triad-of-hands

[triad-of-hands]

Some called the city beautiful.

They saw the lights, the buzz and bustle, the prestige, the looming buildings testament to the determination of engineering.

Stricken failed to see these things. His eyes fell upon poison fire, upon restless delirium, upon exhausted decadence and towering monoliths of inhumanity.

He wore no coat, opting to suffer the night chill. It kept him alive, after a fashion; a tradeoff of flesh for soul.

As she walked, Stricken watched as the city’s inhabitants shifted below her. It was like an organism unto itself; could it think? In its ineffable mind, what did it make of the developments in and around it, seen through the eyes of its so many human neurons? Did it know itself to be sick, as all its vessels did in their heart of hearts?

Its name was a bare thing, stolen from those long dead, and slowly draining away back into the swamp of subconsciousness that acknowledged no spoken language. Stricken had done her best to forget it, and she had done a decent job; in all but the most calm of times, she saw it as only ‘the city.’

Stricken fell onto his stomach, looking over the roof at the spectacle below. Vehicles moved over asphalt like electrons through brain tissue, each carrying individuals with their own purposes, bearing them toward their lives where they would manipulate the world around them, interact with others and eventually see their bodies returned to the mass that was the universe at large. A life was an enormous construction, big enough in aggregate to drive anyone to madness.

Was the city mad? It had to contend with millions of lives.

That was a question for Mina; he’d have a ball with it. Stricken put it out of their mind.

The left ankle watch buzzed. It was time to check on the group. Stricken walked down the stairs and pulled out his phone, raising a chat simply titled “The Group”.

I’m heading over, he sent.

He was immediately answered by a thumbs up from An. The group would know he was on his way shortly.

As he exited the building, it began to snow. Here was another conundrum of the city; the outside world. Was the snow like a pet to it? An endearing animal? Was it a bother, obstructing the enigmatic mind from higher thoughts? Or was it more like the cars; a silent participant with subtle moves?

Certainly though, it was very wet, and by the time Stricken reached their destination they were soaked.

They knocked on the door, rhythmically and rapidly in a way no one outside the group would. After a moment, it was opened by a figure in an orange bathrobe over long pajamas.

“Hi,” said Io.

“You’re exhausted,” said Stricken.

“And you’re covered in snow,” said Io, trying to look stern through a yawn. “Just because things can’t kill you anymore doesn’t mean you have to subject yourself to them.”

Stricken looked down at themself. “Wow, it really is a lot.” They sighed. “It’s harder to notice stimuli now; I’ll have to relearn how to pay attention to myself.”

Io yawned through what was probably “come in” and moved out of the threshold.

Stricken wrung out their clothing to the best of their ability and stepped inside, closing the door behind them. Io had moved to the couch, and Stricken could see An at the counter, preparing what was presumably tea.

“Hey Stricken,” said An. “Wow, you’ve been out there for a while.”

“About forty minutes,” said Stricken, checking the ankle watch.

“They your first order of business is to be warm again,” said An, pointing at Stricken with a spoon.

“I have extra robes if you don’t have warm clothes here,” Io interjected. “You can get them out of my closet.”

“Also you could take a shower,” said An, pouring a kool-aid packet into his mug. “Wait! I didn’t mean that you, like, smell, just that it might warm you up more!”

Stricken nodded. “I will.” They took off their shoes, setting them against a vent to dry, and walked downstairs to the better bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, Stricken lay snuggled on the couch with Io, wearing a similar robe over short shorts and a Dido & Aeneas shirt; relics of the last time Stricken had stayed over.

“Have you slept recently?” asked Io.

“It’s hard to tell what’s sleep and what’s just dissociating.”

“You should stay here for the day.”

“Yeah.” Stricken remembered why she had come. “Everyone else is asleep?”

“Or trying to be.”

“Nothing bad happen?”

“Nothing they’ve talked to me about.”

“Are you ok?”

“I’m alright. What about you?”

“I’m very warm, and very tired.” Now it was Stricken’s turn to yawn.

“Then we should go to sleep. Are you in a comfortable position?”

“Yeah.”

As Io cuddled up to Stricken, she wondered if the city could feel pleasure. It was sick, yes, but despite it all, there were small pockets of contentment that made the whole thing worth living for.

I hope it's enough, she thought, before sleep took her in its embrace.

[triad-of-hands]

“Why are you a child?”

“Convenience. Less matter to keep up, less annoying hormones. Not as much hair.”

“Hair?”

“You have involuntary bodily functions. Your hair just…sorts itself out. Not so for us. I have to place Each. Hair. Individually. It's not fun. Now my turn. What do you need all the bones for? It's not a popular commodity, unless you're a gardener I suppose. Necromancy? You don't seem the type but I can never quite tell. Just want to wave something dead around? Can relate.”

Shady business dealings coming from the voice of a child was unnerving. Come to think of it that's probably another reason why they chose the body.

“Maybe I just enjoy having bones.”

“Ah, but you don't. You don't like bones. I'd go so far as to say you don't trust them.”

“Hey. I've put that night behind me.”

“And now you put bones before you. What is it that takes you here?”

“I'm running out of curse options.”

“Ah, so it IS necromancy! I really need to brush up on spotting you, y'all are like a bunch of tax files in a molecular biology report.”

I shouldn't be surprised to know that they were familiar with the concept of molecular biology, but tax filing and scientific reporting threw me for a loop.

“This is a one-time thing. And it's more psychology than necromancy.”

“Well, ask you no questions and you'll tell me no lies, I guess. Take em. But…ya still havta tell me how you're paying. Maybe tell me how it goes?”

“I'd rather not.”

“You still got some of those crunchy rocks?”

“I need all my gems.”

“Right! Necromancy. What about…you spin around on your head!”

“The floor would kill me.”

“Stupid old floor. Never did like that greasy piece of iron.”

They already looked to have been stabbed in a few places. Tip to rural folks out there: never call floors iron if you value your toes.

“I have a flute I can give you.”

“What colour? If it's not green it's not gonna cut it without something else.”

“You're bleeding on the merchandise. That's got to lower the price a little.”

“Ah, so I am! I'll take your boring flute if you get me…an orange.”

“Sure.”

“Then we have ourselves a deal! Have fun!”

[triad-of-hands]

Tern was uncharacteristically absent from the circle.

Where were they? Usually you couldn't find them anywhere but here. Gani couldn't tell if they enjoyed it, but here they would be. Except, apparently, for today.

She found them sitting cross legged in the ocean. She made no effort to conceal her presence, but Tern showed no indication that they knew she was there. After a moment of staring at them thinking of something to say, Tern opened one eye.

“Hello,” they said. They looked happy.

“Hey. You're not at the circle today.” That was a bit obvious. Of course they weren't. Did she sound territorial? They were in the ocean; that certain didn't help things. Gani began drafting a proper response in her head.

“I thought I'd do something different today,” they said. They didn't look perturbed. They looked happy. That was a good sign—just agree with them and all tension would be resolved.

“How is it?” Make tone sound interested, curious, not annoyed, not bored, not hostile—

“It's a nice change. The circle doesn't have a lot of movement.” They were still happy. Offering an explanation was a good sign. Now Gani could probably talk naturally; she knew the ocean.

Gani sat down next to Tern. “The waves really are soothing.” She closed her eyes and let her arms drift. Maybe she needed to appreciate her domain more often.

Gani's hand, pushed by a wave, knocked gently into Tern's. She heard an intake of breath, but that could be unrelated. Should she say something anyway? Should she draw away? She opened one eye and looked at Tern. They were looking at her, both eyes open. They seemed peaceful.

“Not a lot of people appreciate just how pretty the ocean looks,” said Tern, turning their gaze toward the horizon. “It's always moving, and there's things in it that you can't see—which is kinda scary but still cool—and you can see the horizon! How often can you see the horizon when you aren't in the ocean?”

Gani smiled. “You can always see the horizon when you're outside. The horizon is dictated by what you can see.”

“But you can see the farthest distance in the ocean. There's nothing in the way, which is another thing that makes it so pretty.”

Not as pretty as you.

Gani wanted to say it. But she didn't know how; nothing felt right after she'd thought the whole thing out in her head—

“Ganymede?” Tern was looking at her. They could see her fixed expression. What would she say. She breathed in, and it turned into a yawn. Wow, she was tired Wait! More time to think, could she say it oh shit it's basically over and they're still waiting for a response—

Gani had drifted in Tern's direction yawning, and Tern had leaned into it. Gani allowed the wave, gravity, and minimal self propulsion to move her head to Tern's shoulder. That wasn't too risky, it could easily be interpreted a mistake or tiredness or someone else.

Tern rested their head against Gani's. Now was the moment if ever there was one.

“It's not as pretty as you are,” she said, as clearly as she could. Now the die was cast and it was time to see what the fallout would look like.

Tern squeezed Gani's hand. “I don't think anyone's called me pretty before.” Positive reaction? It could have been a lot worse.

“No one?” she found herself saying. “I'll have to make up for lost time.” Now she was insane. Nothing held her back now. She was going to jump into a hole of her mistakes and fall down it until everyone had forgotten about her.

“I'd like that,” Tern said. Their voice was very low.

Gani hesitated for a moment. After a few seconds in which she fought over custody of her head with the goblins controlling her tongue, she let out a deep breath. “I love you,” she said. So the goblins had won after all.

Tern moved their head to look at Gani. “I love you too.” Their voice was still low. They looked…they looked pretty.

Tern leaned forward and kissed Gani on the cheek. She was momentarily paralyzed. How did you respond to this? She hadn't thought of this. But she knew it felt nice. It was a new feeling. There wasn't enough niceness in Gani's life at the moment.

She looked into Tern's eyes and kissed them on the mouth.

After several seconds that contained years worth of emotion, a yawn from Tern pulled them apart.

“You should come here more often.” Gani said. She immediately started worrying about what she just said, but a voice spoke up within her. Why should she worry? She had said what she meant and what she wanted. And she was in love.

“That would be nice,” said Tern. And for once, none of Gani’s brain objected.

[triad-of-hands]

You watch with curiousity as your fellow tributes walk shakily away from the pedestal. You look to the master of all evil. They smile at the land before them and sigh. They snap, and the town around you gives way to a different scene. The ground is bare sand, the sky has been replaced by a ceiling of stone, and the only audible sound is of wind.

"Turn around," says the embodiment of darkness. You turn and see a spire. The prince of malice beckons you to follow, and you do.

The inside is as bare as the outside, with ever fewer windows. There is only stone.

"What happened to the decorators?" you ask. It seems a harmless enough question.

"There is never enough time for furnishings," says the great abhorrence. "Always with the wars, always with the rebellions and coups and counter-coups and the subversions and betrayals and whatnot. Nobody thinks of decoration." They sigh again. "Maybe you'll be able to change that."

The unending darkness leads you down a corridor. They walk pretty slow, but then again they seem a little tired. "How old are you again?" They ask.

"Eighteen," you say.

"Eighteen," echoes the undoing of order. "That would be about right. You know, eventually they're just gonna fuck the world anyway. Eventually the newcomers won't be able to hold back the old and integrated."

"Does that mean all demons were human once?"

"Yup. But don't count on them being human anymore. It takes about three months to transition, give or take a few eons." They laugh slightly.

The death of the universe doesn't talk for a while. You keep walking down corridor after corridor until you round a corner and see a door at the end. You walk to the door, and the nemesis of creation opens it. Inside is an office sized room containing a metal chair.

"I see you have some decoration after all," you say.

They laugh. "It's made of aluminium. I think someone chucked it into the abyss a few decades ago. One of the only perks of this job is that I get first dibs on pretty much everything, so now I have a throne for my throne room." They sit down hard as they let out another sigh. "Do you have a name?"

"A...name?" You ask. "I was given a name."

"But is it YOUR name?" asks the ultimatum. "Many people are given names that do not fit them. I was one such person." They laugh. "If you have a name, you will soon not. Many names will be given to you. It is up to you to see how well they suit you."

You feel a slight apprehension. "What will happen to me?"

"Nothing more or less than the greatest burden in the universe: that of its closing." The confluence of shadow looks upon you, and with their gaze they give you the knowledge that soon you will take their place. They are so very old. And so very, very tired.

Welcome to hell, the eyes of evil seem to say to you.

You approach the chair on which sits all of sin, and you give them a hug. You hold on tight as you hear quiet weeping and feel tears on your back. "Thank you," you hear, and somehow the air that reaches your ears expresses the vastness of the sorrow and joy contained in those words. You begin to know the ways of hell.

Knowledge seems to flow into your soul as it is all you can do to grip on as tightly as you can to the most evil being a mind can fathom. You cannot find tears within you.

You are left in the great inferno, in a room devoid of all but a chair, gripping at the arm of a being that no longer exists. You can still almost hear the echoes of their euphoric sobs.

The universe shudders.

And damnation is born anew.

Every 50 years, your community sacrifices a group of eighteen year olds to the Devil to hold off the end of the world. Boys become demon soldiers, girls become demon wives, and those who are non-binary become demonic deities. You are turning eighteen the very day they must make the sacrifice. But when it comes time for the sacrifice, the Devil only wants you.

[triad-of-hands]

   You hear a knock at your door. It's a strange knock. It seems...reserved? You can't really tell anymore. You walk over from the kitchen and open the door.

   Standing on your doorstep is a shorter than average person, wearing clothing in various shades of green and brown. It's an odd contrast to their skin; a blue-black colour, specked with purple, white, and the occasional red or yellow. One eye is a regular brown, if significantly reddened, but the other is a woven network of intersecting blue lines, with a pupil of pure white.

   You stand silent for a series of moments, trying to think of something to do; something to say; but that was never your strong suit.

   The figure spoke. "My name is Adris. It's ok that you don't remember—it's my fault."

   You realise that you know this person. They are family. You can't remember anything further.

   This interests you, but does not frustrate you.

   Adris steps into your house. They sit in the reclining chair, but do not raise the leg rest. Looking down, you see that they are wearing tightly laced steel-soled boots. You sit across from them on the loveseat.

   You know this is not the first time you have been in this situation with this person. Not frequently, but maybe...four times in the past few months? You have trouble remembering, but you know that that it's been unusually long since their last visit. You don't remember any details from previous iterations.

   "Have you seen my mom lately?" asks Adris, leaning toward you. You think. Have you seen her recently? You don't talk to your siblings very often.

   You realize the connection you just made. "You're Terin's." You know this, casually. The same way you know your age. It's barely even worth mentioning; you would never have brought it up except that up until Adris mentioned a mother, you had no idea she had kids.

   "Yeah," says Adris. The way they say it hits you with a wave of pity and protectiveness that you don't know how to express.

   "I haven't...It's been a few months since we've talked." You start to remember more; Terin had showed up at your house one day with...probably a spouse? You can't remember them at all. You remember hearing about a child, but never seeing them. Until they started showing up at your door.

   "The important stuff will come back to you. It always does." Adris says. You vaguely remember the process of regaining memories while talking to them.

   "Do you want to stay for dinner?" you ask.

Adris smiles for the first time today. You remember this being something of a rarity.

[triad-of-hands]

A drop upon the water feels no sound

A hand that falls in darkness fears no voice

A knife when free runs promptly to the ground

A broken sorrow fails to see a choice

The many shards of salt will smile in spite

The windy song will all to soon comply

The sword yet sharp will rise and fail to smite

A frozen shattered corpse has drunk them dry

Confused a sack of demons lies alone

In vague faith waiting for a phantom hope

A raging youth combats a nimble crone

Until from darkness demons sullen grope

An omnichrome amalgam tries to feel

They run to shadowed angels full of light

For naught exists that sleeps that cannot heal

So close your eyes, my selves; I bid thee night.