the broken waves. It was triangular in shape, with the apex up stream.

I stood there for several minutes, watching the impetuous crimson flood bearing down with a shouting roar, dashing in waves against the bank as though to sweep it bodily away, and then swirling by in two foaming streams on either side. The ground seemed to shake with the shock and rush, while the furious movement of the willow bushes as the wind poured over them increased the curious illusion that the island itself actually moved. Above, for a mile or two, I could see the great river descending upon me; it was like looking up the slope of a sliding hill, white with foam, and leaping up everywhere to show itself to the sun.

The rest of the island was too thickly grown with willows to make walking pleasant, but I made the tour, nevertheless. From the lower end the light, of course, changed, and the river looked dark and angry. Only the backs of the flying waves were visible, streaked with foam, and pushed forcibly by the great puffs of wind that fell upon them from behind. For a short mile it was visible, pouring in and out among the islands, and then disappearing with a huge sweep into the willows, which closed about it like a herd of monstrous antediluvian creatures crowding down to drink. They made me think of gigantic sponge-like growths that sucked the river up into themselves. They caused it to vanish from sight. They herded there together in such overpowering numbers.

Altogether it was an impressive scene, with its utter loneliness, its bizarre suggestion; and as I gazed, long and curiously, a singular emotion began to stir somewhere in the depths of me. Midway in my delight of the wild beauty, there crept, unbidden and unexplained, a curious feeling of disquietude, almost of alarm.

A rising river, perhaps, always suggests something of the ominous; many of the little islands I saw before me would probably have been swept away by the morning; this resistless, thundering flood of water touched the sense of awe. Yet I was aware that my uneasiness lay deeper far than the emotions of awe and wonder. It was not that I felt. Nor had it directly to do with the power of the driving wind—this shouting hurricane that might almost carry up a few acres of willows into the air and scatter them like so much chaff over the landscape. The wind was simply enjoying itself, for nothing rose out of the flat landscape to stop it, and I was conscious of sharing its great game with a kind of pleasurable excitement. Yet this novel emotion had nothing to do with the wind. Indeed, so vague was the sense of distress I experienced, that it was impossible to trace it to its source and deal with it accordingly, though I was aware somehow that it had to do with my realization of our utter insignificance before this unrestrained power of the elements about me. The huge-grown river had something to do with it too—a vague, unpleasant idea that we had somehow trifled with these great elemental forces in whose power we lay helpless every hour of the day and night. For here, indeed, they were gigantically at play together, and the sight appealed to the imagination.

But my emotion, so far as I could understand it, seemed to attach itself more particularly to the willow bushes, to these acres and acres of willows, crowding, so thickly growing there, swarming everywhere the eye could reach, pressing upon the river as though to suffocate it, standing in dense array mile after mile beneath the sky, watching, waiting, listening. And, apart quite from the elements, the willows connected themselves subtly with my malaise, attacking the mind insidiously somehow by reason of their vast numbers, and contriving in some way or other to represent to the imagination a new and mighty power, a power, moreover, not altogether friendly to us.

Great revelations of nature, of course, never fail to impress in one way or another, and I was no stranger to moods of the kind. Mountains overawe and oceans terrify, while the mystery of great forests exercises a spell peculiarly its own. But all these, at one point or another, somewhere link on intimately with human life and human experience. They stir comprehensible, even if alarming, emotions. They tend on the whole to exalt.

With this multitude of willows, however, it was something far different, I felt. Some essence emanated from them that besieged the heart. A sense of awe awakened, true, but of awe touched somewhere by a vague terror. Their serried ranks, growing everywhere darker about me as the shadows deepened, moving furiously yet softly in the wind, woke in me the curious and unwelcome suggestion that we had trespassed here upon the borders of an alien world, a world where we were intruders, a world where we were not wanted or invited to remain—where we ran grave risks perhaps!

The feeling, however, though it refused to yield its meaning entirely to analysis, did not at the time trouble me by passing into menace. Yet it never left me quite, even during the very practical business of putting up the tent in a hurricane of wind and building a fire for the stew-pot. It remained, just enough to bother and perplex, and to rob a most delightful camping-ground of a good portion of its charm. To my companion, however, I said nothing, for he was a man I considered devoid of imagination. In the first place, I could never have explained to him what I meant, and in the second, he would have laughed stupidly at me if I had.

There was a slight depression in the center of the island, and here we pitched the tent. The surrounding willows broke the wind a bit.

"A poor camp," observed the imperturbable Swede when at last the tent stood upright, "no stones and precious little firewood. I'm for moving on early tomorrow—eh? This sand won't hold anything."

But the experience of a collapsing tent at midnight had taught us many devices, and we made the cozy gipsy house as safe as possible, and then set about collecting a store of wood to last till bed-time. Willow bushes drop no branches, and driftwood was our only source of supply. We hunted the shores pretty thoroughly. Everywhere the banks were crumbling as the rising flood tore at them and carried away great portions with a splash and a gurgle.

"The island's much smaller than when we landed," said the accurate Swede. "It won't last long at this rate. We'd better drag the canoe close to the tent, and be ready to start at a moment's notice. I shall sleep in my clothes."

He was a little distance off, climbing along the bank, and I heard his rather jolly laugh as he spoke.

"By Jove!" I heard him call, a moment later, and turned to see what had caused his exclamation. But for the moment he was hidden by the willows, and I could not find him.

"What in the world's this?" I heard him cry again, and this time his voice had become serious.

I ran up quickly and joined him on the bank. He was looking over the river, pointing at something in the water.

"Good heavens, it's a man's body!" he cried excitedly. "Look!"

A black thing, turning over and over in the foaming waves, swept rapidly past. It kept disappearing and coming up to the surface again. It was about twenty feet from the shore, and just as it was opposite to where we stood it lurched round and looked straight at us. We saw its eyes reflecting the sunset, and gleaming an odd yellow as the body turned over. Then it gave a swift, gulping plunge, and dived out of sight in a flash.

"An otter, by gad!" we exclaimed in the same breath, laughing.

It was an otter, alive, and out on the hunt; yet it had looked exactly like the body of a drowned man turning helplessly in the current. Far below it came to the surface once again, and we saw its black skin, wet and shining in the sunlight.

Then, too, just as we turned back, our arms full of driftwood, another thing happened to recall us to the river bank. This time it really was a man, and what was more, a man in a boat. Now a small boat on the Danube was an unusual sight at any time, but here in this deserted region, and at flood time, it was so unexpected as to constitute a real event. We stood and stared.

Whether it was due to the slanting sunlight, or the refraction from the wonderfully illumined water, I cannot say, but, whatever the cause, I found it difficult to focus my sight properly upon the flying apparition. It seemed, however, to be a man standing upright in a sort of flat-bottomed boat, steering with a long oar, and being carried down the opposite shore at a tremendous pace. He apparently was looking across in our direction, but the distance was too great and the light too uncertain for us to make out very plainly what he was about. It seemed to me that he was gesticulating and making signs at us. His voice came across the water to us shouting something furiously, but the wind drowned it so that no single word was audible. There was something curious about the whole appearance—man, boat, signs, voice—that made an impression on me out of all proportion to its cause.

"He's crossing himself!" I cried. "Look, he's making the sign of the Cross!"

"I believe you're right," the Swede said, shading his eyes with his hand and watching the man out of sight. He seemed to be gone in a moment, melting away down there into the sea of willows where the sun caught them in the bend of the river and turned them into a great crimson wall of beauty. Mist, too, had begun to ruse, so that the air was hazy.

"But what in the world is he doing at nightfall on this flooded river?" I said, half to myself. "Where is he going at such a time, and what did he mean by his signs and shouting? D'you think he wished to warn us about something?"

"He saw our smoke, and thought we were spirits probably," laughed my companion. "These Hungarians believe in all sorts of rubbish; you remember the shopwoman at Pressburg warning us that no one ever landed here because it belonged to some sort of beings outside man's world! I suppose they believe in fairies and elementals, possibly demons, too. That peasant in the boat saw people on the islands for the first time in his life," he added, after a slight pause, "and it scared him, that's all."

The Swede's tone of voice was not convincing, and his manner lacked something that was usually there. I noted the change instantly while he talked, though without being able to label it precisely.

"If they had enough imagination," I laughed loudly—I remember trying to make as much noise as I could—"they might well people a place like this with the old gods of antiquity. The Romans must have haunted all this region more or less with their shrines and sacred groves and elemental deities."

The subject dropped and we returned to our stew-pot, for my friend was not given to imaginative conversation as a rule. Moreover, just then I remember feeling distinctly glad that he was not imaginative; his stolid, practical nature suddenly seemed to me welcome and comforting. It was an admirable temperament, I felt; he could steer down rapids like a red Indian, shoot dangerous bridges and whirlpools better than any white man I ever saw in a canoe. He was a grand fellow for an adventurous trip, a tower of strength when untoward things happened. I looked at his strong face and light curly hair as he staggered along under his pile of driftwood (twice the size of mine!), and I experienced a feeling of relief. Yes, I was distinctly glad just then that the Swede was—what he was, and that he never made remarks that suggested more than they said.

"The river's still rising, though," he added, as if following out some thoughts of his own, and dropping his load with a gasp. "This island will be under water in two days if it goes on."

"I wish the wind would go down," I said. "I don't care a fig for the river."

The flood, indeed, had no terrors for us; we could get off at ten minutes' notice, and the more water the better we liked it. It meant an increasing current and the obliteration of the treacherous shingle-beds that so often threatened to tear the bottom out of our canoe.

Contrary to our expectations, the wind did not go down with the sun. It seemed to increase with the darkness, howling overhead and shaking the willows round us like straws. Curious sounds accompanied it sometimes, like the explosion of heavy guns, and it fell upon the water and the island in great flat blows of immense power. It made me think of the sounds a planet must make, could we only hear it, driving along through space.

But the sky kept wholly clear of clouds, and soon after supper the full moon rose up in the east and covered the river and the plain of shouting willows with a light like the day.

We lay on the sandy patch beside the fire, smoking, listening to the noises of the night round us, and talking happily of the journey we had already made, and of our plans ahead. The map lay spread in the door of the tent, but the high wind made it hard to study, and presently we lowered the curtain and extinguished the lantern. The firelight was enough to smoke and see each other's faces by, and the sparks flew about overhead like fireworks. A few yards beyond, the river gurgled and hissed, and from time to time a heavy splash announced the falling away of further portions of the bank.

Our talk, I noticed, had to do with the faraway scenes and incidents of our first camps in the Black Forest, or of other subjects altogether remote from the present setting, for neither of us spoke of the actual moment more than was necessary—almost as though we had agreed tacitly to avoid discussion of the camp and its incidents. Neither the otter nor the boatman, for instance, received the honor of a single mention, though ordinarily these would have furnished discussion for the greater part of the evening. They were, of course, distinct events in such a place.

The scarcity of wood made it a business to keep the fire going, for the wind, that drove the smoke in our faces wherever we sat, helped at the same time to make a forced draught. We took it in turn to make some foraging expeditions into the darkness, and the quantity the Swede brought back always made me feel that he took an absurdly long time finding it; for the fact was I did not care much about being left alone, and yet it always seemed to be my turn to grub about among the bushes or scramble along the slippery banks in the moonlight. The long day's battle with wind and water—such wind and such water!—had tired us both, and an early bed was the obvious program. Yet neither of us made the move for the tent. We lay there, tending the fire, talking in desultory fashion, peering about us into the dense willow bushes, and listening to the thunder of wind and river. The loneliness of the place had entered our very bones, and silence seemed natural, for after a bit the sound of our voices became a trifle unreal and forced; whispering would have been the fitting mode of communication, I felt, and the human voice, always rather absurd amid the roar of the elements, now carried with it something almost illegitimate. It was like talking out loud in church, or in some place where it was not lawful, perhaps not quite safe, to be overheard.

The eeriness of this lonely island, set among a million willows, swept by a hurricane, and surrounded by hurrying deep waters, touched us both, I fancy. Untrodden by man, almost unknown to man, it lay there beneath the moon, remote from human influence, on the frontier of another world, an alien world, a world tenanted by willows only and the souls of willows. And we, in our rashness, had dared to invade it, even to make use of it! Something more than the power of its mystery stirred in me as I lay on the sand, feet to fire, and peered up through the leaves at the stars. For the last time I rose to get firewood.

"When this has burnt up," I said firmly, "I shall turn in," and my companion watched me lazily as I moved off into the surrounding shadows.

For an unimaginative man I thought he seemed unusually receptive that night, unusually open to suggestion of things other than sensory. He too was touched by the beauty and loneliness of the place. I was not altogether pleased, I remember, to recognize this slight change in him, and instead of immediately collecting sticks, I made my way to the far point of the island where the moonlight on plain and river could be seen to better advantage. The desire to be alone had come suddenly upon me; my former dread returned in force; there was a vague feeling in me I wished to face and probe to the bottom.

When I reached the point of sand jutting out among the waves, the spell of the place descended upon me with a positive shock. No mere "scenery" could have produced such an effect. There was something more here, something to alarm.

I gazed across the waste of wild waters; I watched the whispering willows; I heard the ceaseless beating of the tireless wind; and, one and all, each in its own way, stirred in me this sensation of a strange distress. But the willows especially; for ever they went on chattering and talking among themselves, laughing a little, shrilly crying out, sometimes sighing—but what it was they made so much to-do about belonged to the secret life of the great plain they inhabited. And it was utterly alien to the world I knew, or to that of the wild yet kindly elements. They made me think of a host of beings from another plane of life, another evolution altogether, perhaps, all discussing a mystery known only to themselves. I watched them moving busily together, oddly shaking their big bushy heads, twirling their myriad leaves even when there was no wind. They moved of their own will as though alive, and they touched, by some incalculable method, my own keen sense of the horrible.

There they stood in the moonlight, like a vast army surrounding our camp, shaking their innumerable silver spears defiantly, formed all ready for an attack.

The psychology of places, for some imaginations at least, is very vivid; for the wanderer, especially, camps have their "note" either of welcome or rejection. At first it may not always be apparent, because the busy preparations of tent and cooking prevent, but with the first pause—after supper usually—it comes and announces itself. And the note of this willow-camp now became unmistakably plain to me; we were interlopers, trespassers; we were not welcomed. The sense of unfamiliarity grew upon me as I stood there watching. We touched the frontier of a region where our presence was resented. For a night's lodging we might perhaps be tolerated; but for a prolonged and inquisitive stay—No! by all the gods of the trees and wilderness, no! We were the first human influences upon this island, and we were not wanted. The willows were against us.

Strange thoughts like these, bizarre fancies, borne I know not whence, found lodgment in my mind as I stood listening. What, I thought, if, after all, these crouching willows proved to be alive; if suddenly they should rise up, like a swarm of living creatures, marshaled by the gods whose territory we had invaded, sweep towards us off the vast swamps, booming overhead in the night—and then settle down! As I looked it was so easy to imagine they actually moved, crept nearer, retreated a little, huddled together in masses, hostile, waiting for the great wind that should finally start them a-running. I could have sworn their aspect changed a little, and their ranks deepened and pressed more closely together.

The melancholy shrill cry of a night-bird sounded overhead, and suddenly I nearly lost my balance as the piece of bank I stood upon fell with a great splash into the river, undermined by the flood. I stepped back just in time, and went on hunting for firewood again, half laughing at the odd fancies that crowded so thickly into my mind and cast their spell upon me. I recalled the Swede's remark about moving on next day, and I was just thinking that I fully agreed with him, when I turned with a start and saw the subject of my thoughts standing immediately in front of me. He was quite close. The roar of the elements had covered his approach.

II

"You've been gone so long," he shouted above the wind, "I thought something must have happened to you."

But there was that in his tone, and a certain look in his face as well, that conveyed to me more than his usual words, and in a flash I understood the real reason for his coming. It was because the spell of the place had entered his soul too, and he did not like being alone.

"River still rising," he cried, pointing to the flood in the moonlight, "and the wind's simply awful."

He always said the same things, but it was the cry for companionship that gave the real importance to his words.

"Lucky," I cried back, "our tent's in the hollow. I think it'll hold all right." I added something about the difficulty of finding wood, in order to explain my absence, but the wind caught my words and flung them across the river, so that he did not hear, but just looked at me through the branches, nodding his head.

"Lucky if we get away without disaster!" he shouted, or words to that effect; and I remember feeling half angry with him for putting the thought into words, for it was exactly what I felt myself. There was disaster impending somewhere, and the sense of presentiment lay unpleasantly upon me.

We went back to the fire and made a final blaze, poking it up with our feet. We took a last look round. But for the wind the heat would have been unpleasant. I put this thought into words, and I remember my friend's reply struck me oddly: that he would rather have the heat, the ordinary July weather, than this "diabolical wind."

Everything was snug for the night; the canoe lying turned over beside the tent, with both yellow paddles beneath her; the provision sack hanging from a willow-stem, and the washed-up dishes removed to a safe distance from the fire, all ready for the morning meal.

We smothered the embers of the fire with sand, and then turned in. The flap of the tent door was up, and I saw the branches and the stars and the white moonlight. The shaking willows and the heavy buffetings of the wind against our taut little house were the last things I remembered as sleep came down and covered all with its soft and delicious forgetfulness.

Suddenly I found myself lying awake, peering from my sandy mattress through the door of the tent. I looked at my watch pinned against the canvas, and saw by the bright moonlight that it was past twelve o'clock—the threshold of a new day—and I had therefore slept a couple of hours. The Swede was asleep still beside me; the wind howled as before; something plucked at my heart and made me feel afraid. There was a sense of disturbance in my immediate neighborhood.

I sat up quickly and looked out. The trees were swaying violently to and fro as the gusts smote them, but our little bit of green canvas lay snugly safe in the hollow, for the wind passed over it without meeting enough resistance to make it vicious. The feeling of disquietude did not pass, however, and I crawled quietly out of the tent to see if our belongings were safe. I moved carefully so as not to waken my companion. A curious excitement was on me.

I was half-way out, kneeling on all fours, when my eye first took in that the tops of the bushes opposite, with their moving tracery of leaves, made shapes against the sky. I sat back on my haunches and stared. It was incredible, surely, but there, opposite and slightly above me, were shapes of some indeterminate sort among the willows, and as the branches swayed in the wind they seemed to group themselves about these shapes, forming a series of monstrous outlines that shifted rapidly beneath the moon. Close, about fifty feet in front of me, I saw these things.

My first instinct was to waken my companion, that he too might see them, but something made me hesitate—the sudden realization, probably, that I should not welcome corroboration; and meanwhile I crouched there staring in amazement with smarting eyes. I was wide awake. I remember saying to myself that I was not dreaming.

They first became properly visible, these huge figures, just within the tops of the bushes—immense, bronze-colored, moving, and wholly independent of the swaying of the branches. I saw them plainly and noted, now I came to examine them more calmly, that they were very much larger than human, and indeed that something in their appearance proclaimed them to be not human at all. Certainly they were not merely the moving tracery of the branches against the moonlight. They shifted independently. They rose upwards in a continuous stream from earth to sky, vanishing utterly as soon as they reached the dark of the sky. They were interlaced one with another, making a great column, and I saw their limbs and huge bodies melting in and out of each other, forming this serpentine line that bent and swayed and twisted spirally with the contortions of the wind-tossed trees. They were nude, fluid shapes, passing up the bushes, within the leaves almost—rising up in a living column into the heavens. Their faces I never could see. Unceasingly they poured upwards, swaying in great bending curves, with a hue of dull bronze upon their skins.

I stared, trying to force every atom of vision from my eyes. For a long time I thought they must every moment disappear and resolve themselves into the movements of the branches and prove to be an optical illusion. I searched everywhere for a proof of reality, when all the while I understood quite well that the standard of reality had changed. For the longer I looked the more certain I became that these figures were real and living, though perhaps not according to the standards that the camera and the biologist would insist upon.

Far from feeling fear, I was possessed with a sense of awe and wonder such as I have never known. I seemed to be gazing at the personified elemental forces of this haunted and primeval region. Our intrusion had stirred the powers of the place into activity. It was we who were the cause of the disturbance, and my brain filled to bursting with stories and legends of the spirits and deities of places that have been acknowledged and worshipped by men in all ages of the world's history. But, before I could arrive at any possible explanation, something impelled me to go farther out, and I crept forward on the sand and stood upright. I felt the ground still warm under my bare feet; the wind tore at my hair and face; and the sound of the river burst upon my ears with a sudden roar. These things, I knew, were real, and proved that my senses were acting normally. Yet the figures still rose from earth to heaven, silent, majestically, in a great spiral of grace and strength that overwhelmed me at length with a genuine deep emotion of worship. I felt that I must fall down and worship—absolutely worship.

Perhaps in another minute I might have done so, when a gust of wind swept against me with such force that it blew me sideways, and I nearly stumbled and fell. It seemed to shake the dream violently out of me. At least it gave me another point of view somehow. The figures still remained, still ascended into heaven from the heart of the night, but my reason at last began to assert itself. It must be a subjective experience, I argued—none the less real for that, but still subjective. The moonlight and the branches combined to work out these pictures upon the mirror of my imagination, and for some reason I projected them outwards and made them appear objective. I knew this must be the case, of course. I took courage, and began to move forward across the open patches of sand. By Jove, though, was it all hallucination? Was it merely subjective? Did not my reason argue in the old futile way from the little standard of the known?

I only know that great column of figures ascended darkly into the sky for what seemed a very long period of time, and with a very complete measure of reality as most men are accustomed to gauge reality. Then suddenly they were gone!

And, once they were gone and the immediate wonder of their great presence had passed, fear came down upon me with a cold rush. The esoteric meaning of this lonely and haunted region suddenly flamed up within me, and I began to tremble dreadfully. I took a quick look round—a look of horror that came near to panic—calculating vainly ways of escape; and then, realizing how helpless I was to achieve anything really effective, I crept back silently into the tent and lay down again upon my sandy mattress, first lowering the door-curtain to shut out the sight of the willows in the moonlight, and then burying my head as deeply as possible beneath the blankets to deaden the sound of the terrifying wind.

As though further to convince me that I had not been dreaming, I remember that it was a long time before I fell again into a troubled and restless sleep; and even then only the upper crust of me slept, and underneath there was something that never quite lost consciousness, but lay alert and on the watch.

But this second time I jumped up with a genuine start of terror. It was neither the wind nor the river that woke me, but the slow approach of something that caused the sleeping portion of me to grow smaller and smaller till at last it vanished altogether, and I found myself sitting bolt upright—listening.

Outside there was a sound of multitudinous little patterings. They had been coming, I was aware, for a long time, and in my sleep they had first become audible. I sat there nervously wide awake as though I had not slept at all. It seemed to me that my breathing came with difficulty, and that there was a great weight upon the surface of my body. In spite of the hot night, I felt clammy with cold and shivered. Something surely was pressing steadily against the sides of the tent and weighing down upon it from above. Was it the body of the wind? Was this the pattering rain, the dripping of the leaves? The spray blown from the river by the wind and gathering in big drops? I thought quickly of a dozen things.

Then suddenly the explanation leaped into my mind: a bough from the poplar, the only large tree on the island, had fallen with the wind. Still half caught by the other branches, it would fall with the next gust and crush us, and meanwhile its leaves brushed and tapped upon the tight canvas surface of the tent. I raised a loose flap and rushed out, calling to the Swede to follow.

But when I got out and stood upright I saw that the tent was free. There was no hanging bough; there was no rain or spray; nothing approached.

A cold, grey light filtered down through the bushes and lay on the faintly gleaming sand. Stars still crowded the sky directly overhead, and the wind howled magnificently, but the fire no longer gave out any glow, and I saw the east reddening in streaks through the trees. Several hours must have passed since I stood there before watching the ascending figures, and the memory of it now came back to me horribly, like an evil dream. Oh, how tired it made me feel, that ceaseless raging wind! Yet, though the deep lassitude of a sleepless night was on me, my nerves were tingling with the activity of an equally tireless apprehension, and all idea of repose was out of the question. The river I saw had risen further. Its thunder filled the air, and a fine spray made itself felt through my thin sleeping shirt.

Yet nowhere did I discover the slightest evidence of anything to cause alarm. This deep, prolonged disturbance in my heart remained wholly unaccounted for.

My companion had not stirred when I called him, and there was no need to waken him now. I looked about me carefully, noting everything; the turned-over canoe; the yellow paddles—two of them, I'm certain; the provision sack and the extra lantern hanging together from the tree; and, crowding everywhere about me, enveloping all, the willows, those endless, shaking willows. A bird uttered its morning cry, and a string of duck passed with whirring flight overhead in the twilight. The sand whirled, dry and stinging, about my bare feet in the wind.

I walked round the tent and then went out a little way into the bush, so that I could see across the river to the farther landscape, and the same profound yet indefinable emotion of distress seized upon me again as I saw the interminable sea of bushes stretching to the horizon, looking ghostly and unreal in the wan light of dawn. I walked softly here and there, still puzzling over that odd sound of infinite pattering, and of that pressure upon the tent that had wakened me. It must have been the wind, I reflected—the wind bearing upon the loose, hot sand, driving the dry particles smartly against the taut canvas—the wind dropping heavily upon our fragile roof.

Yet all the time my nervousness and malaise increased appreciably.

I crossed over to the farther shore and noted how the coast-line had altered in the night, and what masses of sand the river had torn away. I dipped my hands and feet into the cool current, and bathed my forehead. Already there was a glow of sunrise in the sky and the exquisite freshness of coming day. On my way back I passed purposely beneath the very bushes where I had seen the column of figures rising into the air, and midway among the clumps I suddenly found myself overtaken by a sense of vast terror. From the shadows a large figure went swiftly by. Someone passed me, as sure as ever man did….

It was a great staggering blow from the wind that helped me forward again, and once out in the more open space, the sense of terror diminished strangely. The winds were about and walking, I remember saying to myself, for the winds often move like great presences under the trees. And altogether the fear that hovered about me was such an unknown and immense kind of fear, so unlike anything I had ever felt before, that it woke a sense of awe and wonder in me that did much to counteract its worst effects; and when I reached a high point in the middle of the island from which I could see the wide stretch of river, crimson in the sunrise, the whole magical beauty of it all was so overpowering that a sort of wild yearning woke in me and almost brought a cry up into the throat.

But this cry found no expression, for as my eyes wandered from the plain beyond to the island round me and noted our little tent half hidden among the willows, a dreadful discovery leaped out at me, compared to which my terror of the walking winds seemed as nothing at all.

For a change, I thought, had somehow come about in the arrangement of the landscape. It was not that my point of vantage gave me a different view, but that an alteration had apparently been effected in the relation of the tent to the willows, and of the willows to the tent. Surely the bushes now crowded much closer—unnecessarily, unpleasantly close. They had moved nearer.

Creeping with silent feet over the shifting sands, drawing imperceptibly nearer by soft, unhurried movements, the willows had come closer during the night. But had the wind moved them, or had they moved of themselves? I recalled the sound of infinite small patterings and the pressure upon the tent and upon my own heart that caused me to wake in terror. I swayed for a moment in the wind like a tree, finding it hard to keep my upright position on the sandy hillock. There was a suggestion here of personal agency, of deliberate intention, of aggressive hostility, and it terrified me into a sort of rigidity.

Then the reaction followed quickly. The idea was so bizarre, so absurd, that I felt inclined to laugh. But the laughter came no more readily than the cry, for the knowledge that my mind was so receptive to such dangerous imaginings brought the additional terror that it was through our minds and not through our physical bodies that the attack would come, and was coming.

The wind buffeted me about, and, very quickly it seemed, the sun came up over the horizon, for it was after four o'clock, and I must have stood on that little pinnacle of sand longer than I knew, afraid to come down to close quarters with the willows. I returned quietly, creepily, to the tent, first taking another exhaustive look round and—yes, I confess it—making a few measurements. I paced out on the warm sand the distances between the willows and the tent, making a note of the shortest distance particularly.

I crawled stealthily into my blankets. My companion, to all appearances, still slept soundly, and I was glad that this was so. Provided my experiences were not corroborated, I could find strength somehow to deny them, perhaps. With the daylight I could persuade myself that it was all a subjective hallucination, a fantasy of the night, a projection of the excited imagination.

Nothing further came in to disturb me, and I fell asleep almost at once, utterly exhausted, yet still in dread of hearing again that weird sound of multitudinous pattering, or of feeling the pressure upon my heart that had made it difficult to breathe.

The sun was high in the heavens when my companion woke me from a heavy sleep and announced that the porridge was cooked and there was just time to bathe. The grateful smell of frizzling bacon entered the tent door.

"River still rising," he said, "and several islands out in mid-stream have disappeared altogether. Our own island's much smaller."

"Any wood left?" I asked sleepily.

"The wood and the island will finish tomorrow in a dead heat," he laughed, "but there's enough to last us till then."

I plunged in from the point of the island, which had indeed altered a lot in size and shape during the night, and was swept down in a moment to the landing-place opposite the tent. The water was icy, and the banks flew by like the country from an express train. Bathing under such conditions was an exhilarating operation, and the terror of the night seemed cleansed out of me by a process of evaporation in the brain. The sun was blazing hot; not a cloud showed itself anywhere; the wind, however, had not abated one little jot.

Quite suddenly then the implied meaning of the Swede's words flashed across me, showing that he no longer wished to leave post-haste, and had changed his mind. "Enough to last till tomorrow"—he assumed we should stay on the island another night. It struck me as odd. The night before he was so positive the other way. How had the change come about?

Great crumblings of the banks occurred at breakfast, with heavy splashings and clouds of spray which the wind brought into our frying-pan, and my fellow-traveler talked incessantly about the difficulty the Vienna-Pesth steamers must have to find the channel in flood. But the state of his mind interested and impressed me far more than the state of the river or the difficulties of the steamers. He had changed somehow since the evening before. His manner was different—a trifle excited, a trifle shy, with a sort of suspicion about his voice and gestures. I hardly know how to describe it now in cold blood, but at the time I remember being quite certain of one thing—that he had become frightened?

He ate very little breakfast, and for once omitted to smoke his pipe. He had the map spread open beside him, and kept studying its markings.

"We'd better get off sharp in an hour," I said presently, feeling for an opening that must bring him indirectly to a partial confession at any rate. And his answer puzzled me uncomfortably: "Rather! If they'll let us."

"Who'll let us? The elements?" I asked quickly, with affected indifference.

"The powers of this awful place, whoever they are," he replied, keeping his eyes on the map. "The gods are here, if they are anywhere at all in the world."

"The elements are always the true immortals," I replied, laughing as naturally as I could manage, yet knowing quite well that my face reflected my true feelings when he looked up gravely at me and spoke across the smoke:

"We shall be fortunate if we get away without further disaster."

This was exactly what I had dreaded, and I screwed myself up to the point of the direct question. It was like agreeing to allow the dentist to extract the tooth; it had to come anyhow in the long run, and the rest was all pretence.

"Further disaster! Why, what's happened?"

"For one thing—the steering paddle's gone," he said quietly.

"The steering paddle gone!" I repeated, greatly excited, for this was our rudder, and the Danube in flood without a rudder was suicide. "But what—"

"And there's a tear in the bottom of the canoe," he added, with a genuine little tremor in his voice.

I continued staring at him, able only to repeat the words in his face somewhat foolishly. There, in the heat of the sun, and on this burning sand, I was aware of a freezing atmosphere descending round us. I got up to follow him, for he merely nodded his head gravely and led the way towards the tent a few yards on the other side of the fireplace. The canoe still lay there as I had last seen her in the night, ribs uppermost, the paddles, or rather, the paddle, on the sand beside her.

"There's only one," he said, stooping to pick it up. "And here's the rent in the base-board."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I had clearly noticed two paddles a few hours before, but a second impulse made me think better of it, and I said nothing. I approached to see.

There was a long, finely made tear in the bottom of the canoe where a little slither of wood had been neatly taken clean out; it looked as if the tooth of a sharp rock or snag had eaten down her length, and investigation showed that the hole went through. Had we launched out in her without observing it we must inevitably have foundered. At first the water would have made the wood swell so as to close the hole, but once out in mid-stream the water must have poured in, and the canoe, never more than two inches above the surface, would have filled and sunk very rapidly.

"There, you see an attempt to prepare a victim for the sacrifice," I heard him saying, more to himself than to me, "two victims rather," he added as he bent over and ran his fingers along the slit.

I began to whistle—a thing I always do unconsciously when utterly nonplussed—and purposely paid no attention to his words. I was determined to consider them foolish.

"It wasn't there last night," he said presently, straightening up from his examination and looking anywhere but at me.

"We must have scratched her in landing, of course," I stopped whistling to say. "The stones are very sharp."

I stopped abruptly, for at that moment he turned round and met my eye squarely. I knew just as well as he did how impossible my explanation was. There were no stones, to begin with.

"And then there's this to explain too," he added quietly, handing me the paddle and pointing to the blade.

A new and curious emotion spread freezingly over me as I took and examined it. The blade was scraped down all over, beautifully scraped, as though someone had sand-papered it with care, making it so thin that the first vigorous stroke must have snapped it off at the elbow.

"One of us walked in his sleep and did this thing," I said feebly, "or—or it has been filed by the constant stream of sand particles blown against it by the wind, perhaps."

"Ah," said the Swede, turning away, laughing a little, "you can explain everything."

"The same wind that caught the steering paddle and flung it so near the bank that it fell in with the next lump that crumbled," I called out after him, absolutely determined to find an explanation for everything he showed me.

"I see," he shouted back, turning his head to look at me before disappearing among the willow bushes.

Once alone with these perplexing evidences of personal agency, I think my first thoughts took the form of "One of us must have done this thing, and it certainly was not I." But my second thought decided how impossible it was to suppose, under all the circumstances, that either of us had done it. That my companion, the trusted friend of a dozen similar expeditions, could have knowingly had a hand in it, was a suggestion not to be entertained for a moment. Equally absurd seemed the explanation that this imperturbable and densely practical nature had suddenly become insane and was busied with insane purposes.

Yet the fact remained that what disturbed me most, and kept my fear actively alive even in this blaze of sunshine and wild beauty, was the clear certainty that some curious alteration had come about in his mind—that he was nervous, timid, suspicious, aware of goings on he did not speak about, watching a series of secret and hitherto unmentionable events—waiting, in a word, for a climax that he expected, and, I thought, expected very soon. This grew up in my mind intuitively—I hardly knew how.

I made a hurried examination of the tent and its surroundings, but the measurements of the night remained the same. There were deep hollows formed in the sand I now noticed for the first time, basin-shaped and of various depths and sizes, varying from that of a tea-cup to a large bowl. The wind, no doubt, was responsible for these miniature craters, just as it was for lifting the paddle and tossing it towards the water. The rent in the canoe was the only thing that seemed quite inexplicable; and, after all, it was conceivable that a sharp point had caught it when we landed. The examination I made of the shore did not assist this theory, but all the same I clung to it with that diminishing portion of my intelligence which I called my "reason." An explanation of some kind was an absolute necessity, just as some working explanation of the universe is necessary—however absurd—to the happiness of every individual who seeks to do his duty in the world and face the problems of life. The simile seemed to me at the time an exact parallel.

I at once set the pitch melting, and presently the Swede joined me at the work, though under the best conditions in the world the canoe could not be safe for traveling till the following day. I drew his attention casually to the hollows in the sand.

"Yes," he said, "I know. They're all over the island. But you can explain them, no doubt!"

"Wind, of course," I answered without hesitation. "Have you never watched those little whirlwinds in the street that twist and twirl everything into a circle? This sand's loose enough to yield, that's all."

He made no reply, and we worked on in silence for a bit. I watched him surreptitiously all the time, and I had an idea he was watching me. He seemed, too, to be always listening attentively to something I could not hear, or perhaps for something that he expected to hear, for he kept turning about and staring into the bushes, and up into the sky, and out across the water where it was visible through the openings among the willows. Sometimes he even put his hand to his ear and held it there for several minutes. He said nothing to me, however, about it, and I asked no questions. And meanwhile, as he mended that torn canoe with the skill and address of a red Indian, I was glad to notice his absorption in the work, for there was a vague dread in my heart that he would speak of the changed aspect of the willows. And, if he had noticed that, my imagination could no longer be held a sufficient explanation of it.

III

At length, after a long pause, he began to talk.

"Queer thing," he added in a hurried sort of voice, as though he wanted to say something and get it over. "Queer thing. I mean, about that otter last night."

I had expected something so totally different that he caught me with surprise, and I looked up sharply.

"Shows how lonely this place is. Otters are awfully shy things—"

"I don't mean that, of course," he interrupted. "I mean—do you think—did you think it really was an otter?"

"What else, in the name of Heaven, what else?"

"You know, I saw it before you did, and at first it seemed—so much bigger than an otter."

"The sunset as you looked up-stream magnified it, or something," I replied.

He looked at me absently a moment, as though his mind were busy with other thoughts.

"It had such extraordinary yellow eyes," he went on half to himself.

"That was the sun too," I laughed, a trifle boisterously. "I suppose you'll wonder next if that fellow in the boat—"

I suddenly decided not to finish the sentence. He was in the act again of listening, turning his head to the wind, and something in the expression of his face made me halt. The subject dropped, and we went on with our caulking. Apparently he had not noticed my unfinished sentence. Five minutes later, however, he looked at me across the canoe, the smoking pitch in his hand, his face exceedingly grave.

"I did rather wonder, if you want to know," he said slowly, "what that thing in the boat was. I remember thinking at the time it was not a man. The whole business seemed to rise quite suddenly out of the water."

I laughed again boisterously in his face, but this time there was impatience, and a strain of anger too, in my feeling.

"Look here now," I cried, "this place is quite queer enough without going out of our way to imagine things! That boat was an ordinary boat, and the man in it was an ordinary man, and they were both going down-stream as fast as they could lick. And that otter was an otter, so don't let's play the fool about it!"

He looked steadily at me with the same grave expression. He was not in the least annoyed. I took courage from his silence.

"And, for Heaven's sake," I went on, "don't keep pretending you hear things, because it only gives me the jumps, and there's nothing to hear but the river and this cursed old thundering wind."

"You fool!" he answered in a low, shocked voice, "you utter fool. That's just the way all victims talk. As if you didn't understand just as well as I do!" he sneered with scorn in his voice, and a sort of resignation. "The best thing you can do is to keep quiet and try to hold your mind as firm as possible. This feeble attempt at self-deception only makes the truth harder when you're forced to meet it."

My little effort was over, and I found nothing more to say, for I knew quite well his words were true, and that I was the fool, not he. Up to a certain stage in the adventure he kept ahead of me easily, and I think I felt annoyed to be out of it, to be thus proved less psychic, less sensitive than himself to these extraordinary happenings, and half ignorant all the time of what was going on under my very nose. He knew from the very beginning, apparently. But at the moment I wholly missed the point of his words about the necessity of there being a victim, and that we ourselves were destined to satisfy the want. I dropped all pretence thenceforward, but thenceforward likewise my fear increased steadily to the climax.

"But you're quite right about one thing," he added, before the subject passed, "and that is that we're wiser not to talk about it, or even to think about it, because what one thinks finds expression in words, and what one says, happens."

That afternoon, while the canoe dried and hardened, we spent trying to fish, testing the leak, collecting wood, and watching the enormous flood of rising water. Masses of driftwood swept near our shores sometimes, and we fished for them with long willow branches. The island grew perceptibly smaller as the banks were torn away with great gulps and splashes. The weather kept brilliantly fine till about four o'clock, and then for the first time for three days the wind showed signs of abating. Clouds began to gather in the south-west, spreading thence slowly over the sky.

This lessening of the wind came as a great relief, for the incessant roaring, banging, and thundering had irritated our nerves. Yet the silence that came about five o'clock with its sudden cessation was in a manner quite as oppressive. The booming of the river had everything in its own way then; it filled the air with deep murmurs, more musical than the wind noises, but infinitely more monotonous. The wind held many notes, rising, falling always beating out some sort of great elemental tune; whereas the river's song lay between three notes at most—dull pedal notes, that held a lugubrious quality foreign to the wind, and somehow seemed to me, in my then nervous state, to sound wonderfully well the music of doom.

It was extraordinary, too, how the withdrawal suddenly of bright sunlight took everything out of the landscape that made for cheerfulness; and since this particular landscape had already managed to convey the suggestion of something sinister, the change of course was all the more unwelcome and noticeable. For me, I know, the darkening outlook became distinctly more alarming, and I found myself more than once calculating how soon after sunset the full moon would get up in the east, and whether the gathering clouds would greatly interfere with her lighting of the little island.

With this general hush of the wind—though it still indulged in occasional brief gusts—the river seemed to me to grow blacker, the willows to stand more densely together. The latter, too, kept up a sort of independent movement of their own, rustling among themselves when no wind stirred, and shaking oddly from the roots upwards. When common objects in this way be come charged with the suggestion of horror, they stimulate the imagination far more than things of unusual appearance; and these bushes, crowding huddled about us, assumed for me in the darkness a bizarre grotesquerie of appearance that lent to them somehow the aspect of purposeful and living creatures. Their very ordinariness, I felt, masked what was malignant and hostile to us. The forces of the region drew nearer with the coming of night. They were focusing upon our island, and more particularly upon ourselves. For thus, somehow, in the terms of the imagination, did my really indescribable sensations in this extraordinary place present themselves.

I had slept a good deal in the early afternoon, and had thus recovered somewhat from the exhaustion of a disturbed night, but this only served apparently to render me more susceptible than before to the obsessing spell of the haunting. I fought against it, laughing at my feelings as absurd and childish, with very obvious physiological explanations, yet, in spite of every effort, they gained in strength upon me so that I dreaded the night as a child lost in a forest must dread the approach of darkness.

The canoe we had carefully covered with a waterproof sheet during the day, and the one remaining paddle had been securely tied by the Swede to the base of a tree, lest the wind should rob us of that too. From five o'clock onwards I busied myself with the stew-pot and preparations for dinner, it being my turn to cook that night. We had potatoes, onions, bits of bacon fat to add flavor, and a general thick residue from former stews at the bottom of the pot; with black bread broken up into it the result was most excellent, and it was followed by a stew of plums with sugar and a brew of strong tea with dried milk. A good pile of wood lay close at hand, and the absence of wind made my duties easy. My companion sat lazily watching me, dividing his attentions between cleaning his pipe and giving useless advice—an admitted privilege of the off-duty man. He had been very quiet all the afternoon, engaged in re-caulking the canoe, strengthening the tent ropes, and fishing for driftwood while I slept. No more talk about undesirable things had passed between us, and I think his only remarks had to do with the gradual destruction of the island, which he declared was not fully a third smaller than when we first landed.

The pot had just begun to bubble when I heard his voice calling to me from the bank, where he had wandered away without my noticing. I ran up.

"Come and listen," he said, "and see what you make of it." He held his hand cupwise to his ear, as so often before.

"Now do you hear anything?" he asked, watching me curiously.

We stood there, listening attentively together. At first I heard only the deep note of the water and the hissings rising from its turbulent surface. The willows, for once, were motionless and silent. Then a sound began to reach my ears faintly, a peculiar sound—something like the humming of a distant gong. It seemed to come across to us in the darkness from the waste of swamps and willows opposite. It was repeated at regular intervals, but it was certainly neither the sound of a bell nor the hooting of a distant steamer. I can liken it to nothing so much as to the sound of an immense gong, suspended far up in the sky, repeating incessantly its muffled metallic note, soft and musical, as it was repeatedly struck. My heart quickened as I listened.

"I've heard it all day," said my companion. "While you slept this afternoon it came all round the island. I hunted it down, but could never get near enough to see—to localize it correctly. Sometimes it was overhead, and sometimes it seemed under the water. Once or twice, too, I could have sworn it was not outside at all, but within myself—you know—the way a sound in the fourth dimension is supposed to come."

I was too much puzzled to pay much attention to his words. I listened carefully, striving to associate it with any known familiar sound I could think of, but without success. It changed in the direction, too, coming nearer, and then sinking utterly away into remote distance. I cannot say that it was ominous in quality, because to me it seemed distinctly musical, yet I must admit it set going a distressing feeling that made me wish I had never heard it.

"The wind blowing in those sand-funnels," I said determined to find an explanation, "or the bushes rubbing together after the storm perhaps."

"It comes off the whole swamp," my friend answered. "It comes from everywhere at once." He ignored my explanations. "It comes from the willow bushes somehow—"

"But now the wind has dropped," I objected. "The willows can hardly make a noise by themselves, can they?"

His answer frightened me, first because I had dreaded it, and secondly, because I knew intuitively it was true.

"It is because the wind has dropped we now hear it. It was drowned before. It is the cry, I believe, of the—"

I dashed back to my fire, warned by the sound of bubbling that the stew was in danger, but determined at the same time to escape further conversation. I was resolute, if possible, to avoid the exchanging of views. I dreaded, too, that he would begin about the gods, or the elemental forces, or something else disquieting, and I wanted to keep myself well in hand for what might happen later. There was another night to be faced before we escaped from this distressing place, and there was no knowing yet what it might bring forth.

"Come and cut up bread for the pot," I called to him, vigorously stirring the appetizing mixture. That stew-pot held sanity for us both, and the thought made me laugh.

He came over slowly and took the provision sack from the tree, fumbling in its mysterious depths, and then emptying the entire contents upon the ground-sheet at his feet.

"Hurry up!" I cried; "it's boiling."

The Swede burst out into a roar of laughter that startled me. It was forced laughter, not artificial exactly, but mirthless.

"There's nothing here!" he shouted, holding his sides.

"Bread, I mean."

"It's gone. There is no bread. They've taken it!"

I dropped the long spoon and ran up. Everything the sack had contained lay upon the ground-sheet, but there was no loaf.

The whole dead weight of my growing fear fell upon me and shook me. Then I burst out laughing too. It was the only thing to do: and the sound of my laughter also made me understand his. The stain of psychical pressure caused it—this explosion of unnatural laughter in both of us; it was an effort of repressed forces to seek relief; it was a temporary safety-valve. And with both of us it ceased quite suddenly.

"How criminally stupid of me!" I cried, still determined to be consistent and find an explanation. "I clean forgot to buy a loaf at Pressburg. That chattering woman put everything out of my head, and I must have left it lying on the counter or—"

"The oatmeal, too, is much less than it was this morning," the Swede interrupted.

Why in the world need he draw attention to it? I thought angrily.

"There's enough for tomorrow," I said, stirring vigorously, "and we can get lots more at Komorn or Gran. In twenty-four hours we shall be miles from here."

"I hope so—to God," he muttered, putting the things back into the sack, "unless we're claimed first as victims for the sacrifice," he added with a foolish laugh. He dragged the sack into the tent, for safety's sake, I suppose, and I heard him mumbling to himself, but so indistinctly that it seemed quite natural for me to ignore his words.

Our meal was beyond question a gloomy one, and we ate it almost in silence, avoiding one another's eyes, and keeping the fire bright. Then we washed up and prepared for the night, and, once smoking, our minds unoccupied with any definite duties, the apprehension I had felt all day long became more and more acute. It was not then active fear, I think, but the very vagueness of its origin distressed me far more that if I had been able to ticket and face it squarely. The curious sound I have likened to the note of a gong became now almost incessant, and filled the stillness of the night with a faint, continuous ringing rather than a series of distinct notes. At one time it was behind and at another time in front of us. Sometimes I fancied it came from the bushes on our left, and then again from the clumps on our right. More often it hovered directly overhead like the whirring of wings. It was really everywhere at once, behind, in front, at our sides and over our heads, completely surrounding us. The sound really defies description. But nothing within my knowledge is like that ceaseless muffled humming rising off the deserted world of swamps and willows.

We sat smoking in comparative silence, the strain growing every minute greater. The worst feature of the situation seemed to me that we did not know what to expect, and could therefore make no sort of preparation by way of defense. We could anticipate nothing. My explanations made in the sunshine, moreover, now came to haunt me with their foolish and wholly unsatisfactory nature, and it was more and more clear to us that some kind of plain talk with my companion was inevitable, whether I liked it or not. After all, we had to spend the night together, and to sleep in the same tent side by side. I saw that I could not get along much longer without the support of his mind, and for that, of course, plain talk was imperative. As long as possible, however, I postponed this little climax, and tried to ignore or laugh at the occasional sentences he flung into the emptiness.

Some of these sentences, moreover, were confoundedly disquieting to me, coming as they did to corroborate much that I felt myself; corroboration, too—which made it so much more convincing—from a totally different point of view. He composed such curious sentences, and hurled them at me in such an inconsequential sort of way, as though his main line of thought was secret to himself, and these fragments were mere bits he found it impossible to digest. He got rid of them by uttering them. Speech relieved him. It was like being sick.

"There are things about us, I'm sure, that make for disorder, disintegration, destruction, our destruction," he said once, while the fire blazed between us. "We've strayed out of a safe line somewhere."

And, another time, when the gong sounds had come nearer, ringing much louder than before, and directly over our heads, he said as though talking to himself:

"I don't think a gramophone would show any record of that. The sound doesn't come to me by the ears at all. The vibrations reach me in another manner altogether, and seem to be within me, which is precisely how a fourth dimensional sound might be supposed to make itself heard."

I purposely made no reply to this, but I sat up a little closer to the fire and peered about me into the darkness. The clouds were massed all over the sky, and no trace of moonlight came through. Very still, too, everything was, so that the river and the frogs had things all their own way.

"It has that about it," he went on, "which is utterly out of common experience. It is unknown. Only one thing describes it really; it is a non-human sound; I mean a sound outside humanity."

Having rid himself of this indigestible morsel, he lay quiet for a time, but he had so admirably expressed my own feeling that it was a relief to have the thought out, and to have confined it by the limitation of words from dangerous wandering to and fro in the mind.

The solitude of that Danube camping-place, can I ever forget it? The feeling of being utterly alone on an empty planet! My thoughts ran incessantly upon cities and the haunts of men. I would have given my soul, as the saying is, for the "feel" of those Bavarian villages we had passed through by the score; for the normal, human commonplaces; peasants drinking beer, tables beneath the trees, hot sunshine, and a ruined castle on the rocks behind the red-roofed church. Even the tourists would have been welcome.

Yet what I felt of dread was no ordinary ghostly fear. It was infinitely greater, stranger, and seemed to arise from some dim ancestral sense of terror more profoundly disturbing than anything I had known or dreamed of. We had "strayed," as the Swede put it, into some region or some set of conditions where the risks were great, yet unintelligible to us; where the frontiers of some unknown world lay close about us. It was a spot held by the dwellers in some outer space, a sort of peep-hole whence they could spy upon the earth, themselves unseen, a point where the veil between had worn a little thin. As the final result of too long a sojourn here, we should be carried over the border and deprived of what we called "our lives," yet by mental, not physical, processes. In that sense, as he said, we should be the victims of our adventure—a sacrifice.

It took us in different fashion, each according to the measure of his sensitiveness and powers of resistance. I translated it vaguely into a personification of the mightily disturbed elements, investing them with the horror of a deliberate and malefic purpose, resentful of our audacious intrusion into their breeding-place; whereas my friend threw it into the unoriginal form at first of a trespass on some ancient shrine, some place where the old gods still held sway, where the emotional forces of former worshippers still clung, and the ancestral portion of him yielded to the old pagan spell.

At any rate, here was a place unpolluted by men, kept clean by the winds from coarsening human influences, a place where spiritual agencies were within reach and aggressive. Never, before or since, have I been so attacked by indescribable suggestions of a "beyond region," of another scheme of life, another revolution not parallel to the human. And in the end our minds would succumb under the weight of the awful spell, and we should be drawn across the frontier into their world.

Small things testified to the amazing influence of the place, and now in the silence round the fire they allowed themselves to be noted by the mind. The very atmosphere had proved itself a magnifying medium to distort every indication: the otter rolling in the current, the hurrying boatman making signs, the shifting willows, one and all had been robbed of its natural character, and revealed in something of its other aspect—as it existed across the border to that other region. And this changed aspect I felt was now not merely to me, but to the race. The whole experience whose verge we touched was unknown to humanity at all. It was a new order of experience, and in the true sense of the word unearthly.

"It's the deliberate, calculating purpose that reduces one's courage to zero," the Swede said suddenly, as if he had been actually following my thoughts. "Otherwise imagination might count for much. But the paddle, the canoe, the lessening food—"

"Haven't I explained all that once?" I interrupted viciously.

"You have," he answered dryly; "you have indeed."

He made other remarks too, as usual, about what he called the "plain determination to provide a victim"; but, having now arranged my thoughts better, I recognized that this was simply the cry of his frightened soul against the knowledge that he was being attacked in a vital part, and that he would be somehow taken or destroyed. The situation called for a courage and calmness of reasoning that neither of us could compass, and I have never before been so clearly conscious of two persons in me—the one that explained everything, and the other that laughed at such foolish explanations, yet was horribly afraid.

Meanwhile, in the pitchy night the fire died down and the wood pile grew small. Neither of us moved to replenish the stock, and the darkness consequently came up very close to our faces. A few feet beyond the circle of firelight it was inky black. Occasionally a stray puff of wind set the willows shivering about us, but apart from this not very welcome sound a deep and depressing silence reigned, broken only by the gurgling of the river and the humming in the air overhead.

We both missed, I think, the shouting company of the winds.

At length, at a moment when a stray puff prolonged itself as though the wind were about to rise again, I reached the point for me of saturation, the point where it was absolutely necessary to find relief in plain speech, or else to betray myself by some hysterical extravagance that must have been far worse in its effect upon both of us. I kicked the fire into a blaze, and turned to my companion abruptly. He looked up with a start.

"I can't disguise it any longer," I said; "I don't like this place, and the darkness, and the noises, and the awful feelings I get. There's something here that beats me utterly. I'm in a blue funk, and that's the plain truth. If the other shore was—different, I swear I'd be inclined to swim for it!"

The Swede's face turned very white beneath the deep tan of sun and wind. He stared straight at me and answered quietly, but his voice betrayed his huge excitement by its unnatural calmness. For the moment, at any rate, he was the strong man of the two. He was more phlegmatic, for one thing.

"It's not a physical condition we can escape from by running away," he replied, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing some grave disease; "we must sit tight and wait. There are forces close here that could kill a herd of elephants in a second as easily as you or I could squash a fly. Our only chance is to keep perfectly still. Our insignificance perhaps may save us."

I put a dozen questions into my expression of face, but found no words. It was precisely like listening to an accurate description of a disease whose symptoms had puzzled me.

"I mean that so far, although aware of our disturbing presence, they have not found us—not 'located' us, as the Americans say," he went on. "They're blundering about like men hunting for a leak of gas. The paddle and canoe and provisions prove that. I think they feel us, but cannot actually see us. We must keep our minds quiet—it's our minds they feel. We must control our thoughts, or it's all up with us."

"Death, you mean?" I stammered, icy with the horror of his suggestion.

"Worse—by far," he said. "Death, according to one's belief, means either annihilation or release from the limitations of the senses, but it involves no change of character. You don't suddenly alter just because the body's gone. But this means a radical alteration, a complete change, a horrible loss of oneself by substitution—far worse than death, and not even annihilation. We happen to have camped in a spot where their region touches ours, where the veil between has worn thin"—horrors! he was using my very own phrase, my actual words—"so that they are aware of our being in their neighborhood."

"But who are aware?" I asked.

I forgot the shaking of the willows in the windless calm, the humming overhead, everything except that I was waiting for an answer that I dreaded more than I can possibly explain.

He lowered his voice at once to reply, leaning forward a little over the fire, an indefinable change in his face that made me avoid his eyes and look down upon the ground.

"All my life," he said, "I have been strangely, vividly conscious of another region—not far removed from our own world in one sense, yet wholly different in kind—where great things go on unceasingly, where immense and terrible personalities hurry by, intent on vast purposes compared to which earthly affairs, the rise and fall of nations, the destinies of empires, the fate of armies and continents, are all as dust in the balance; vast purposes, I mean, that deal directly with the soul, and not indirectly with more expressions of the soul—"

"I suggest just now—" I began, seeking to stop him, feeling as though I was face to face with a madman. But he instantly overbore me with his torrent that had to come.

"You think," he said, "it is the spirit of the elements, and I thought perhaps it was the old gods. But I tell you now it is—neither. These would be comprehensible entities, for they have relations with men, depending upon them for worship or sacrifice, whereas these beings who are now about us have absolutely nothing to do with mankind, and it is mere chance that their space happens just at this spot to touch our own."

The mere conception, which his words somehow made so convincing, as I listened to them there in the dark stillness of that lonely island, set me shaking a little all over. I found it impossible to control my movements.

"And what do you propose?" I began again.

"A sacrifice, a victim, might save us by distracting them until we could get away," he went on, "just as the wolves stop to devour the dogs and give the sleigh another start. But—I see no chance of any other victim now."

I stared blankly at him. The gleam in his eye was dreadful. Presently he continued.

IV

"It's the willows, of course. The willows mask the others, but the others are feeling about for us. If we let our minds betray our fear, we're lost, lost utterly." He looked at me with an expression so calm, so determined, so sincere, that I no longer had any doubts as to his sanity. He was as sane as any man ever was. "If we can hold out through the night," he added, "we may get off in the daylight unnoticed, or rather, undiscovered."

"But you really think a sacrifice would—"

That gong-like humming came down very close over our heads as I spoke, but it was my friend's scared face that really stopped my mouth.

"Hush!" he whispered, holding up his hand. "Do not mention them more than you can help. Do not refer to them by name. To name is to reveal; it is the inevitable clue, and our only hope lies in ignoring them, in order that they may ignore us."

"Even in thought?" He was extraordinarily agitated.

"Especially in thought. Our thoughts make spirals in their world. We must keep them out of our minds at all costs if possible."

I raked the fire together to prevent the darkness having everything its own way. I never longed for the sun as I longed for it then in the awful blackness of that summer night.

"Were you awake all last night?" he went on suddenly.

"I slept badly a little after dawn," I replied evasively, trying to follow his instructions, which I knew instinctively were true, "but the wind, of course—"

"I know. But the wind won't account for all the noises."

"Then you heard it too?"

"The multiplying countless little footsteps I heard," he said, adding, after a moment's hesitation, "and that other sound—"

"You mean above the tent, and the pressing down upon us of something tremendous, gigantic?"

He nodded significantly.

"It was like the beginning of a sort of inner suffocation?" I said.

"Partly, yes. It seemed to me that the weight of the atmosphere had been altered—had increased enormously, so that we should have been crushed."

"And that," I went on, determined to have it all out, pointing upwards where the gong-like note hummed ceaselessly, rising and falling like wind. "What do you make of that?"

"It's their sound," he whispered gravely. "It's the sound of their world, the humming in their region. The division here is so thin that it leaks through somehow. But, if you listen carefully, you'll find it's not above so much as around us. It's in the willows. It's the willows themselves humming, because here the willows have been made symbols of the forces that are against us."

I could not follow exactly what he meant by this, yet the thought and idea in my mind were beyond question the thought and idea in his. I realized what he realized, only with less power of analysis than his. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him at last about my hallucination of the ascending figures and the moving bushes, when he suddenly thrust his face again close into mine across the firelight and began to speak in a very earnest whisper. He amazed me by his calmness and pluck, his apparent control of the situation. This man I had for years deemed unimaginative, stolid!

"Now listen," he said. "The only thing for us to do is to go on as though nothing had happened, follow our usual habits, go to bed, and so forth; pretend we feel nothing and notice nothing. It is a question wholly of the mind, and the less we think about them the better our chance of escape. Above all, don't think, for what you think happens!"

"All right," I managed to reply, simply breathless with his words and the strangeness of it all; "all right, I'll try, but tell me one more thing first. Tell me what you make of those hollows in the ground all about us, those sand-funnels?"

"No!" he cried, forgetting to whisper in his excitement. "I dare not, simply dare not, put the thought into words. If you have not guessed I am glad. Don't try to. They have put it into my mind; try your hardest to prevent their putting it into yours."

He sank his voice again to a whisper before he finished, and I did not press him to explain. There was already just about as much horror in me as I could hold. The conversation came to an end, and we smoked our pipes busily in silence.

Then something happened, something unimportant apparently, as the way is when the nerves are in a very great state of tension, and this small thing for a brief space gave me an entirely different point of view. I chanced to look down at my sand-shoe—the sort we used for the canoe—and something to do with the hole at the toe suddenly recalled to me the London shop where I had bought them, the difficulty the man had in fitting me, and other details of the uninteresting but practical operation. At once, in its train, followed a wholesome view of the modern skeptical world I was accustomed to move in at home. I thought of roast beef, and ale, motor-cars, policemen, brass bands, and a dozen other things that proclaimed the soul of ordinariness or utility. The effect was immediate and astonishing even to myself. Psychologically, I suppose, it was simply a sudden and violent reaction after the strain of living in an atmosphere of things that to the normal consciousness must seem impossible and incredible. But, whatever the cause, it momentarily lifted the spell from my heart, and left me for the short space of a minute feeling free and utterly unafraid. I looked up at my friend opposite.

"You damned old pagan!" I cried, laughing aloud in his face. "You imaginative idiot! You superstitious idolater! You—"

I stopped in the middle, seized anew by the old horror. I tried to smother the sound of my voice as something sacrilegious. The Swede, of course, heard it too—the strange cry overhead in the darkness—and that sudden drop in the air as though something had come nearer.

He had turned ashen white under the tan. He stood bolt upright in front of the fire, stiff as a rod, staring at me.

"After that," he said in a sort of helpless, frantic way, "we must go! We can't stay now; we must strike camp this very instant and go on—down the river."

He was talking, I saw, quite wildly, his words dictated by abject terror—the terror he had resisted so long, but which had caught him at last.

"In the dark?" I exclaimed, shaking with fear after my hysterical outburst, but still realizing our position better than he did. "Sheer madness! The river's in flood, and we've only got a single paddle. Besides, we only go deeper into their country! There's nothing ahead for fifty miles but willows, willows, willows!"

He sat down again in a state of semi-collapse. The positions, by one of those kaleidoscopic changes nature loves, were suddenly reversed, and the control of our forces passed over into my hands. His mind at last had reached the point where it was beginning to weaken.

"What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?" he whispered with the awe of genuine terror in his voice and face.

I crossed round to his side of the fire. I took both his hands in mine, kneeling down beside him and looking straight into his frightened eyes.

"We'll make one more blaze," I said firmly, "and then turn in for the night. At sunrise we'll be off full speed for Komorn. Now, pull yourself together a bit, and remember your own advice about not thinking fear!"

He said no more, and I saw that he would agree and obey. In some measure, too, it was a sort of relief to get up and make an excursion into the darkness for more wood. We kept close together, almost touching, groping among the bushes and along the bank. The humming overhead never ceased, but seemed to me to grow louder as we increased our distance from the fire. It was shivery work!

We were grubbing away in the middle of a thickish clump of willows where some driftwood from a former flood had caught high among the branches, when my body was seized in a grip that made me half drop upon the sand. It was the Swede. He had fallen against me, and was clutching me for support. I heard his breath coming and going in short gasps.

"Look! By my soul!" he whispered, and for the first time in my experience I knew what it was to hear tears of terror in a human voice. He was pointing to the fire, some fifty feet away. I followed the direction of his finger, and I swear my heart missed a beat.

There, in front of the dim glow, something was moving.

I saw it through a veil that hung before my eyes like the gauze drop-curtain used at the back of a theater—hazily a little. It was neither a human figure nor an animal. To me it gave the strange impression of being as large as several animals grouped together, like horses, two or three, moving slowly. The Swede, too, got a similar result, though expressing it differently, for he thought it was shaped and sized like a clump of willow bushes, rounded at the top, and moving all over upon its surface—"coiling upon itself like smoke," he said afterwards.

"I watched it settle downwards through the bushes," he sobbed at me. "Look, by God! It's coming this way! Oh, oh!"—he gave a kind of whistling cry. "They've found us."

I gave one terrified glance, which just enabled me to see that the shadowy form was swinging towards us through the bushes, and then I collapsed backwards with a crash into the branches. These failed, of course, to support my weight, so that with the Swede on top of me we fell in a struggling heap upon the sand. I really hardly knew what was happening. I was conscious only of a sort of enveloping sensation of icy fear that plucked the nerves out of their fleshly covering, twisted them this way and that, and replaced them quivering. My eyes were tightly shut; something in my throat choked me; a feeling that my consciousness was expanding, extending out into space, swiftly gave way to another feeling that I was losing it altogether, and about to die.

An acute spasm of pain passed through me, and I was aware that the Swede had hold of me in such a way that he hurt me abominably. It was the way he caught at me in falling.

But it was the pain, he declared afterwards, that saved me; it caused me to forget them and think of something else at the very instant when they were about to find me. It concealed my mind from them at the moment of discovery, yet just in time to evade their terrible seizing of me. He himself, he says, actually swooned at the same moment, and that was what saved him.

I only know that at a later date, how long or short is impossible to say, I found myself scrambling up out of the slippery network of willow branches, and saw my companion standing in front of me holding out a hand to assist me. I stared at him in a dazed way, rubbing the arm he had twisted for me. Nothing came to me to say, somehow.

"I lost consciousness for a moment or two," I heard him say. "That's what saved me. It made me stop thinking about them."

"You nearly broke my arm in two," I said, uttering my only connected thought at the moment. A numbness came over me.

"That's what saved you!" he replied. "Between us, we've managed to set them off on a false tack somewhere. The humming has ceased. It's gone—for the moment at any rate!"

A wave of hysterical laughter seized me again, and this time spread to my friend too—great healing gusts of shaking laughter that brought a tremendous sense of relief in their train. We made our way back to the fire and put the wood on so that it blazed at once. Then we saw that the tent had fallen over and lay in a tangled heap upon the ground.

We picked it up, and during the process tripped more than once and caught our feet in sand.

"It's those sand-funnels," exclaimed the Swede, when the tent was up again and the firelight lit up the ground for several yards about us. "And look at the size of them!"

All round the tent and about the fireplace where we had seen the moving shadows there were deep funnel-shaped hollows in the sand, exactly similar to the ones we had already found over the island, only far bigger and deeper, beautifully formed, and wide enough in some instances to admit the whole of my foot and leg.

Neither of us said a word. We both knew that sleep was the safest thing we could do, and to bed we went accordingly without further delay, having first thrown sand on the fire and taken the provision sack and the paddle inside the tent with us. The canoe, too, we propped in such a way at the end of the tent that our feet touched it, and the least motion would disturb and wake us.

In case of emergency, too, we again went to bed in our clothes, ready for a sudden start.

It was my firm intention to lie awake all night and watch, but the exhaustion of nerves and body decreed otherwise, and sleep after a while came over me with a welcome blanket of oblivion. The fact that my companion also slept quickened its approach. At first he fidgeted and constantly sat up, asking me if I "heard this" or "heard that." He tossed about on his cork mattress, and said the tent was moving and the river had risen over the point of the island, but each time I went out to look I returned with the report that all was well, and finally he grew calmer and lay still. Then at length his breathing became regular and I heard unmistakable sounds of snoring—the first and only time in my life when snoring has been a welcome and calming influence.

This, I remember, was the last thought in my mind before dozing off.

A difficulty in breathing woke me, and I found the blanket over my face. But something else besides the blanket was pressing upon me, and my first thought was that my companion had rolled off his mattress on to my own in his sleep. I called to him and sat up, and at the same moment it came to me that the tent was surrounded. That sound of multitudinous soft pattering was again audible outside, filling the night with horror.

I called again to him, louder than before. He did not answer, but I missed the sound of his snoring, and also noticed that the flap of the tent was down. This was the unpardonable sin. I crawled out in the darkness to hook it back securely, and it was then for the first time I realized positively that the Swede was not here. He had gone.

I dashed out in a mad run, seized by a dreadful agitation, and the moment I was out I plunged into a sort of torrent of humming that surrounded me completely and came out of every quarter of the heavens at once. It was that same familiar humming—gone mad! A swarm of great invisible bees might have been about me in the air. The sound seemed to thicken the very atmosphere, and I felt that my lungs worked with difficulty.

But my friend was in danger, and I could not hesitate.

The dawn was just about to break, and a faint whitish light spread upwards over the clouds from a thin strip of clear horizon. No wind stirred. I could just make out the bushes and river beyond, and the pale sandy patches. In my excitement I ran frantically to and fro about the island, calling him by name, shouting at the top of my voice the first words that came into my head. But the willows smothered my voice, and the humming muffled it, so that the sound only traveled a few feet round me. I plunged among the bushes, tripping headlong, tumbling over roots, and scraping my face as I tore this way and that among the preventing branches.

Then, quite unexpectedly, I came out upon the island's point and saw a dark figure outlined between the water and the sky. It was the Swede. And already he had one foot in the river! A moment more and he would have taken the plunge.

I threw myself upon him, flinging my arms about his waist and dragging him shorewards with all my strength. Of course he struggled furiously, making a noise all the time just like that cursed humming, and using the most outlandish phrases in his anger about "going inside to Them," and "taking the way of the water and the wind," and God only knows what more besides, that I tried in vain to recall afterwards, but which turned me sick with horror and amazement as I listened. But in the end I managed to get him into the comparative safety of the tent, and flung him breathless and cursing upon the mattress where I held him until the fit had passed.

I think the suddenness with which it all went and he grew calm, coinciding as it did with the equally abrupt cessation of the humming and pattering outside—I think this was almost the strangest part of the whole business perhaps. For he had just opened his eyes and turned his tired face up to me so that the dawn threw a pale light upon it through the doorway, and said, for all the world just like a frightened child:

"My life, old man—it's my life I owe you. But it's all over now anyhow. They've found a victim in our place!"

Then he dropped back upon his blankets and went to sleep literally under my eyes. He simply collapsed, and began to snore again as healthily as though nothing had happened and he had never tried to offer his own life as a sacrifice by drowning. And when the sunlight woke him three hours later—hours of ceaseless vigil for me—it became so clear to me that he remembered absolutely nothing of what he had attempted to do, that I deemed it wise to hold my peace and ask no dangerous questions.

He woke naturally and easily, as I have said, when the sun was already high in a windless hot sky, and he at once got up and set about the preparation of the fire for breakfast. I followed him anxiously at bathing, but he did not attempt to plunge in, merely dipping his head and making some remark about the extra coldness of the water.

"River's falling at last," he said, "and I'm glad of it."

"The humming has stopped too," I said.

He looked up at me quietly with his normal expression. Evidently he remembered everything except his own attempt at suicide.

"Everything has stopped," he said, "because—"

He hesitated. But I knew some reference to that remark he had made just before he fainted was in his mind, and I was determined to know it.

"Because 'They've found another victim'?" I said, forcing a little laugh.

"Exactly," he answered, "exactly! I feel as positive of it as though—as though—I feel quite safe again, I mean," he finished.

He began to look curiously about him. The sunlight lay in hot patches on the sand. There was no wind. The willows were motionless. He slowly rose to feet.

"Come," he said; "I think if we look, we shall find it."

He started off on a run, and I followed him. He kept to the banks, poking with a stick among the sandy bays and caves and little back-waters, myself always close on his heels.

"Ah!" he exclaimed presently, "ah!"

The tone of his voice somehow brought back to me a vivid sense of the horror of the last twenty-four hours, and I hurried up to join him. He was pointing with his stick at a large black object that lay half in the water and half on the sand. It appeared to be caught by some twisted willow roots so that the river could not sweep it away. A few hours before the spot must have been under water.

"See," he said quietly, "the victim that made our escape possible!"

And when I peered across his shoulder I saw that his stick rested on the body of a man. He turned it over. It was the corpse of a peasant, and the face was hidden in the sand. Clearly the man had been drowned, but a few hours before, and his body must have been swept down upon our island somewhere about the hour of the dawn—at the very time the fit had passed.

"We must give it a decent burial, you know."

"I suppose so," I replied. I shuddered a little in spite of myself, for there was something about the appearance of that poor drowned man that turned me cold.

The Swede glanced up sharply at me, an undecipherable expression on his face, and began clambering down the bank. I followed him more leisurely. The current, I noticed, had torn away much of the clothing from the body, so that the neck and part of the chest lay bare.

Halfway down the bank my companion suddenly stopped and held up his hand in warning; but either my foot slipped, or I had gained too much momentum to bring myself quickly to a halt, for I bumped into him and sent him forward with a sort of leap to save himself. We tumbled together on to the hard sand so that our feet splashed into the water. And, before anything could be done, we had collided a little heavily against the corpse.

The Swede uttered a sharp cry. And I sprang back as if I had been shot.

At the moment we touched the body there rose from its surface the loud sound of humming—the sound of several hummings—which passed with a vast commotion as of winged things in the air about us and disappeared upwards into the sky, growing fainter and fainter till they finally ceased in the distance. It was exactly as though we had disturbed some living yet invisible creatures at work.

My companion clutched me, and I think I clutched him, but before either of us had time properly to recover from the unexpected shock, we saw that a movement of the current was turning the corpse round so that it became released from the grip of the willow roots. A moment later it had turned completely over, the dead face uppermost, staring at the sky. It lay on the edge of the main stream. In another moment it would be swept away.

The Swede started to save it, shouting again something I did not catch about a "proper burial"—and then abruptly dropped upon his knees on the sand and covered his eyes with his hands. I was beside him in an instant.

I saw what he had seen.

For just as the body swung round to the current the face and the exposed chest turned full towards us, and showed plainly how the skin and flesh were indented with small hollows, beautifully formed, and exactly similar in shape and kind to the sand-funnels that we had found all over the island.

"Their mark!" I heard my companion mutter under his breath. "Their awful mark!"

And when I turned my eyes again from his ghastly face to the river, the current had done its work, and the body had been swept away into mid-stream and was already beyond our reach and almost out of sight, turning over and over on the waves like an otter.

[angstbotfic]

Fic: Ak’tephari Prophecy Ch 45

Read at AO3

It was almost three hours later when Emma arrived at the rendezvous point with Merlin in tow. It was a little risky leaving the city together, but Emma felt better riding with him. She did feel a little bad for him having to endure her foul mood, though. She just couldn’t believe that Robin, who she’d known since almost before she could walk, would be so awful, and alternated between being furious with him for being gropey, being furious with him for almost ruining the plan, and being furious with herself for trusting him.

It didn’t help that they had to search for half an hour before finding the others, sending Emma’s anxiety ramping up again. They had agreed to meet on a small hill with an interesting rock formation that was a local landmark, but the area was big. Emma audibly sighed in relief when she finally saw Henry and Regina sitting and sharing some bread and cheese, with Regina’s bow close by her side.

The sight of Regina made Emma ache to hold her, and even though she couldn’t tell if it was jealousy over Robin touching her or pure worry for her safety, when she dismounted she didn’t hesitate. The way Regina melted against her told her she’d needed it as well.

When they pulled back, Regina frowned at Emma’s swollen nose, and Emma just shrugged. "Everything ok?" she asked, looking between them.

Henry smiled and nodded, and Regina’s raised eyebrow showed that she had noticed Emma changing the subject, but she didn’t push it, instead helping her care for Bug while Henry helped Merlin with his horse.

“Shall we look at our ill-gotten gains, then?” Merlin asked when they finished.

They gathered around as Regina emptied the bag gingerly onto a saddle blanket. Now that she wasn’t distracted by the stress of trying to steal it, Emma felt the magic in it tingling just at the edges of her senses. Merlin went to reach for the piece but stopped himself, fishing out the notes that he and Regina had taken at the Eyad. The others watched while he inspected the piece both with his fingertips and magically. He paused every few moments to make more notes.

After many long minutes, he confirmed, “I believe we have secured the piece of the Orb,” and Emma heard them all let out breath they’d been holding.

“Did you learn anything from the curator that could help?” Emma asked, turning to Regina. “I wasn’t paying attention at that point.”

She shook her head. “Not much we didn’t already know. It’s presumed to be several thousand years old and historical accounts associate it with the citadel of the ancients. It’s considered to be of magical interest, though the king banned its use by mages many years ago.”

Merlin frowned. “That seems odd.”

“Maybe,” Emma responded. “But for us, it’s lucky.”

“Otherwise, some ambitious or curious mage might have taken it long before us,” Regina mused.

“Maybe no one was desperate enough to try,” Henry suggested with a small smile, and Emma spared a moment’s pride at how he was coming into his own, able to tease and joke now, before having a sudden realization.

"Where's Robin?" The original plan had been for him to travel with Henry and Regina, but obviously they’d been separated. "He should have been here by now."

"Hopefully he went straight to hell," Regina growled.

"His horse was gone when we picked ours up. I thought you two changed the plan,” Henry explained. Emma shook her head. “I'll go keep a look out, then," the boy offered quietly, heading toward the road.

"I hope he’s all right," Merlin muttered. Then he chuckled, "But Robin’s bad manners came in handy, no?”

"He put his hands on my body and you think it’s funny?!" Regina was livid.

"I’m sure it was unpleasant, but it was effective,” Merlin said, just shy of pedantic.

“How nice for you for that my body was effective,” Regina said in a low, cold voice that pierced Emma more than shouting.

Emma looked sharply at Merlin, shaking her head slightly.

"But it worked, princess!" he insisted, oblivious to just how angry Regina was.

"You need to go take a walk, friend," Emma said to him, stepping between them.

Merlin seemed aghast and his outraged look would have been almost funny except for the waves of anger coming off of Regina. Emma's expression was inflexible, however, and moments later he started to follow in Henry's footsteps, muttering to himself.

That left Emma to face the princess’s wrath alone. "Was this all part of your plan? Get me in there half-clothed and let that man feel me up?” Regina sneered, her posture stiff with betrayal.

Emma stared at her for a long moment in total shock and confusion. Too long. “No, of course not.”

“Did you all sit down and decide this without me?” She was getting rolling now. “What’d you trade me for, Emma? I hope you got a good price. What am I worth? How are you any better than Leopold?”

Emma had a moment of terrible clarity. Everything that had happened recently had told Regina her body wasn’t her own to control—from Leopold’s demand to being marked for blood sacrifice to being elevated to the vessel by the prophecy. Having her body physically out of her control was probably the last straw, and it had happened exactly when Regina was trying to seize control of her own destiny. She must be reeling with this, and Emma wanted nothing more than to wrap her in her arms and make it better.

"Regina, I-"

Regina cut her off. "Enough, Emma. I don’t even want to look at you right now.” She turned away then, back very straight, walking deliberately rather than storming off, and the soldier knew things were very bad.

**

Without anything else to do, Emma started setting up camp, trying to stay focused on the work rather than indulging her frustration, sadness, and anger. It had been a long several weeks and she felt worn thin by trying to hold things to together and appease everyone’s needs. Plus, her face hurt.

As the minutes passed, her swirling thoughts started to focus on the fact that their lives were still deadly dangerous, and here Henry, Merlin, and Regina were wandering the desert alone. She began to worry. They needed to stick together, and a wave of fresh frustration washed over her. Just as she was about to go looking for them, Merlin returned. His eyes met Emma’s and while there was no smile, he nodded a slow and tired thanks before entering his tent that she’d set up.

Henry returned not long after, without Robin. “I did my best, sir,” he said simply. Emma smiled, and squeezed his shoulder. “I know.” After a moment of silence, Henry nodded and wandered over to the sheltered spot where they had tethered the horses.

Out of work to do for the moment, Emma decided to clean herself up a little bit and was using a cloth and some of their precious water supply to dab the crusted blood around her nose when Regina approached her with a markedly subdued air.

“Hey,” Regina said softly.

“Hey,” Emma replied, looking down and picking at the cloth in her hand.

"Emma,” Regina said after a moment, then waited for Emma’s eyes to meet hers before continuing, “I may have overreacted.”

"It’s fine. I would never, never do that to you, but I understand why it feels like everything is spiraling out of control. I should have been there for you. I'm-" Emma sighed, "just used to focusing on getting things done."

"That's a good skill for a soldier."

"But the disregard for people's feelings it requires is pretty terrible in a friend."

Regina smiled wryly. "Listen, I don't admit that I'm wrong frequently, so just go with it."

Emma smiled back, then added in an earnest voice, "I do wish I could make this all go away for you."

"I know. That's why I forgive you." Regina poked Emma’s chest playfully when she didn’t respond right away.

Emma’s mood lightened and she gave a little chuckle.

Regina smiled back at her for a long moment. Then her expression hardened, and she added without mirth, "I still don’t want Robin within 20 paces of me."

[nathalieofearth]

A Self-Rescuing Princess, Chapter 1

I should start at the beginning of my life, where I suppose my life made the most sense. 

Ahem...

“Once upon a time, not so very long ago…I’ll stop right there. Because while my story does begin not so very long ago, it’s never been a fairy tale and I tend to think of myself as a self-rescuing princess. Yet, in one prospect, there is something I’ve always loved about fairy tales and that is the knight in shining armor prince that one day saves the lady from distress and seizes the day.  I’ve been reading fairy tales too since I was about three or four, and I wouldn’t say I’ve stopped reading them either. They were later replaced with comic books and graphic novels about superheroes; Men and women that save the planet from destruction and all sorts of villainy.  So, in order to portray my story, I’ve chosen to do it with style. I’m going to tell you my story, the most epic story of all time, and give you the spin of fairy tales and superheroes…maybe because writing is just what I do best. I do note however, and give the disclaimer that this is not exaggerated and should be taken in all seriousness.”

“Since the time of my epic birth and I say that because my birth really was epic; I was the miracle child of my mother after she had four miscarriages, and the day I was born, I was actually incredibly lucky. I had to fight my way out of the fetus; hence forever known as, The Angry Fetus, as it was my first challenger and villain. It wanted me to stay in there and kill my mother, and of course, being the heroine of this story, I could not simply allow that. So after an enduring 13 hour labor, I punched that Angry Fetus and defeated it in a single knock-out punch. Or rather, I was delivered by a C-section, but regardless! In that very spectacular moment, right there, I knew that I was meant for greatness. It was also lucky for the fact I was born in the seventh month of the year, seven days overdue, was born around seven in the evening and weighed something about eight, seven pounds. If I went by those odds at a casino table on craps, I would be a millionaire by now. The Fates has designed it so well that there is now a convenience store in commemoration of that most legendary day…and the people chose to call it a “Seven-Eleven.” But no, seriously, my birthday is July 11. The tradition is still celebrated today, where the people go and get their free slushy drinks today.”

“However, this is still not the most amazing thing to happen in my life. I was going to face the toughest enemies and villains the world had ever seen...two enemies that would completely alter the fate and destiny of our heroine with a thieving plot to destroy her. They were named…Father Figures. Now, both Father Figures were from a distant land where hell and demons roamed freely and had reigned free for many years, being brainwashed into villainy against their will. However, our heroine had no idea how conniving and evil their plan was. One Father Figure decided that he would try to kill our heroine through sheer, blissful ignorance then make sure every effort was put into blaming the heroine’s mother for all the problems that Father Figure had gained over the years. He came and went every so often, making sure that our heroine never forgot who he was. However, this Father Figure was not defeated by the heroine herself. She was still much too young to defeat such an evil mastermind, and so the heroine’s mother deftly carried out a plan and cleverly took down the first Father Figure. Unfortunately though, he would return many years later, and this second round, our heroine crushed the Father Figure with her amazing use of verbal linguistics and general badassery that the Father Figure walked away in shame and disgrace. No one today knows where he went and many believe he will probably die alone.”

“Now as for the second Father Figure, he was the strongest, meanest, evilest, villain there ever was. This Father Figure was trained in all sorts of cruel, black magic and it was rumored that he was forged in the fiery, darkest pits of hell. It was as if he was created by Satan himself and possessed by a demon. By the time our heroine encountered this foe, she was much too weak for him after the years spent fighting First Father Figure made her too vulnerable and weak. The Second Father Figure preyed upon her and waited for the perfect moment to attack and locked her up in the dungeon for nearly 10 years. He brutally abused her, pillaged her, raped her and manipulated her and he got away with it for many years. Even the heroine’s mother could not save her as he charmed the mother and made her blind to the harm he was causing her daughter. So much so, she became completely unaware that her daughter was being held captive in her own castle all the while he controlled her and poisoned her mother’s mind. After so many years, the heroine’s mother gave in and was completely brainwashed and under his complete and total control. 

“A decade goes by, and our heroine, left for dead and almost devastated on every hope and just about to give up, somehow manages to see a strong, white light beam across her face. A gentle, but firm voice speaks to her, telling her, 

“Today is not your day, my child. You must not give in to the darkness. Have faith and courage, but always be kind. Be strong, child, and be true to your heart.” 

It was as if the white light was the message she needed and she gathers up all her strength and musters up her courage to stand up and fight this evil Father Figure. In this heroic battle, she uses all means necessary to defeat him and calls in all her friends and resources to annihilate him. These people were there, waiting the whole time, for some message of hope that she was still alive, that somehow the darkness hadn’t completely killed her. When news broke out that she was still alive and captured away in a far off land, all her people got together and sent every available resource to find her. Our heroine was relieved when the resources arrived in the nick of time to help her.”

“Meanwhile, back in this battle, the Father Figure uses all the sorcery and evil magic he knew to try to get her right where he wants her. But it was too late…our heroine had broken free from his spell and after an infernal decade of this horrific struggle gave her the courage she needed and even more so, the strength the fight the battle, and win her freedom. With a few more thrashes, our heroine finally wins over the battle and destroys almost every piece of the Father Figure. However, our heroine realizes that she must have mercy on him and she simply lets him live as a sign of her humility and forgiveness. Our heroine does not know what happened to Second Father Figure as well…it may very well be that he will have his revenge, but it may also be that Father Figure realized there was no way he could ever triumph over the goodness and purity in our heroine’s heart.”

“However, the battle was far from over. Our heroine goes to find her mother, but finds that 

after being subdued to it for a long while, the heroine’s mother gave in, lost all her hopes and dreams. Our heroine tried to bring her mother back, but it was too late. The mother’s mind was poisoned and could not be brought back to reality. To this day, the mother is said to be wandering still with the Second Father Figure, somewhere far away where no one can reach them. Many have faith that she will come back from her catatonic state, but her whereabouts are still unknown.”

“To this day, our heroine’s tale is being told less and less, but many still speak of her triumph and her wisdom. Her story has now become legend and many that still know her, are grateful for her friendship. She has lived her days in relative peace since and to be honest, fairy tales usually have a happy ending, but in my case, I’m not so sure my life is ending. As a matter of fact, I feel like my life is only beginning and that every time a door closes, another one opens.

Our heroine is in fact, me. And while I’ll spare you the grisly details of my beginning, this is a more (or less) accurate account of my tragic past. And what better way to do that that with a fairy tale. After all, aren’t fairy tales just stories told by word of mouth? 

“So this is mine. 

My origin story. 

You’ll want to know it too, 

especially since there never was a story of more woe, 

than of this, 

of Nathalie and her epicness, yo.”