Author Comment Indigo Veil Member Posts: 1 (12/25/02 12:06 pm) Reply | Edit | Del All Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. editted for punctuation codes by seasong1; no other changes made Upon her return to Austin and her receipt of the letters, Christina immediately begins to pen her responses to the two parties. The Letter to Father MacHaggerty Quote: Dear Father MacHaggerty, Thank you for your honesty. I can't respond on most of the specific points, but can say this: I will spend some time on the property before I make any selling decisions, and I would be happy to speak with you about it. If you would be so kind as to provide me with some contact information, I plan to be in New York the second weekend of January. Christina Tsao The Letter to Elizabeth Quote: Ms. Adelaide, Thanks for your kind holiday wishes. I hope your Christmas was spent pleasantly engaged. I spent mine cleaning out a garage, but for all its sweaty toil, it was cheerfully passed and now the fruits of my labor reside in a happily tidy storage room. Imagine my surprise coming home from such mundane matters to your most extraordinary letter! I do indeed remember you, although I fear the kindness has slipped my mind... whatever it is, though, I'm not so sure any gesture I've offered in the past would warrant such a gift. Thus the generosity of your act renders me speechless, simply because I've so many questions to ask, but am left not knowing which to ask first. My questions can wait, however, until we meet again in person, as I will be visiting on the second weekend of January, per one of the tickets you were so kind to send me. I regret that we haven't been closer in our recent years, and if the visit yields nothing else, I will at least have the opportunity to rectify that. Hopefully, our friendship won't remain an echo of childhood memories. Again, thank you, and I hope to see you soon. Christina Tsao As she seals the letter in the more typical manner (moistening the adhesive gum on the back of the envelope), she notes with some amusement the complete difference in styles of presentation. Her own letter is written on unlined paper which is slate grey in color, and her words--all black caps, and boldly angular in a modern, architectural sort of way--provide a marked contrast to the tan/black missive sitting on her coffee table. Her envelope, too, is modern looking: legal sized, grey a few shades darker than the letter it houses. The only aspect of the letter that is immediately jarring is the stamp itself. It is one of those tiny, mass produced portraits of the American flag, and its value of 37 cents, emblazoned upon the lower right corner of the picture, completes the feeling of its being painfully out of place. (But hey, those are the stamps that come in rolls of a hundred.) She mails the two letters, and with a frown mutters to herself, "Curiouser and curiouser." After basking for a moment in the 70 degree temperatures of the place she now calls home, she murmurs rather wistfully, "...And I just left New York, too..." Just after she returns to her apartment and flops herself into her pappasan chair, her eyes slowly creep to the mysterious tan and black letter. She furrows her brow for a moment, and then suddenly jerks herself up and strides over to the letter. Once she picks it up, the key falls into her open palm, and she decides to replace the small ring of jade around her neck with the tiny key. She has a cat who has a fondness for small and shiny objects, after all--it wouldn't do to lose such a potentially costly trinket before her visit to the property, and it would look good on the delicate chain besides. She performs the switch, admires it in the mirror briefly, and goes on with her life. There's always too much to do immediately after the holidays to be too bothered by mysterious letters from mysterious women--at least for now. Edited by: seasong1 at: 12/26/02 11:16:34 am seasong1 a little fish in a big pond Posts: 13 (12/26/02 11:14 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. The prompt reply from Father Edwards MacHaggerty: Quote: Dear Miss Tsao, Of course! It was foolish of me not to provide a number in the first place. I can be reached at the Mount Loretto Archdiosese, at 631-555-3787. Simply ask for me by name, and I should be available during most hours of the day. Yours in God, Father Edwards MacHaggerty Edited by: seasong1 at: 12/26/02 12:37:53 pm seasong1 a little fish in a big pond Posts: 14 (12/26/02 11:20 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. From Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide, there is no response by the day of travel. Edited by: seasong1 at: 12/26/02 12:37:45 pm seasong1 a little fish in a big pond Posts: 16 (12/26/02 4:19 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. By phone, Father MacHaggerty turned out to be a warm, deep-voiced man, a bit elderly and slow in manner and speech, particularly for a New York native. In answer to Christina's many questions, he had a few answers, but hardly the satisfaction of complete knowledge of the topics at hand. Just what do you mean when you say it's haunted? "The haunted aspect? Ah, well, it's a bit difficult to explain over the phone, but I will try. The building was an orphanage, as you know, and apparently one of the girls there was murdered at some point in its history. When, exactly, we are not certain, but it must have been prior to 1973, when an earlier fire destroyed records. There have been no deaths which could be called murders since then." "Er, anyway, regardless of when it happened, there have been numerous sightings of the girl, midair, being... ah.. well, strangled, roughly where the altar pews once were in the original building. There's even a photograph, although it's too blurry to provide proof - it only confirms what I've seen with my own eyes." "A more curious effect, however, is with mirrors. Not everyone sees it, but if one looks at the site in a mirror, sometimes, at just the right angle, one can see the original building." "Ah, I'm sorry, I know this is unbelievable over the phone. I will just have to promise to show you, as best as I can, when you arrive." Just curious, but were you a staff member at the orphanage? "No, no, I was a Dean of the Boys School, also in the Mount Loretto properties of the Church, during the period when the building stood. And honestly, when it was really active, I was still merely an altar boy!" "I am in charge of the occult investigation of the property, however, so I assure you my knowledge of the place is reasonably complete." (more to be added later) a little fish in a big pond (thomas weigel) seasong's home page and story hour "There is a certain carefree innocence I can't seem to capture... my unicorns always end up eating the maidens." Edited by: seasong1 at: 12/27/02 10:19:46 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 10 (12/30/02 5:15 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Haunt me not with that unlucky face." --Dryden Christina stops brushing her hair and stares morosely into her gloomy reflection in the mirror. What does Father MacHaggerty mean, "haunted?" If it's true, why has Elizabeth made no mention of the land's .. peculiarity? And Elizabeth Adelaide...such impressive features, and rather peculiar herself... Those questions added onto the strange pricing of the property in comparision to the Mount Loretto lot as a whole, and Christina cannot help but recall a few dark words when she thinks of her impending visit. "Welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring!" Briefly she considers switching once more the trinket on the chain around her neck, from Ms. Adelaide's small key to a gold cross kept from her more religious days. Ultimately, though, she dismisses her nervousness and attributes it to an overactive imagination given to blowing mere suggestions out of proportion. Christina suddenly laughs out loud at her silliness, and her reflected image returns her laughter with equal mirth. "C'mon, Chris, what's wrong with you? That stuff isn't real. Ghosts don't exist." But what does exist is a check for an extra ten grand, and she can feel it already starting to burn a hole in her pocket. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 12/30/02 5:27:02 pm seasong1 a little fish in a big pond Posts: 32 (1/3/03 11:14 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. Christina and Thomas (whom she had asked to come along) boarded the plane, and left for NYC. When they arrived, it was a beautiful day - blue sky, white earth. After arranging a hotel room, they arrived at the Mount Loretto Cathedral, where Father MacHaggerty awaited. A short man, with pug nose and friendly warm eyes, and the same slow, low voice from the phone calls greeted them, "A pleasure to meet both of you. I'm, ah, sure you have questions, and I hope I can persuade you to let us buy the property from you." Christina then grilled the poor man on all manner of things, from the history of the property to the possible motivations of Miss Adelaide. He answered what he could, and offered to take Christina (and her friend, naturally) out to the land that night, and try to demonstrate the hauntings. He had little hope for success, but perhaps... The night was chill as they walked around to several "prime spots" (according to MacHaggerty) with a mirror, but did not see much, until stepping into a small square of stones, the filled in space of a water well, when Father MacHaggerty finally found a good angle on his mirror. "Look, here," and he cranked his head out of the way, "look from my angle". Christina looked over his shoulder, and saw nothing for a moment, then caught a glimpse. A bit of effort, and she could see the orphanage, still standing, unburned, in the mirror. The very ordinary looking mirror. She snapped pictures, and then took pictures of the area where the orphanage should be, mere empty space. She checked her LCD screen. She still had the mirror shots. Father MacHaggerty hesitated, then, "If you wish to watch for the ghost, I have some thermal blankets at the cathedral, we could pick those up and..." Christina and Thomas looked at each other. He was freezing, but he nodded assent. Later that night, around two in the morning, as the key around her neck got suddenly colder, Christina saw wisps of fog which could almost, if you squinted and imagined very hard, look like a ghostly young girl bent backwards by ghostly hands at her neck. The fog drifted and disappeared. No one else had seen it, and she'd missed the opportunity to photograph it. They decided to go home for the night. As they left, Christina walked backwards, snapping shots of the area. She stopped when, although her eyes had not seen anything, the LCD screen was showing an intense, ghostly-white girl staring intensely, almost hungrily, directly into the lens. Christina had some problems getting to sleep that night, so Thomas kept watch in the hotel room. No one really slept, but Christina managed to doze fitfully. Then morning, and time to go meet Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide. a little fish in a big pond (thomas weigel) seasong's home page and story hour seasong1 a little fish in a big pond Posts: 37 (1/6/03 3:33 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. Somewhere during the dozing, Christina dreamed. In the dream, Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide was already waiting, alongside a taxi cab, when Christina arrived to look at the property. She was a creepy young woman, given to staring in an almost hungry fashion, and dressed in archaic fashion. Together, the two wandered about the property, Elizabeth explaining the history of the area in great detail. Curiously, they walked the same path as Father MacHaggerty had when looking for the haunting spots. Afterward, they agreed to meet at exactly 9pm that night (it being a Saturday and Elizabeth a busy woman), to see if they could spot the haunting aspect. The exact order of events after that was vague, at least in memory afterward, but Christina distinctly remembered a few things. Buying a laptop, extra batteries, extra memory cards for her digital camera, a portable printer... oh the electronic toys she bought! Elizabeth stating "Such a literary night", and Thomas (who came along) quoting a line about the Jabberwocky, which seemed to amuse Elizabeth... or discomfit her. Elizabeth holding a clamshell mirror made of sterling silver, and seeing the orphanage clearly in it, whichever way it was turned. The key about Christina's neck getting intensely cold, and fog shifting this way and that in the dark. And at some point, as Christina held the silver mirror, suddenly finding herself at the orphanage, displaced in time along with Thomas, and fleeing dark shadows that seemed to contain more than they should. In all, an unusual dream. When she awoke, she thought for a moment, almost entranced by the thinking, and then promptly went out and bought the electronic toys. No sense in getting pictures of a ghost if one did not have a record of it, after all. And then she went straightaway to the orphanage to meet Elizabeth. ...who was stepping out of a taxi cab that looked much like the one in the dream, in the same dress as the dream. The only difference, at least at first glance, was that this morning, Elizabeth was flanked by a pair of lawyers. And it was the lawyers who had the hungry gaze, rather than Miss Adelaide. a little fish in a big pond (thomas weigel) seasong's home page and story hour Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 13 (1/7/03 1:20 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. . . ." I've never been a morning person. Mornings are made even worse when I hafta spend over an hour on a subway that seems to rock for the sole purpose of lulling its passengers to quiet sleep. I am a native New Yorker, but I'm not as vigilant in my general mistrust of people as I once was, so when I felt my eyelids grow heavy with drowsiness, I allowed them to droop, just for a while, as the train continued along its steely path. As I walked up to the property, the crisp, cold wind was doing a rather fine job of waking me up for my first meeting with the eccentric heiress. I've been living in warm and sunny Austin for a while now, after all, and my former urban hardness has softened somewhat. When I finally reached the property, what I saw immediately jarred me to complete wakefulness. Elizabeth Adelaide, wearing a dress that looked, at least in style, like it belonged in a drawing room during the turn of the century (the last one, I mean), cut quite an interesting figure against the barren winter landscape. I'm sure my eyes widened rather unbecomingly, but I couldn't help it. After a second, my gaze shot to my own hiking boots, jeans, and heavy fleece zip-up, which were all, by that point, caked with snow in some places. (I miss snow so much that I tend to frolic in it like a kid whenever I can.) I felt, for some reason, frighteningly under-dressed and painfully out of place. I mentally chastised myself for leaving some of my more tasteful things at the hotel when her voice pulled me back to the task at hand. When she spoke, I easily saw how the Church lost the bid for the property to this woman, even aside from the money aspect. I mean, this woman has presence. Even if you were dense enough to miss her commanding tone of voice (it is kinda subtle), there's no mistaking her body language--her eyes cut, and she wears her confidence like a well tailored cloak. We went through the tour (I would have accepted one anyway, but she offered it like she knew I wanted one), and I felt rather like a puppy chasing after its master's heels...I probably looked like one, too--it wasn't my turf, after all. In order to assuage that unshakeable feeling of inferiority, I comforted myself, and busied my mind, by taking careful mental notes of her version of the land's history, and the path she traced as we walked. Eventually, the topic of the hauntings came up, and, to show that I wasn't a complete nitwit, I offered to show her the images captured the night before. Then the worst thing happened. The intense shot of the ghost girl wasn't in memory. At all. Even though there had been two other witnesses to its existence last night. After staring at the lyingass LCD screen for a second, I met Elizabeth's expectant gaze and went through the other, less powerful shots in slide show mode. Understandably, she doubted their authenticity. (Hell, at that point, I probably did, too.) We agreed to meet later that night so that Elizabeth might see for herself what I had already seen. Well, I'll tell ya, I marched my money loaded ass straight into Manhattan after that meeting and I picked up all the toys I wanted but couldn't afford before: top of the line laptop, extra 128 mb memory cards, a portable USB hard drive, portable printer, carrying case, batteries--you name it, I probably picked it up. No fuckin' way my pics are gonna get mysteriously eaten again. Not if I can help it. ______________________________________________ We met later that night, and I brought Thomas along. Hey, the more witnesses, the merrier. After the brief introduction ("Thomas, this is Ms. Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide." "Please, call me Elizabeth."), we essentially did with Elizabeth what we did with Father MacHaggerty. That is to say, we wandered around the property like a buncha fools with a mirror (though Elizabeth was the more elegant fool out of all of us), looking around every so often for what didn't exist. After remarking that she doesn't get out much (No, really?!), and noticing my "impressive array of modern technology," and chatting very briefly about reading, Elizabeth sighed as she turned her eyes toward the heavens and added, "It's such a .. literary night." As I smiled and nodded politely (I was desperately trying to come up with some appropriate quote, but couldn't find one), Thomas broke in with, "Beware the Jabberwock, my son . . . ." for which I promptly thwapped him. Things were creepy enough already, thanks. Finally, we got something on our mirror. And then we lost it again. Elizabeth, still dubious, pulled out her own mirror--appropriately for her, a heavy, antique silver thing--and there in her mirror the orphange stood as if solid, in all its architectural splendor. You didn't need to strain your imagination, or anything, either. There it was, at all angles. A few moments later, the key I wore around my neck got so cold that I thought it was going to give me frostbite. With that and the apparent solidity of the orphanage to serve as a warning, another image manifested. It was that intense ghost girl again, this time almost as solid as the building behind her. And there she was, bent backward against the hands at her throat, with her skirt hiked up. And just as suddenly as she appeared, she dissipated. Elizabeth was the first to regain her voice. "Well, I think I've had enough for this evening." She left her mirror with me in case we wanted to poke around some more, and she departed. Thomas and I got moving, since we didn't intend to stay, either. We followed the long driveway...and followed it...right into an area where the forest had apparently grown on top of it so thickly that the path itself was no longer in view. Immediately, Thomas whipped out a flashlight (bless his heart and his boy-scout-ever-prepared-ish-ness!) and started shining the beam of light into the shadows. And the shadows seemed to flee. Like, as if sentient. Or something. Undaunted, I pulled out my cell phone as I began recalling the numbers for cab and car services...only to find out that my phone wasn't getting any signal. And my laptop's WiFi connection sure as hell wasn't working. And the shadows moved again. We headed back towards the incline of the hill and decided to wait for dawn. Eventually, dawn broke. Thomas began calling my name, and I had to blink against the sudden light of morning. I was, apparently, in my own bed at the hotel. And, apparently, this morning is the morning I am to meet with Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide...for the first time. I went and got my "impressive array of modern technology" (although to me it's more "necessary and proper") right after I rolled outta bed. Now I'm sitting on the subway, on my way to my first meeting with the eccentric heiress. I'm also trying to fight off sleep and I'm failing. God, I hate mornings. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/8/03 9:33:55 am seasong1 a little fish in a big pond Posts: 39 (1/13/03 9:09 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. Introductions were passed around, and Elizabeth showed Christina the title and what few legal obligations came with it (primarily: must apply for permission to develop), but Christina deferred signing immediately. Instead, she asked questions. "What did your contract look like?" "Why me? Why not give it to the Church?" "Have you heard anything about the place being haunted?" Basic Outline of Events (sorry) 1. Questions were asked and answered. Elizabeth is skeptical of the haunting, but is willing to meet later tonight about it. She does not have the contract on hand, but will bring it by at tonight's meeting. She does not like the Church, in a kind of passionate, this-is-a-clue kind of way. 2. Christina asked for a brief tour, and received it. The same path as the dream tour was taken, and some of the info (what can be remembered) seems to match. Christina is a bit weirded out, but is not ready to look like a total freak yet, so doesn't say much about it. 3. Christina and Thomas meet with Elizabeth that evening, precisely at 9:00 pm... except they arrive 15 minutes early, and find that Elizabeth beat them there anyway, and has a friend (who was not in the dream). Mr. White is a soft-spoken Chinese man in a white dress suit, who is here for Elizabeth's "peace of mind". Christina and Mr. White have a brief conversation in Chinese, which no one else can follow. 4. They wander the premises, but find nothing, even when Elizabeth pulls out an antique, sterling silver, clamshell mirror just like the one from the dream. Disappointed, everyone heads back to the cars. 5. Christina looks over the contracts, and finally signs on the title to accept Elizabeth's potentially multimillion dollar gift. While Christina and Thomas discuss what to do next, Elizabeth sits in the taxi with her lawyers, and seems to be arguing about something. Then she rolls down the window, and hands the clamshell mirror to Christina, "I almost forgot; this is one of the artifacts from this place, and you own it now as well. I will bring the others by tomorrow morning." When Christina asks why she forgot, Elizabeth just laughs and says, "I was rather fond of it, while I had it." 6. Christina and Thomas decide to call Father MacHaggerty, and ask him to accompany them. They will search for the haunting one more time before leaving tonight... I will fill in prose later; for now, I wanted to make sure I had it down a little fish in a big pond (thomas weigel) seasong's home page and story hour Edited by: seasong1 at: 1/14/03 1:35:31 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 17 (1/14/03 2:08 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "...as large as life, and twice as natural!" -- The Unicorn, Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass So I met with the mysterious Ms. Adelaide. She was almost exactly as I envisioned her--or, rather, as I dreamt her to be--but she was definitely every bit as intimidating. She carried herself with the self-assured, expectant air of someone who's always a few steps ahead of you, and is waiting to see if you're about ready to catch up. And all her words and actions exuded a perfunctory kind of civility that implied generations of cold British breeding. (But she is herself an American, as far as I know.) I let her talk for most of the meeting, since, as I said, her politeness seemed borne more out of a sense of habitual propriety rather than friendliness. Also, I decided to use her speech to follow along with the events in my dream, in the hopes that I might find discrepancies for later analysis. Several changes worth noting: - she didn't offer a tour. In fact, she spoke little of the land and its history until I asked for it. She did give a tour, but it seems that she only gave it because she picked up on my hint that perhaps she should. The "tour stops" still matched up exactly with Father MacHaggerty's path, and with Dream-elizabeth's path. - she concentrated much more on documentation that would deed the property to me, but perhaps that focus was aided by the presence of the lawyers (who followed us around everywhere and listened to every word we spoke). her original contract she didn't have on her person, but she said she'd have it the next time we met. - there were some other things, but I've since forgotten... ...at the time of this writing, my poor brains have been so strained, and my patience so tried, that I barely know what's what. (and that certainly can't be right, because if a "what" was a "what," then I'd certainly know what it was. But I don't, and so it can't be. And yet it is, because it agrees with the premise. Does that make sense? Oh, I'm afraid I've lost you, dear reader. Do be a kind-ling and fetch me--I'm about three miles back, and two yards over) Anyway, that's why I've started keeping this sort of travelogue, you see, that I won't forget details. I asked Elizabeth about hauntings, and it went very much in the same vein as in the dream (at least, I think it did). I told her that I would meet her later, and that I would have a friend with me. She agreed to the later meeting, and said that she would have someone with her as well. (Oh! This is another something different from the dream! But, as I've already filled up the top portion of my page with words and I've not skipped any lines, it's too late for me to go back and add that detail--what an illegible mess that would be, and I wouldn't be so cruel to you, dear reader! .. who are you, anyway?) ______________________________________________ We met later that night at nine, just as we did in the dream version of events. Ms. Adelaide met us there, even though we arrived a bit early. As usual, she got there by cab, but this time, she was accompanied by one Mr. White, who, she later claimed, tagged along because of his interest in history. She didn't introduce us (which was rather rude), so I introduced myself to him after I introduced Thomas to both of them. (Incidentally, to my words of "Thomas, this is Ms. Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide," she merely nodded. So much for closing any gaps...) I looked at Mr. White slightly askance, mentally noting that "White" isn't a common name for a Chinese person not of mixed blood. The oddness of the name was reinforced by Mr. White's strange pronunciation of English...all my life I've been listening to accented English spoken by people of all Chinese dialects, but I have never heard an accent like this one. After learning that he is, indeed, more comfortable with using Chinese than English, I switched languages. I got to know a little about his history, how he came to know Ms. Adelaide, and that she speaks Chinese, but her grasp of the language is rather poor. (I caught her grinning at that, though, so she can't be that terrible...) Then, for what felt like the millionth time, we moved rather aimlessly around the property, looking for anything unusual. We found nothing. At some point, Elizabeth took out the same antique silver mirror, and looked around in it. We still got nothing. When Elizabeth decided to go, I didn't try to persuade her to stay longer. She moved back to the cab (which just sat there, all this time) and showed me the original contract from the auction. After I looked at it, she presented me with the contract she prepared for me and asked, "Well, will this haunting aspect prevent you from signing for the property now?" I sighed, signed my name, and couldn't help but feel with the last stroke of the pen that I had doomed myself to something horrible. The trouble was, there wasn't anything horrible that I'd doomed myself to--haunted or not, I'm still just gonna sell it, and at the very least, I'd be getting two very sweet million bucks for doing nothing. She got in the cab along with Mr. White, and, after a bit, she passed the mirror over to me and told me that it now belonged to me, since it came with the land. Then they left. Thomas and I should have left too, but I never was one to let well enough alone. I was angry that we got no supernatural activity that night, and I was furious that such inactivity occurred while Elizabeth was there, watching and waiting, always expectantly. Thomas and I decided (well, I decided, but what was he gonna do?) to give Father MacHaggerty a call to search again before we called it a night. After all the weird dreaming, and my subsequent hazy time perception, I wanted to make sure that I had actually experienced what I thought I experienced, but I sure as hell wasn't gonna do that by myself. Father MacHaggerty arrived a little while later after being dropped off by a red corvette. (!! I thought priests are supposed to take vows of poverty, or something?! To be fair, it belonged to some guy named Tony, but still...) Then we got started. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/14/03 8:48:16 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 19 (1/14/03 10:17 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "He was part of my dream, of course--but then I was part of his dream, too." -- Alice, Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass Remembering my dream, I immediately took the silver mirror and began to fiddle with it. And then, we all saw it. There the orphanage stood in life as it did in the dream--solid. This time, though, it wasn't solid only in the mirror, but solid on the goddamned hill. During the time between my first meeting with Elizabeth that morning and my second meeting with her later that evening, I told Thomas about my dream, and so we both recognized the signs now. Softly, I murmurred to myself, "Holy crap, we really got sucked in." The three of us (me, Thomas, and Father MacHaggerty) followed the driveway that led away from the property, and just as in the dream, we found that it was overgrown with wilderness. The priest's first instinct was the same as mine: the cellular call for help. Only I knew it wasn't going to work, and, indeed, it didn't. I mentioned again that we were sucked in, and the priest's response was, "Let us pray." And that's just what he did. He just sat himself down in the snow, and started praying. I've long since given up on organized religion, but I sat near him anyway, because if anything was gonna go down that night, I wanted to be by the person who could perform exorcisms, dammit. It seems like a stupid thing to think now (especially now that I remember that in order to consecrate the ground, the Church has to own it first), but it seemed rather reasonable then. But then again, things are always obvious in hindsight. Because it looked like Father MacHaggerty was gonna be there for a while, I moved over to chat with Thomas, who stayed clear of the "praying zone." We talked for a while, and the next time we looked back, Father MacHaggerty was gone. Simply gone. No sign of struggle, no cry of alarm, nothing. Thomas and I immediately checked the area over with flashlights (I had one for him and one for me, and I also had matches, and a GPS--I picked all this up during my happy electronic shopping spree earlier in the morning. Get me paranoid enough for something, even if it's trivial, and I'll be prepared for the Apocalypse). We stood away enough from the forest to be safe, but close enough to hopefully make out whatever was making itself a threat. We caught glimpses of a rather long arm coming down from above, but everytime we tried to get a better look, it wouldn't be in the same place, but we couldn't tell where it was coming from or going to, because the thing was silent. Eventually, because Thomas and I both have photon light things on our keychains, we had the bright idea to use the flashlights in one direction, and shine the photon lights in some other direction to try to catch it in motion. Unfortunately, our lights only worsened our fears, because they weren't anywhere near bright enough, and seemed to make the shadows grow in shape and expanse. Refusing to be beaten this way, I got my digital camera out, zoomed in as far as I could, set my flash for as high as it would go, turned off the red eye reduction feature, and took a picture. I was hoping that since it (whatever it was) was now used to dodging beams of light that readily announce their presence and direction, it wouldn't be ready for a flash of light that covered an entire area. I wasn't exactly prepared for the image I got. To be sure, there wasn't much in the shot, since the foliage obscured things pretty well. But what I did catch was a pair of gleaming red eyes (red, presumably from the lack of red eye reduction) set really friggin' far apart. A tree trunk blocked its face, but there was one shining focus of red light on either side of the trunk. I won't lie; I was worried. Father MacHaggerty was snagged somehow, and there was a one-of-those-things hiding in the trees, eyeing me and Thomas. I picked up a good sized rock and heaved it hard into the area just past where Father MacHaggerty was sitting. (And I don't really throw like a girl, either--my uncle saw to it that by the time I was 9, I could throw a football in a near perfect spiral. That, and I've always been rather fond of chucking heavy objects at people.) I don't know what I was expecting (perhaps for a heavy thud as it hit the priest's corpse), but it didn't make a sound. Puzzled, I picked up another rock and threw it again. It clattered to a stop somewhere in the dense wood, and then the first rock I threw came at me and slid to a stop at my feet. I was thoroughly perturbed at this point. Thomas then picked up a rock of his own, chucked it, and followed its path with his flashlight. A second later, that rock came flying back at him from a WAY different angle and conked him on the head. Luckily, it didn't break skin, and it didn't knock him out. We stopped our admittedly dangerous rock throwing "game" and trudged back toward the hill to wait for dawn. After all, we got out that way last time. We sat side by side, facing opposite directions to keep watch. Eventually dawn broke, and as the sun rose, the outward appearance of the orphanage shifted. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 20 (1/14/03 10:42 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Most modern calendars mar the sweet simplicity of our lives by reminding us that each day that passes is the anniversary of some perfectly uninteresting event." -- Oscar Wilde Morning, Sunday. 1.12.03 Dawn. Still stuck. Sun's up, and building went immediately from pristine to burnt, just before demolition. Ghost girl appeared at the steps of building, then ran into it through the front door. Went back into the forest to find MacHaggerty and to find way out. No trace of the priest, or the pathway out. Tried to track using snow to help us deduce size/shape of creature, and the direction it took. No luck--perhaps arboreal? Met with a jaguar type thing lounging in treetops. Nice voice, clever, fond of word play, calls himself "The Cheshire." Yes, I actually wrote that--the thing talks. Greeted us with, "When did the prey become the hunters?" Took his picture (only his teeth showed), gave it to him. He gave us a pic of him with a girl (he said she was named Alice). Advised us that anything that hunts from the woods at night probably wouldn't be good to hunt back. Departed. Or, more appropriately, vanished. Explored a bit. Discovered well is about 65 feet deep. Talked into it. Echo talked back, changed some words around to suit it. Cheshie made smartass remark about it. Decided that if we were to explore the orphanage at all, daytime would be best time to do so. Got ready to go in the same way the ghost girl went. Started to cross the threshold, got greeted most unexpectedly by a lovely dominatrix dressed all in white. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 21 (1/14/03 11:49 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Fantasy, abandoned by reason, produces impossible monsters; united with it, she is the arts and the origin of marvels." --Franciso Goya We didn't get started on the right foot. That is, I set my left foot down, and the blonde beauty before me lodged hers firmly in her mouth with the following words: "I own everything I see, and since I see you, you are mine." I regarded her with an arched brow, and despite the way she was dressed (which was a delicious, though rather generic, look of Dominance), I doubted this woman would ever fashion a collar strong enough to stay around my neck and bind me to her. Thomas and I argued with her for a bit about the definition of ownership, and then the argument ended. Either by magic or some other enchantment, Thomas was forced to be mute (he was winning the argument, you see). I learned that she held the title of White Queen, and when I mentioned the Black Queen, she decreed that I should no longer speak of her, and so I couldn't. To my horror, any time I started formulating a sentence about the Black Queen, my words would turn to gibberish. And in this state we were forced to walk along with her, and I was thinking that other than giving her a good spanking and shouting out, "You give Dom/mes everywhere a bad name!" the only other thing that would make me feel better was giving her pretty head a few good, hard kicks. The hall we walked through was miraculously free of any sign of any decay at all, and we passed Mr. White on our way in. I narrowed my eyes at him as we walked by, and he opened a door that led to a bedroom. I entered, being forced to follow the Queen, and Thomas was taken elsewhere by Mr. White. In a singsong voice, she cheerily intoned, "Lie down." "I don't want to." She gave a charming sigh, snapped her delicate fingers, and I was lying down. Then she made me talk about myself. I told her all sorts of mundane things, and after a minute and twenty seconds, I ran out of things to say. She was already bored, I could tell, but wasn't yet satisfied. In that same voice that sounded of merrily twittering birds, she asked, "Do you like candles?" I furrowed my brow, wondering where the hell this line of questioning would lead. "...I suppose you could say I do. I'm not particularly fond of them, but I don't actively dislike them." "Well then, that's something you haven't said." I sighed, seeing her point, and noting that she spoke it in a complete lack of guile. Again, everything's obvious after it happens. After a few more moments of this, the door opened, and another woman, clad in a flowing white dress stepped in. Now this dark haired woman was stunning. The blonde turned, saw her, gasped, eeped in surprise, leapt up, and ran for a door that led, by all outward appearances, to a closet. Immediately noting that I could now stand, I stood, relieved to have my own will back under my control. The dark haired woman must have noticed, because she gave a small smile and said in a soft and unhurried voice, "I apologize for her." I blinked, surprised. "She said she was the White Queen, so why did she take off like that?" It was her turn to be surprised, but when she spoke, her voice was gently teasing. "I am the White Queen. Couldn't you tell?" I frowned slightly. "Well, I was just hoping that she wasn't really the Queen. Who is she, then?" The half smile remained. "My jester." "...ah." She continued, her voice sweetly languid. "I lent her my powers for the day, and she’s made quite a mess of things. Rest assured, she will be punished." I wondered at this (the dates were a bit off for the old English tradition of the Feast of Fools), but before I could voice any question or complaint, Mr. White walked in with Thomas leashed and quietly in tow. My jaw dropped open—I would never have thought that Thomas would acquiesce to being collared by anyone, let alone a complete stranger. After a moment, she spoke again, her words a lazy swirl. "Is this yours?" I blinked again and started, but allowed my gaze to remain on the stock-still and silent Thomas. "Is what mine?" She regarded me rather curiously for a moment before she answered. "Why, this." She motioned to Thomas, who had still not spoken a word. Upon seeing her gesture, I frowned in rather obvious annoyance. What is it with these people and issues of possession? "He is a friend and traveling companion, if that’s what you mean, but I certainly don’t own him." She thought about that for a moment. "Ah. I rather got the feeling that he thinks he belongs more to you than he does to us." Mr. White (curiously also silent throughout this exchange) removed Thomas’ collar, and Thomas walked to my side of the room. "I again apologize for the intrusion into your life, but I had to make sure he was properly trained, you see. I find that when men aren’t properly trained, they misbehave—peeing on couches, and that sort of thing." I burst into a fit of giggles, and those giggles grew into full laughs as I imagined such an unheard of thing. "I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but do the men of your realm invariably have that inclination?" She gave a dazzling full smile then. "Well, not peeing on couches, precisely…" My laughter subsided, and she watched me for a moment before resuming. "We’ll set you up in a room, although…this room will do nicely." And here her eyes roamed the room we were in. "Mr. White can be rather clever sometimes." She looked at me again and finally added, "I’m sure you must be rather hungry, so we’ll give you an hour, and we’ll see you in the banquet hall." Without giving me a chance to thank her for her hospitality, she turned, and she and Mr. White both left the room, leaving me with Thomas. "Well, that was weird. I didn’t think you’d ever wear a collar, Thomas." "They put it on me, and I was docile. I didn’t have a choice." "Well, I wanna know what’s up with our room—why else would she say that Mr. White was clever in choosing this particular one? Is it tapped, or something? What’s on the ceiling?" Another familiar voice wafted down to both our ears, and a wide, dangerously pointy-toothed grin materialized right where I was looking. The teeth moved, and his words hung melodic upon the air. "Paint, perhaps?" Hmmph. Clever kitty. Quite suddenly, I remembered the Queen’s jester, and immediately strode over to where she supposedly hid, and pulled the closet door open. What I saw was not a closet with a wardrobe, but a long shaft that dropped downwards right into a mass of hungrily licking tongues of flame. I blinked. I know the Queen mentioned something about punishment, but, Christ, I didn’t think she was referring to incineration! I shut the door, and hurriedly thought of other things. We did have an hour. We could do nothing else but try to spend it in a way that would allow us to plan our next move. (sorry if this is a bit inaccurate--I might be getting some of the dialogue wrong, but this is kinda how I remember it. It's been a while since we had this session, so I'm doing the best I can.) Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/16/03 11:10:21 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 24 (1/15/03 6:00 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The regular course was reeling and writhing of course, to begin with; and then the different branches of arithmetic--ambition, distraction, uglification, and derision.” --The Mock Turtle, Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass The Banquet, Part I I got tired pretty quickly of just sitting there, and the Cheshire was beginning to seriously annoy me with his needless banter. I swear, the creature can string together English words and somehow deprive them of all meaning so quickly and thoroughly that you’d think he was speaking another language! I proposed that we go explore the rest of the .. place. (I had no idea what kind of place we were actually in—is it still the orphanage? or is it now a castle of some sort? or what?) And while Thomas didn’t openly agree, he didn’t disagree, either. I opened the door that was supposed to lead to a hallway, and was shocked to find instead a massive banquet hall with placement settings already on the long table. Serving girls bustled about so hurriedly that they appeared not to have noticed our arrival at all. I began to make my way to the other side of the large room, where the White Queen and Mr. White were sitting, when a loud voice bellowed out in a rough Cockney, “Oi! 'Oo’re thaye?!” The White Queen merely smiled soothingly and told Her Highness that we were her guests. If one listened carefully, one could almost hear the complacency drip from her otherwise regal voice. (“otherwise” regal? Hrm, maybe the two descriptions go hand in hand…) The other woman, the Red Queen, as I’ve come to learn, retorted, “Roight; ‘ave ‘em set on yer end o’the tybal—I’ont want ‘em boy me!” Charming. As requested, Thomas and I made our way over to the White Queen’s side of the table, and after noting Mr. White’s presence, I asked the White Queen if I might speak with him. She tilted her head slightly and gave a disarming half smile, as if thoroughly amused by my request. She gave her permission, though, and as I rose to speak with him, I gave myself a swift mental kick for the fondness I already started to develop for the inviting curvature of her lips. Upon reaching Mr. White, I encountered a slight problem: Mr. White was, apparently, mute. I handed him one of my spiral notebooks and a pen so that I might actually get answers to the questions that I definitely wanted to ask him. No fuckin’ way was I gonna let him get away from this Q&A session when he was right there just before Thomas and I were whisked away, and he obviously knows this world. I asked bunches of questions, and didn’t get much back in terms of answers. (Well, I got lots of info, but not much of it was particularly useful) I did get that men weren’t allowed to speak in the White Queen’s presence, Mr. White gets sent to and summoned from our Earth by the White Queen’s will, and the thing we encountered in the woods might be a “grendel” (yes, like in Beowulf). Lastly, to my question of, “do you have any particular warnings to give us about this world” his rather bland written reply was merely, “Be careful.” Yeah. That was so lucid, I could cry. I returned to my seat somewhat dejected, but was greeted by that enchanting—and, by now, warmly familiar—smile. And the White Queen appears to miss nothing that occurs in her domain, because, even though Mr. White and I were a little way off for privacy, her first words were, “And now, do you have any questions for me?” I asked her immediately, and fought the urge to rest my gaze upon that devilish mouth. “How do I get home?” That’s the 64 million dollar question; might as well start the session off with a bang. She leaned forward to speak, and, as always, her slow but deliberate voice took on that air that surrounded me in a sweet languor, and made me feel all sleepy and stupid. Her words, her eyes, her whole demeanor seemed to whisper soft, half formed hints at tantalizing secrets, secrets that I could conceivably get at if only I could see through this haze of fuzzy perception. I abandoned all hope of such accomplishments, because it was taking effort just to focus on her words…there was no way I was going to crack the riddles behind them if I had to struggle to grasp the words themselves. I don’t remember word for word what she said, but I did get a good sense of the following: 1. For me to get home, I’d have to have permission to leave from the person who rules the domain I’m currently in. Or, I could become a person of power myself, and thus not need anyone else’s permission. 2. The White Queen is allied with both the Red and Black Queens, but only the White and Red Queens are my allies. I’ve not met her yet, but I get the feeling that the Black Queen is someone I definitely want (or need) to avoid. 3. Getting the permission to leave would be a tricky thing, because either Queen who grants my request would risk the ire of the Black Queen. Obviously, the White Queen’s estimations of the Red Queen are painfully low. "I can set up an audience with the Red Queen for you, if you’d like—that’s why she’s here," she drawled with that infernally beguiling half-smile. When I asked why she thought the Red Queen would grant my request when she herself wouldn’t do it, she answered, "…because the Red Queen is stupid enough that she just might do it. If you go to talk to her now, it might shut her up and keep her occupied until the food gets here." To my look of nervousness, she said, "She is a simple woman; stroke her the right way, and she’s yours." I furrowed my brow at this: If I have to climb to get into a position of power, certainly the Red Queen had to, as well. And if she did, I don’t think she stayed there by being stupid. Hell, if becoming a person of power were that simple, there’d be more than a mere three queens. Hmmm. I think I’ve found a chink in her translucent, alabaster perfection. Still, she was a lot more forthcoming with details than I had expected…but I still got the feeling that within her words and actions lay greater riddles, and they and their answers hid just under my nose, but I just wasn’t picking up on what they were. To change the subject, I asked about her preference for male silence. She answered that she’s never heard a clever thing come out of the mouths of men, and I replied that she might want to chat with Thomas for a bit to see if her mind can be changed about that. Then, with a heavy sigh, I started to head over to the Red Queen. The White Queen murmurred a wish of luck, and I felt like hell. I mentioned something about losing my head if I said something wrong, but the White Queen assured me with no small amount of pride and command that "You will not lose your head in my hall." Still, in the books, wasn't the Red Queen the one with a penchant for beheading people? No, wait, the Red Queen was the other chess woman. The Queen of Hearts, from the pack of cards, liked lopping off heads. The Black Queen didn't exist in the books, but the Queen of Hearts was red. Oh, this was all so scary and kinda corny at the same time, I didn't know what to think anymore. I tried to imagine the loud, rather round and squat Red Queen as a metaphorical queen of hearts, the object of lust and affection for fawning male and female harems. I succeeded a tad too well...so I suppressed a shudder and continued moving down along the table. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/16/03 1:13:50 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 27 (1/16/03 12:13 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The regular course was reeling and writhing of course, to begin with; and then the different branches of arithmetic--ambition, distraction, uglification, and derision.” --The Mock Turtle, Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass The Banquet, Part II I was right—the Red Queen is not stupid. She’s no intellectual, perhaps, and somewhat shallow and crass, maybe, but she has the cunning and the forthrightness of a shrewd businesswoman. Appropriately, everything she spoke about was discussed in tangible, concrete terms that could be bargained and traded. She is, however, easily impressed. Following the White Queen’s instructions, I accorded the Red Queen the respect Her Highness’ title deserves. And that proved enough to get me her ear. She squealed and tittered every time I addressed her as "Your Majesty," and that helped my confidence a little bit. I discovered that that little gesture actually helped a great deal, because after the initial address, she was a lot more friendly toward me than she was before. I told her what I was looking for. My spoken request might have been considered rather blunt by some, but I did pad it a little bit with tasteful amounts of flattery. I figured that if merely adding "Your Majesty" helped, surely a small dose of ass kissing wouldn’t hurt. After a moment, I regretted that hop of logic. She responded so wonderfully to my phrasings that she actually slapped my thigh during a fit of smug delight. Well, it wouldn’t be proper to call it a "slap," because that implies removing one’s hand after contact. She didn’t. So, perhaps it’d be more accurate to say that she laid a smack to my thigh just above the knee and then let her hand just rest there…and rest there…and rest there, all while she went on talking--and eating and drinking liberally--as if nothing at all was odd about the situation. We plunged headfirst into deal making, and finally, she settled upon a price that I just couldn’t agree to. In the meantime, her hand slowly inched its way far enough up along my thigh far that any decent person would have felt compelled to intervene. I glanced at the White Queen, and saw that she was rather deeply in conversation with Thomas. I gave an inward sigh—no moral support, perhaps, but at least they weren’t going to witness this bit of embarrassment. As we talked, I patted her hand lightly in a subtle attempt to force it back downwards, but to no avail. Her hand sat like a vise upon my flesh, and just then, the jeans I wore felt horribly thin. Even worse, her other hand settled over my own, so that it was sandwiched between both of hers. And it wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. I sat there, set my jaw, bore it as well as I could, and plastered a miserable smile onto my lips as the warmth of her hands seeped past the thin denim. "S’loike I was soyin’, my son Jack’s a lovely match f’you. Ne’er was a be’er lad." What? Oh yeah, she’s trying to get me to marry her son. "But Your Majesty, I couldn’t marry him—I don’t love him." "’You will, trus’ me on’at. Ne’er was a be’er lad." She saw my frown, I suppose, because, after conferring with her husband ("’ubby," as she affectionately referred to the massive muscled barbarian beside her), she offered something just then that sorely tested my resolve. "We’ll give you four biggers. S‘at’s four billion doll’rs, ‘at is." …oh my. I thought about it very quickly, and answered very quickly, lest I change my fickle, greedy mind. "I cannot, Your Majesty, for fear of proving an inadequate bride. I will not be able to feel for your son even a fraction of what he surely deserves, and I can’t forgive myself if I so deceive him, and you. I don’t love your son, Your Majesty, and I won’t be able to, you see, because he would still be a he, and not a she." I sighed, and, though I phrased it as delicately as I could, I expected the backlash of a mother’s wrath. Instead, I got a perplexed look. And as she attempted to puzzle out the meaning of what I just said, I just sat there and waited, and tried not to think about the hand atop my thigh, my hand forced onto hers, and her other hand resting over both. Finally, she spoke, and nudged her shoulder into her husband’s side. "’Ubby, I’m ge’in confused wi’me pronouns agayn." If this were an anime, I’d have beaten her to death with the massive sweatdrop that dangled beside my temple. It isn’t, though, and so I couldn’t. I just sat there, patiently, and made a mental note to increase my upper body strength because this whole hands-clamped-on-thigh business just wasn’t doing it for me. The Red King (I guess he’s called; I’ve never heard the Red Queen call him anything other than "‘Ubby," and the White Queen certainly doesn’t speak with him. Maybe he’s just Mr. Red? No one ever calls Mr. White "the White King," so maybe…) thought for a silent moment and explained very admirably to his wife with his hands and body language what my situation was. (Being forced to act as a mute must prompt one to great creativity regarding how one is able to communicate, I should think) The Red Queen eyed ‘Ubby warily as she flatly intoned, "You call’n me a doike?" ‘Ubby shook his head quickly and pointed at me. She seemed to understand then. She leaned in closer to me, and I blinked at the sensation of her alcohol drenched breath hot upon my cheek. She asked rather curiously, "Are you hit’ng on me?" "Certainly not. .. Your Majesty. I would not dare." After some comments from her about maybe if she were a younger girl, and if maybe I weren’t so timid, we concluded our business with each other. Before I left, though, she gave me a servant girl named Thrace. I thanked her as best I could (again, this whole giving/owning people thing!) and took my place by the seat of the White Queen, who was, at the moment, swapping riddles with Thomas. Despite my out-of-it-ness, I gave a little grin—in my small group of friends in Austin, there isn’t anyone who is as much a riddle fiend as Thomas is, and I was glad that he finally found someone to play with. I sat down, and Thrace stood slightly behind my chair. After a few moments, the White Queen landed her attention upon me once again, and she bestowed upon me, once again, that alluring smile of secrets. When she started speaking, her soft voice, once again, exuded that dreamlike slowness. "I see you’ve already begun your ascent to power." "I didn’t get my request granted—she named a price that I would not pay." "You didn’t agree to her terms, and yet she still gifted you with this girl. That’s impressive." I arched a brow and threw a worried glance at Thrace. "What am I supposed to do with her?" Again, she regarded me curiously, and her usually small smile widened somewhat. Her voice dropped a bit, and, for the first time, instead of its usual listlessness, it held an edge, now honed sharp. "Anything you want." I blinked at the sudden change, and looked into her piercing eyes. After a moment, I looked away, my brow furrowed in thought. Throughout the rest of the meal (and it lasted quite a while) I chatted with her about the condition of servants—are they born into this lifestyle, or are they snatched from some village somewhere? I learned that all the servants present today belonged to the Red Queen, and the White Queen didn’t know how the Red Queen goes about procuring servants. Eventually, the meal ended, and the Red Queen and her entourage left. As Thomas, Thrace and I got ready to go, the White Queen called me over to say that we were to stay within her realm that night, and that she might have something more for me in the morning. Under her watchful gaze, I thanked her for her hospitality. She then drew close and gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek. For what felt like the third time today, I fought the urge to just melt into a puddle at her feet. ('S'hard to spell a cockney accent phonetically...) Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/16/03 10:31:15 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 31 (1/16/03 10:48 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "There are some things which cannot be learned quickly, and time, which is all we have, must be paid heavily for their acquiring. They are the very simplest things, and because it takes a man's life to know them the little new that each man gets from life is very costly and the only heritage he has to leave." --Ernest Hemingway Afternoon, Sunday. 1.12.03 Had massive brunch with White and Red Queen. Asked Red Queen for favor of sending me back, and she refused unless I agreed to marry her son, Jack. I refused. Was awarded Thrace, a serving girl from the Red Queen's entourage, anyway. White Queen seemed impressed, gave me a kiss on the cheek before we left the banquet hall. (...I wonder why she did that...) Got Thrace some food, and looked like the poor girl was starving. Asked her some questions when she finished, but none of her answers were that useful. Displayed a tendency to take things exceedingly literally. Introduced her to my digital camera, and she asked about "the finger election." Thomas figures she connected "digital" to "finger," and "camera" to "bicameral." She claimed to have seen the Red Queen's store of money. Named three kinds of creatures the thing in the woods might have been: a grendel (confirmed Mr. White's descrip of being like the one in Beowulf), a dread (a little fear blown out of proportion to actual cause), or a jabberwock (a big fear in proportion to actual cause). Seemed severely distressed when I told her that she can respond to me as a friend, and not as a mistress, and to act as if she had no one to serve. Cheered up again when I gave up and told her to act as she normally does. (Makes me wonder if she's a magical construct of some sort, with a sentient (or scripted to seem sentient) AI--was unfamiliar with concept of "day off," and knew nothing about life prior to serving the Red Queen, or how servants are supplied when others need replacement) Since we'd been up for more than 24 hours, Thomas suggested we sleep. Thrace gave us both massages (she's incredible), and I decided that perhaps having such a servant girl wasn't so bad. Slept. Evening, Sunday. 1.12.03 Awoke to find the sun shining through window, which looked out into a garden. Didn't feel like I slept much. Checked time on watch and all electronic devices: 10:31 pm, about after we left Elizabeth Adelaide. Got annoyed, and so kicked Thomas awake. Upon my rising, Thrace woke from a thoroughly uncomfortable looking curled up spot by the foot of the bed, seemingly refreshed and ready. Feeling guilty at my own negligence, I told her to just share the damn bed with me next time. Thomas slept through my first kicking, so I was forced to kick him again. Odd that Thomas, who is so much more the morning person, was so slow to rise. Finally got up. Went outside to the garden. Discovered we were transported somehow to some place completely different. The room we were in was now apparently a part of a little round house in the middle of this garden. Explored the house. Our room was one out of a few, and all led either into the garden or to a central greeting room. Past the greeting room was a bathroom. Explored the garden. Followed one path until we came to a locked gate attached to walls that presumably run along the perimeter of the garden. Turned back. Noticed motion out of corner of eyes, but none of us actually saw anything. Then heard light footfalls, but saw no motion. Finally discovered cause. Chrome bird named Augustus, with wing span of about 40 feet. Was hunting a "snack" that was hunting us. Snack had no name, since eating something that has a name is apparently some unspeakable atrocity. Asked for mine. Told him he could call me Chris. It got annoyingly nosy and persistent, and insisted on finding out my real name. Threatened me with smacking lips, but I didn't back down. Then Thomas got annoyed with me, and so I agreed to tell Augustus my name on the condition that he won't blab it to everyone. He agreed. Went back to the house, Augustus followed, for some reason. Met with Cheshie, who lounged on the rooftop as we walked past. He saw me, Thomas, Thrace and Augustus, arched a furry brow and called out, "Look at you." I spun playfully about, catwalk style, so that he could get a better look. Walked into house. Cheshie appeared, and sprawled himself out on the couch. I ignored him, announced taking a bath. Arrived in bathroom, shooed away Augustus, who was going to follow me in. I allowed Thrace in because she seemed not to know what else to do. Turned to the tub only to see Cheshie laid out there. Refused to leave, so I let him lie there so long as I could turn on the water. "No," was all he said as he plugged up the faucet with a massive paw. Finally convinced him to go back out to the couch, and I took my bath after filling it with bubble stuff (Thrace was still in the room). Since she seemed depressed at not having anything to do, I let Thrace scrub me. Was weird. Pleasant, but damned weird. Finished my bath, and Thomas took his. Had a talk. Thomas was worried about my rudeness. Cited examples from our time with Augustus, who he claimed had been nothing but polite (whatever). Also pointed out that Cheshire is always baiting me to annoyance, and I always fall for it and get annoyed. Again, whatever. I'm tired of people not making any goddamned sense. Thomas suggested we sleep again, since that's what seemed to have brought us here. I agreed, and we all crawled into bed. Thrace crawled in with me so she wouldn't have to sleep on that little bit of floor again. Slept. Morning, Monday. 1.13.03 Woke. Everybody felt refreshed. Checked time: same. Checked the window, which looked out onto a major death-inducing-if-you-were-to-fall-off-it cliff. Opened the door to see banquet hall again. Mr. White stood in the distance, along with bustling girls I hadn't seen before (these were all bald, and dressed in white, whereas the others from yesterday were dressed in red and white layers). Stepped out (Thrace in tow, since she apparently has to follow me everywhere) to explore, and was immediately led by the elbow back to the banquet hall by one of the new serving girls. Told her I was looking for a bathroom, and was taken to one. No medicine cabinet, but a sink, a toilet and mirror. No shower or tub. Sealed toothbrushes on the sink. Opened one, held it aloft and looked at the mirror. While doing so, out of curiosity, tapped a fingertip against the surface of the glass. A voice spoke. "The secret of mirrors is not for the likes of you." Damned Cheshie. I glared at the faceless grin reflected in the mirror, and brushed my teeth, and all that. Allowed Thrace to do the same. Walked out, got ready to speak with Mr. White, who was still just standing there. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 32 (1/17/03 10:00 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Things need not to have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts are dust and ashes, and forgot." --Neil Gaiman I approach Mr. White, a scowl already upon my lips. These last few days (day?) haven’t been the best in my life, surely, but they’re not far from being labeled the worst I’ve gone through. And because my sense of time is obviously being tinkered with somehow, and because of the previous realness of my other dream, I’m still not sure if I’m actually experiencing all this. And, whether or not I am, does it even matter? Mr. White stands perfectly still as I continue my stride, and even his power suit doesn’t intimidate me this morning. (the first time we saw him in this world, he wore a suit of samurai armor, for some bizarre reason. Chinese, not Japanese, dammit!) When I finally reach him, he speaks first, his words as curiously accented as they ever were. "There is still time yet before She arrives. If you have questions, now would be a good time to ask." Being rested and less irritable, I didn’t feel the need to launch my questions with a simultaneous pummeling of his head with my fists. As I start talking, though, I can feel myself leaning involuntarily forward, and I can hear my voice tighten, and my muscles tense and release in bottled aggression and frustration. These past few days, as I’ve said, haven’t been particularly good ones. Fuckin’ hell, I hate mornings. And here I am, chatting with a real person who is actually an imaginary character from a book, at the buttcrack of dawn. Calloo. Cal-frickin’-lay. This morning, probably because the White Queen isn’t present, Mr. White proves a veritable fount of, well, not information, exactly, but impressions that will surely lead me to other conclusions. I find out by listening that our room always stays where the sun is shining, and it thus keeps me out of reach of the Black Queen. Mr. White surmises that the room shifted its location because we woke up early—during normal "day" hours, the door that led to the garden should lead to the banquet hall. Also, two of the most dangerous things here deal with mirrors and shadows, both because they conceal much more than appears to the eye. And in reference to my questions about dreads and jabberwocks, he answers that they are creatures borne of fear, and it is possible to meet with such creatures when they are borne of someone else's fears. There is a way to kill them, but it takes a strong heart, and lots of killing. He's only seen one person kill one once, and that person is the White Queen, with someone's else's strong heart. Charming. "You knew this was going to happen! Why didn't you warn me while we were with Elizabeth?" "I could not warn you, for when I am in your world, I can only speak of mundane things. I cannot mention this realm." "And who is Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide to you? What does she have to do with this place, or how is she connected to the White Queen?" "The White Queen sent me to befriend her, but I do not know what Her motivations are—I am not my own master here; all I see, do, or learn is completed because of Her will. This is not a man’s world." "Is the whole realm like this, or is this true only within the White Queen’s domain?" "Within the domains of both the White Queen and the Red Queen." My memory flashed an image of the pathetically gesturing ‘Ubby. At least Mr. White is spared that indignity. "For now, at least, She has chosen to give you protection from the Black Queen. I do not know where Her loyalties will lie in the future." I sigh heavily, and allow my tightened shoulders to slump in defeat. There’s no way I can figure out the White and Black Queens’ motivations if the White Queen’s number one servant has no idea of what’s going on. An idea flashes in my mind at this moment, and I unconsciously bite the inside of my lower lip. I’ve already noticed the White Queen’s tendency to underestimate the Red Queen, and I know the Red Queen’s not stupid. And in not being stupid, surely the Red Queen realizes something’s up between her other two allies. Hell, if I were her, I’d also play dumb and let the two of them kill each other, and then claim the remaining lands for myself. And if Mr. White says that her loyalties might waver, I can’t quite trust the White Queen, either. And that must hold special significance that he, as forbidden as he is from his Queen’s innermost thoughts, can see that. I was hoping to gain confirmation that Elizabeth is the Black Queen, but, at this point, I appreciate the info on the White Queen even more. As it stands now, I’m just a floating wildcard, with only a vague potential for power. Another thought strikes, and my morale plummets. If I can trust none of the Queens, then the only other constant I can rely on is the Cheshire, since he does things only to please and amuse himself. .. .. I hate this place. It gives me a brainache. He continues. "I can feel Her approaching. If you have any last questions that can be answered quickly, I will try to answer them as best I can." I don’t hesitate. "How do I get to know what the Cheshire knows, or get him to tell me what he knows? His eyes widen in surprise, and then his mouth takes on that alluring curve of amusement so characteristic of his Queen. "Either trick him, or beg him." Not quite what I was hoping to hear… "I hope I have helped you somewhat. I cannot grant you my loyalty, but, for what it’s worth, you have my sympathy." As pathetic are those words are, I feel better. I move toward my usual seat, and suddenly, all the bustling motions of the servant girls cease. All heads turn toward the White Queen as she enters the hall and gazes majestically upon this little slice of her demesne. In spite of all that I’ve seen and heard of her, I allow the corners of my own lips to pull into a tiny, appreciative smile as she walks in. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/17/03 4:35:45 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 33 (1/17/03 11:18 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?" --T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" I take my seat between Thomas and the White Queen, and Thrace stands, as she usually does, just behind my chair. I give Thomas a nudge with my elbow and whisper softly to him, "Can you figure out a delicate way to ask her who the other person is?" Thomas frowns, takes out a sheet of paper and a pen (which isn’t unusual—he always has pen and paper on hand, even before he became mute) and scribbles, "…Why don’t you just ask her for an introduction?" I read his line twice, not comprehending. Then, as I lift my head to question what he means, my eyes catch the pale visage of someone sitting across from me, on the White Queen’s other side, and I realize that I hadn’t noticed him before. His left arm lovingly and securely cradles what looks to be a human skull, and his right arm goes about its business, bringing the man food and drink. Every so often, and much more often than I’d like, he brings his gaze to me, his eyes strangely hungry and otherworldly. In the moment that I meet his gaze, it seems as though he feasts more with his eyes than with any other sense...his inspection of me leaves me feeling rather vulnerable, but I refuse to let him know it. I keep my expression stubbornly defiant, but I nod politely, and briefly stare back, to alert him to the rudeness of his actions. Well, that was quite an interruption to my thoughts of Elizabeth Adelaide. Quickly, then, I grab the paper and scribble back to Thomas, "No, not that guy. I mean the ACE. You know. How do I ask?" He thinks about it quickly and then writes, "Is the sable ruler ‘BATH CAT MARMALADE?’" I read it, tilt my head, and then add on paper in my own distinct handwriting, "…but there’s no ‘M’…" I pass it onto the White Queen anyway, thinking it a pretty good anagram for being written in two seconds off the top of one’s head. The White Queen takes it, reads it, and then responds to my expectant look with a slow smile and patronizing tone. "My dear, I don’t think so." I frown then, and stare at my fork, thinking that perhaps that comment is one I should take literally—that is, perhaps she’s doesn’t think so, but knows so. She gives no indication that I should be thinking that, but why else would she send Mr. White to befriend her? Maybe in the same way that Mr. White is forced to be mundane in my world, Elizabeth is too? I sigh, noting that I’ve lost myself in a spiral of thoughts that ended all entangled. My brain doesn’t function too well during morning hours. I look up from my fork just then, and find the man with two skulls staring at me again. As I’m beginning to tire of his impertinence, I initiate the introductions. "I don’t believe I’ve met you yet." As he starts to speak, I cannot help but throw a quick glance at the skull he cradles. He seems not to notice the darting of my eyes. "I’m the Bishop." His voice, so unlike his Queen’s in that his is high pitched and quite nasal, cut through the air and grated upon my nerves. I nodded and squelched a grimace before it could make its way to my lips. "Call me Chris." I return his stare unabashedly. He lolls his head to one side but his eyes continue to offer pinpoint paths of focused attention. "I bet…you’re wondering…how I’m able to speak…in the White Queen’s presence." I was actually wondering how the man could stand to hear himself speak, he is so cursed with such a horrid voice. But I nod anyway, and attempt to give the impression that I’m actually just too polite to pose such a question. I appear to succeed, because he continues speaking. I try not to display my vague annoyance at the way his words falter--it's like he's wheezing, and must pause for breath. It's altogether rather pitiful, but vaguely annoying nonetheless. Patience has never been one of my strong points. "It’s because…I’m not…technically…male." He watches for my reaction, and I merely nod blandly and smile blankly. I mean, honestly, who talks about this kind of stuff at the breakfast table? More importantly, why does he feel compelled to share such a tidbit? Oh well, at least the thing likes to talk—it makes my part easier. We chat a bit more, and I eventually get around to asking the White Queen about the trinkets Elizabeth left with me. I pull out the mirror, and the White Queen responds with, "Oh, it holds shadows. I suggest you keep it mostly closed—the Black Queen can see through it." Great. At this point, Thomas interjects with, "If your jester's presentation of you is to be trusted, does that mean that you do indeed control all that you see?" The White Queen answers in the affirmative, and when I ask more detailed questions about the Black Queen, she only answers with, "I have been in her presence, and she in mine." Now remembering the other artifact, I pull out my delicate chain from behind my shirt, and display the tiny key hanging from it. "Do you know anything about this?" Her eyes widen with noticeable interest, and she remarks, "Oh, that is a nice artifact. It’s a key, and so unlocks doors." I sigh at that, thinking that, once again, the perfectly obvious has eluded me, much to my chagrin. And yet… "But it’s so tiny—I can’t imagine it fitting into any locks that would actually pose a problem." She graces me with that small enigmatic smile, and her eyes become solidly impenetrable. "You’d be surprised." I mull this over, and after I’m done thinking, I catch the White Queen’s eye, arch my brow and tap meaningfully at the sheet of paper between us that connects the Black Queen with Elizabeth’s (sort of) name. The corners of her mouth tilt up just slightly, and then she turns to chat with the Bishop, who, after a few moments, screeches, "I understand...you need a place...to hide. I can...provide that." I thank him, and the meal finally ends. As we’re getting ready to be led away by the Bishop, the White Queen intones, "Don’t go down any hallways he doesn’t take you down himself. I don’t suggest you trust him that much." I frown slightly and give the Queen a questioning look. She answers only with a smile, as if that alone would satisfy me. I ask one question more. "Why did you lend your jester your powers for a day? It's a little late for the Feast of Fools..." "No, it wasn't for the Feast of Fools. Let's say, I lost a bet, and that was the price." "... ... you lost a bet to your jester?" I ask doubtfully. I thought it highly unlikely that this woman would lose anything to that airhead. She, of course, smiles. "No. To the Black Queen." Of course. In a soft murmur to no one in particular, she adds, "The original price, which I did not agree to, was that the first mortal to enter my realm would be hers." I frown slightly and ask rather bluntly, "Why must I be hidden, anyway?" The White Queen turns her now placid eyes toward me, and studies me a moment before answering. "Let's say that if the Black Queen gets ahold of you, you will wish she hadn't. And she already knows you're here." She pauses and looks thoughtful. "The only thing I can think of likening it to that you'd understand is psychic vampirism. But I don't call it that--it's the closest comparision, but it's still not right." She looks at me again. "While you are in my domain, I can afford you at least a little protection." Just then, yet another question that I simply must have answered pops into my head. "...What are you gaining from all this? Surely, you're taking a risk to hide me, but you're still doing it. You're already allied with her, so why do you care what happens?" The smile reappears now, but there lies within it no mirth, and the curves of her lips are harsher and more angled. "There are friends, and there are allies. She is one, but not the other." I note the sudden change in her demeanor, and decide not to press the issue any further. After that non-answer, we are led away, down a series of passageways and corridors. As I have no sense of direction, I thank whatever powers that be that gave Thrace to me—she draws maps better than a CAD program. We come to what looks like a monk’s cell, and the Bishop leaves to procure better lodgings for us. In the meantime, Thomas remarks, "You know why I asked the White Queen about her ability to control what she sees, right? I noticed that the way her shadow is cast, it's always 180 degrees away from where she's looking." Yay. Now we sit here, and we wait. (We're caught up! Huzzah!) Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/17/03 5:20:46 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 35 (1/19/03 3:52 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The greatest trust between man and man is the trust of giving counsel." -- Francis Bacon I bring out my laptop and show Thrace how to operate the MS Paint function so that she can draw out a detailed, scaled map, that shows exactly where we’ve been, and also where she’s been. She starts, and I realize she’s doing it pixel and pixel. I admire her diligence and patience, but, somehow, she also seems to be enjoying herself, also. While she does that, Thomas and I await the Bishop’s return. The seconds become minutes, the minutes become hours, and the hours eventually feel to me like a torturous eternity. I take a glance around at the 8 feet by 10 feet room, and study its austerity. There actually is literally nothing in the room except a makeshift bed made completely of straw. No lights, no candles, nothing. We don’t lack light, though, because the entryway has no door, and the lanterns in the hallway completely fill our little space with brightness. Thomas sits by the door and looks rather pensive. I ask what he’s thinking, and he absently replies, “‘Friends and allies.’” We then each begin to quietly toss out our ideas on what, exactly, is happening to us, and what our roles might be in the greater scheme of things. Since this all seems to follow a chess analogy, we start by offering chess examples. We note the following details, but we're not sure of their significance: - The order goes: Queen, Bishop, Knight, Rook; the Queen must pass the Bishop on her way out. - The Queen is the most powerful piece on the board, but the only moves she cannot mimic are those of the Knight. Also, despite her power, the King is the piece that determines whether a game can continue or is lost. Thomas thinks that because of that, and because of his actions, Mr. White isn't the White King, but rather the Queen's Knight. - If we split the board into quadrants (Black/White, King/Queen), it is conceivable that something of a similar nature is occuring on the King's side, as well. And because the Bishops, Knights and Rooks are the same pieces, only the Queen and King would be mirrored opposites of each other. The mirroring effect might explain why the White Queen's doman is so much not a man's world. - There were seven serving girls at the second banquet, which seems to contradict the idea of the splitting of the board. But whether or not that number supports the previous idea, there are still eight squares to a board, so there's one pawn missing. Unless I'm the eighth pawn. "...So the heirarchy...But wait, where, then, does the jester fit in?" Thomas looks at me patiently and answers in a calm tone, "No, that makes perfect sense--the jester was the pawn who became Queen, and was subsequently..disposed of." I blink stupidly. Apparently, morning hours aren't the only hours during which my brain isn't at its sharpest. (I was, at least, bright enough to pick Thomas to accompany me on my trip. Thank god for the little things.) "Oh. Yeah. The White Queen said that she had to lend the jester her powers for a day because she lost a bet to the Black Queen, so it counts as a capture. Whether she was incinerated, or has gone to the Black Queen's side, or whatever, she was captured." I think about this a moment, and begin to feel particularly unnerved about my potential position as an eighth pawn. "But you can't just add or replace pieces to the board whenever you feel like it!" Thomas sighs as he considers this. "No, but we don't know what rules they play with--maybe they can replace or add pieces so long as it's at a disadvantage. And, we don't know if it's done on a one-to-one basis." I let out a loud exhalation of breath in response and begin to massage my temples. I don't have time to wallow in too much self-pity, however, because just then we hear footsteps approaching, and, not surprisingly, the sound of the Bishop next travels to our little cell. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/19/03 4:08:58 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 36 (1/19/03 6:10 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "But what will not Ambition and Revenge Descend to? who aspires must down as low As high he soar’d, obnoxious first and last To basest things.” -- John Milton, Paradise Lost "Oh, yes...M'lord...they are...indeed here. Just...right down...this way, M'lord." His words are much more sycophantic than usual, and his tone is a little more unctuous than usual. Though his voice still carries that characteristic slippery, oily feel to it, he pronounces every ending consonant in his words so very precisely, that they sound like a mingling of a hiss and the sharp crack of a whip. Just a little while ago, I had more time than I knew what to do with, and now after the span of a few seconds, I have neither time to wallow in self pity, nor to wonder who the hell the creepy little man could be addressing--I see him soon enough. After seeing this man, there could be no doubting that the role Mr. White plays is less than I initially assumed of him. This new guy--a fine specimen of regal masculinity--stands nearly seven feet tall, and wears flowing white robes that complement his massive frame. On his read rests a golden band, and he carries a scepter. Gee, a-hyuk, I think he's the White King! (Who even carries a scepter anymore? That's so last century!) Once he and the Bishop step into our little space, the Bishop flatly intones, "This is...the White...King." The White King speaks, and his voice is deep and booming, his words brisk. "I understand you are looking for some better rooms." He doesn't miss a beat, and his words follow immediately upon the dying of the Bishop's slow sentence, which I think both odd, and kinda cool, because I certainly am not about to make obeisance, or anything. Even if I wanted to, he isn't allowing me the time. How rushed and unlike the Queen he is! I bite back a grin when I give my answer. Goodness, this man is such a cliche...but still, this is also the world where nothing is as it seems. "We appreciate the room we've been given, but if you could find us one that's a little bigger, we'd be very grateful." "Very well. Follow me, and we shall take you to your new rooms." His tone is neither friendly nor unfriendly, neither polite nor impolite--it seems very odd, but everything about him remains blandly unremarkable in its remarkableness, if that makes any sense. The Bishop leads us all down several confusing and complicated (but all straight) corridors and hallways until we come to a tiny door that is perhaps four to four and a half feet high. The Bishop moves out of the way to allow the White King as much room as possible as he squeezes himself, practically kneeling, through the short, narrow door. I watch, amazed that such a big person actually can get through with so little fuss. The Bishop looks at me expectantly, and I take a peek through the door. It leads out to a lush garden that looks nothing like the garden where we met with Augustus. The Bishop clears his throat impatiently, and as I get ready to set one foot through the door, Thomas grabs my arm and gives a quick but vigorous shake of his head. I blink and look at Thomas questioningly. He turns to the Bishop and asks, "Aren't you going to go through first?" ...oh yeah. Oops. Have I mentioned a million times yet how awfully glad I am that Thomas is with me for this damned bizarre tumble down this damned bizarre rabbit hole? The Bishop gives his lip an ugly curl, and his gaze almost drips venom. "I...could...." Thomas gives a little toss of his head in the direction of the door. "Well, go on, then." The Bishop continues to scowl, and makes a long, hissing tsk sound as he steps through. Once he's through, I look at Thomas in embarrassment and gratitude, and I murmur something unintelligible. God, I'm so stupid. Thomas merely grins and says "No worries. But let me step through first." I nod in assent, and after a second, he says from the other side, "Looks okay." I follow Thomas, and Thrace follows me. I look around at the garden, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to stay in this place, since it's noticeably devoid of anything remotely bedroom-y. The White King answers that question pretty quickly. "Follow me this way to your rooms." Oh. Duh. I'm just not at all on the ball today, evidently. Thomas leans in close and whispers softly into my ear, "I don't think it's a good idea to go with him--I mean, if he's going to give us rooms, why didn't the White Queen just send us to him in the first place?" I was just thinking that, too. For once, I'm actually on the same page as Thomas. Whoohoo! "Thank you, Your Highness, but I'm sure you have far better and more important guests to entertain, so I wouldn't want to inconvenience you by accepting rooms that you might need for more illustrious persons. I'm sorry to have brought you all the way here, but I would feel less guilty if we just continue to stay in the other room the Bishop was kind enough to provide for us." The Bishop interjects. "You're refusing His Majesty? But he'd be giving you the best rooms--" "--Yes, and it wouldn't be right for me to accept such lavish accomodations," I interrupt. And then, in no uncertain terms, I add, "Thanks, but no thanks." I note how he curiously didn't falter and pause at all in his sentence, for once. The White King releases what sounds like a short burst of frustrated breath, spins on his very fine heel, and stalks off. And the Bishop certainly looks displeased...but then again, he always does. After that exchange, the Bishop leads me, Thomas, and Thrace back into our (at this point, comforting) little monk's cell, and then departs. Now, as before, we sit, and we wait. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/19/03 6:22:06 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 37 (1/19/03 10:38 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Never let the future disturb you. You will meet it, if you have to, with the same weapons of reason which today arm you against the present." -- Marcus Aurelius Time passes, and eventually, Thrace finishes the map on my laptop. She stretches a bit, rubs her eyes and murmurs, “M’lady, it’s time for bed.” I find out from her that it’s only 8 p.m., and I tell her that it’s still much too early to sleep. She nods wearily, and remains sitting upright. Upon seeing this, I give her a warm, fond smile and gently tell her, “If you’re tired, feel free to go to sleep—I don’t think I’ll be needing you for anything else tonight.” She nods, and then begins to curl up into a little ball in one of the back corners. I laugh softly at this and then tell her to use the straw bed, since no one else is using it. She does so, and I take a look at the map she made for us. It turns out to be a hugeass file, and so I begin to break them into smaller image chunks, and zipping them. Thomas gets the idea to run into the hallway to get a lantern. “We probably don’t want to go to sleep without a light on,” he says. I agree, and when he comes back, we agree to sleep in shifts, and I agree to take the first shift. After a while (I’m not very good at telling how much time has passed without the aid of a watch), I’m not exactly sleepy, but I’m certainly not at my most alert, either. (and after the brain farts I’ve experienced earlier today, that’s a depressing statement, indeed.) It’s just my luck that this is exactly when I hear a knock at the doorway. I lift my head and furrow my brow, expecting to see the dour face of the persistently unhappy Bishop. I blink at the sight that greets me: it’s the Red Queen, standing on tiptoe, squat body tensed, with her pudgy hands bunched up high near her chest in the ultimate picture of “we need to be quiet”ness. I open and shut my mouth in surprise, but no words make their way past my lips. Fortunately, she speaks, her voice a loud whisper. “Oi. Wunted t’come by an’ talk when all’s coy’t-loike.” I set my uncertainty aside by waking up Thomas. I probably could just invite the woman in, rather than make her stand waiting in the hall, but after only narrowly escaping certain disaster because of Thomas’ good memory and quick thinking, I don’t want to take any chances. And if something does happen, at least there’ll be a witness to identify my corpse. He finally wakes up, and I let the Red Queen in. (not that I could stop her, really, since the cell lacks a door…but maybe they follow the same rules as vampires in that they have to be invited in. .. .. Aite, scratch that—that just sounds corny.) From her, we learn that this place isn’t nearly as secure as the White Queen thinks it is. After placing one of her hands firmly on my thigh (not again…), the Red Queen tells us that she wishes to offer us sanctum in her domain, because she thinks that it is safer. I ask whether or not it really matters where I’m located, since it appears as though the Black Queen can get wherever she wishes to anyway. She answers that she can, so long as there are shadows about. She says this so matter of factly that it doesn’t appear to perturb her in the least. I still wonder what the hell kind of good that’ll do me to be running around, but I ask something else instead. “Suppose I agree to go with you. What should I say to the White Queen?” “Nuthin’. Thrace ‘ere,” she punctuates her sentence by giving Thrace a quick, but not painful slap on the leg, “Thrace, wake up. Thrace ‘ere’s one o’my best ar’ists.” Now she places her other hand rather affectionately on Thrace, so that she has a hand on each of us. Thrace stirs lightly with a sleepily murmurred, “Mmmm?” Her eyes flutter a bit and then they snap open as she sees the Red Queen, greets her in surprise and sits straight up. “Y-Your Majesty.” “Roight, roight, Majesty, ‘n all that. Loike I was sayin’, I’ve been ‘aving Thrace ‘ere observe you, and she’s done it up roight noice. Thrace, become Chris.” And then, right as I’m watching, Thrace shifts herself…into me. I blink, remove my glasses, and rub my eyes tiredly. Damn, this world must be having an effect on me—I’m hallucinating! After I’m done rubbing my eyes, I again look at Thrace…who is still me. I examine her closely, and even I can’t tell that I’m not looking into a mirrored reflection…except I’m not—the small scar I have on my right eyebrow is also on her right eyebrow, rather than on the left, as it would be in a reflection. I look into Thrace’s eyes (my own eyes), and I shake my head in wonder. Amazing. “Now, I can say that I’ve recloimed Thrace—the White Queen knows I can do that, since I’ve got Thrace’s ‘eart. We can leave ‘er ‘ere as you, and the White Queen won’t know.” “…but what about Thomas?” The Red Queen thinks about that for a moment. “I know. We can ‘ave ‘im kil’t.” I silently arch my brow at this. She continues. “Or, we can leave the White Queen a let’r from ‘im. ‘Dear Chris’ina,’ it’d say, ‘I caun’t take th’insan’ty no longer. I’ve run away.’” I burst into laughter at this. She gives a charming smile in response, pleased that I like her joke. “But she wouldn’t believe him—she’s spent some time speaking with him already, and she wouldn’t believe that he’d leave such a note, I don’t think.” “Ah, you don’t know ‘er that well. She will, 'cause ‘ee’s a boy. Boys are stup’d ‘n will run off, occas’n’ly. And ‘ee could put it as a rid’el. I’m no good at those, meself.” I look at Thomas to see what he thinks, and he gives a non-committal shrug but nods toward the end of it. It’s the same way I’m feeling—I don’t know if it’s going to get better or worse, but I might as well try. “But won’t the White Queen get angry if she finds out that you’ve spirited me away somewhere, out of her reach?” “Eh. If it works, it doe’nt ma’er which of us fucks wi’the Black Queen, s’long as it’s one of us.” “All right, then, I’ll go with you.” “Roight. Thrace, make Chris into you.” Thrace draws a bit on my face, and I find myself shifting into her form. And I am amazed. Before we set off, I give Thrace a tender farewell hug—I’ve gotten a little fond of her, after all. “Follow me. Keep close.” We reach the doorway, and I stop short as I notice that all the lanterns, once so bright, are all now completely dark. The Red Queen continues, “Oh, that was me, not ‘er. Come on now. I’ll be goin’ quick loike.” She starts at a brisk jog, and after I link my arm through Thomas’, I start running to keep up. Then she goes faster. I sprint. She’s starting to get more than a comfortable distance ahead, and I hear her say, “Faster, dearies!” I try to concentrate on just the running, but I keep getting distracted by eerie whispers in the thick darkness that grow louder and louder, until they start sounding like the hissing of serpents in my ears. I pound the ground faster, determined to catch up to the Red Queen. I frown, as I could swear this hallway is getting longer the longer I run. Suddenly, just out of the corner of my eye, I see long claws snap shut upon the air just past my ear. That does it for me. I run like my life depends upon it (because it probably does), and when I get close enough to the Red Queen, I reach my arm out and grab hold of her robes. At that very moment, she shoots forward at an incredible pace, and for the third time tonight, I am amazed. How is it, I wonder, that this fat woman can so easily outrun me? Granted, I’m outta shape, but damn! The corridor shoots by, and becomes just a blur of motion and color. My legs fly out behind me, and I look down enough to see Thomas hanging onto my left knee. Finally, it seems like we’ve gotten somewhere. Up ahead, I hear her shout, “ ‘S’locked! That bitch! She bloody locked us in!” I immediately pull out the key on the chain around my neck, and even before I get there, I desperately think, open, open, open. Curiously, I sense tactilely what feels like a mechanical, shifting push against the key in my fingers. Click. Well, that was easy, I guess. And the door swings open. The Red Queen shoots through it, with me clinging to her robes with one hand, key in the other, and Thomas still with his arms clasped around my leg. As soon as the Red Queen slows, Thomas and I just kinda collapse. We find ourselves in yet another sunlit garden. We all breathe a sigh of relief, because, at least for now, we are safe. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/20/03 8:26:08 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 40 (1/20/03 10:25 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." -- Inscription on the entrance to Hell, from Dante’s Inferno "Hope is brightest when it dawns from fears." -- Sir Walter Scott, Lady of the Lake I fairly slump to a comfortable position on the grassy ground, with one leg extended, and the other folded beneath me, as I attempt to catch my breath. Thomas appears to be doing something similar. The Red Queen, however, merely stands at her full little height, points at the key dangling from my chain and cheerily declares, "Rioight handy, that. Well, that was a noice bit o’citement then, eh?" I merely nod, since I don’t trust my throat and lungs to do anything besides force air into me. The air is drying out my throat and mouth, but at this point, air tastes good. Air feels good. I like air. The Red Queen wastes no time. She goes to a rose bush (all the roses are red), and struggles to remember an incantation as she picks a rose. "’Ow’s it go, agayn? ‘Roses are…red. Vi’lets…are blue.’ Hmm. Oh well, I caun’t ‘member. ‘Loight up!'" The rose she picks begins to give off a faint glow, and she nods in satisfaction, and places it securely in her lapel. To my questioning look, she answers, "Banishes shadows, it does. Look down; you don’t ‘ave one." True enough. We begin to chat as we stroll through the garden and we learn several interesting things as we make our way to Her Majesty’s cottage (yes, cottage). 1. I apologetically remark that Thrace might make an excellent me, but I probably won’t make a very good Thrace. At which point, Thomas asks, "Is she a construct?" The Red Queen then tells us that there are various positions of power, and two of the more obvious ones deal with cards, and with chess. They don’t follow the same rules, though. Thrace is a person, but she has characteristics that are associated with her number. Thrace’s number is 3, which is a number of magic, but is more artsy than anything else. The Red Queen explains that this is why Thrace is excellent at anything even remotely artistic, but is quite literal, or simple when it comes to other things. Sven, the 7, is one of her best servants—apparently, the higher up along the hierarchy, the greater the servant’s intelligence. I ask about 9 ("Ninny"), and she replies that Ninny’s rather intelligent, but made up of three "3"s, and so isn’t as bright as one would think (unlike Sven, who is a prime number). I ask about the Ace, since the value of that card depends on what game’s being played. 2. Aces, the Red Queen explains, are frighteningly competent at what they do. They are highly intelligent, but their rank depends on the situation the King and Queen find themselves in. Normally, the red Aces would be the Red Queen’s right hand people, but in times of immediate war, the Aces are promptly made generals. For the same reason that I’ve come to understand that Mr. White isn’t the White King, I’ve decided (back in the little monk’s cell before the White King’s arrival) that Elizabeth isn’t the Black Queen, but one of her minions. It would make sense that she’s a black Ace (how convenient that her initials are just that, backwards). Remembering that the White Queen sends Mr. White to befriend her, I ask, "Are they easily bought, or their efforts easily subverted?" The Queen responds again that they are frighteningly competent, but they also tend to be very, very loyal, so it’s very unlikely that they would become traitors. 3. I ask about Mr. White, if he is the White Knight. He is not. She says that there are those who are powers unto themselves. "Like the Cheshire Cat," I interrupt. "Yes," she replies. "’Ee’s descended from some Egyp’shun noimed Bast. I’ll call ‘im t’Bast Bitch, ‘cause ‘at’s whot ‘ee is, and ‘ee’s roight b’hind you." The calm, rolling voice sounds, edged with impatience. "I’m not her." Then he vanishes again. Anyway, apparently, Mr. White is a minor power unto himself, but he is the "Shining Knight." The White Queen makes sure that he is within her sight always, that she may dictate what he can and can’t do. I ask, "But she also sends him to my world. How can she keep him within her sight if he’s in a different world entirely?" She explains that she knows the White Queen has had him under her control for the past 160 years, and that she has a scrying pool she does indeed use to watch him while he's away. "She ‘as to; she knows ‘at if she were let him outta ‘er soight, ‘ee’d be plannin’ ‘er downfall. Clever bastard, ‘at one is. She puts enchauntments on people she wants t’keep an eye on. You ‘ad one. Wanna know what it was?" She asks this eagerly, her eyes and face alight with glee. I don’t even have to think about it. "It’s that kiss on the cheek she gave me." Cha-ching. "Roight. Thrace ‘as it, now." She continues. 4. There is no limit to how many positions of power one can hold. The White Queen’s Bishop holds three: he has necromantic functions, he is the White Queen’s Bishop, and he is also a "Vassal of God." I ask, "How can he be a Vassal of God if he’s also a necromancer?" The Queen replies blandly, "I think th’meanin’ of ‘necromancer’ ‘as changed since I was a girl. I’my day, it just meant that you in’eroggate corpses." I frown. "How can you interrogate corpses when they’re, y’know, dead?" She looks at me in disappointed disbelief. "You’re tellin’ me, that you’re sittin’ in ‘is world, an’ you caun’t believe ‘at corpses can be in’erogat’ed?" I give a defeated look. Hrm. Touche. "Roight, then. I imagine this place as a kind of ‘Ell, y’see. Or a place where spirits go. I was studyin’ to be a nun, but I was a lusty woman. So I figure I’d gone t’ ‘ell." She pauses and shrugs, and I resist the urge to massage my temples further. "Anyway, y’stick a bellows in the corpse’s mouth, and y’push th’ air in, and then y’yell your question real loud, and then y’push the chest down t’let the air out. If y’listen real ‘ard, they’re us’lly answerin’ your question. It takes a trained priest to ‘ear ‘em, though." 5. She’s seen the mirror before, about 90 years ago. It belonged then to someone she didn’t quite like. I show her the picture of Alice. She saw Alice about 100 years ago, and thought her "a roight noice girl." 6. The Black Queen is a relative newcomer, and has been in power for about 60 years. She clubbed the Queen of Clubs, and stabbed the Queen of Spades. Once she consolidated those two positions, she fought a bloody, four year long war to win her position as the full Black Queen. "I ‘ad to poison the Queen of Diamonds, m’self." I catch that and furrow my brow. "So…you’re the Red Queen, rather than just the Queen of Diamonds or Hearts, but you only took the position of the Queen of Diamonds. Who, then, is the Queen of Hearts?" She grins widely just then, and murmurs, "I’ll tell ya, if y’promise never t’tell another livin’ soul." I nod. She continues, "It’s part o’th’ reason I can afford to visit the White Queen. So, ‘ere, I’ll introduce you to the Queen of ‘Earts." I frown, not understanding, and then, suddenly, as she shifts her shape in a manner similar to Thrace’s shifting, I am in such shock that I can’t even allow my jaw to drop open. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/21/03 1:56:32 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 41 (1/20/03 1:43 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight. A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like twilight’s too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn; A dancing shape, an image gay To haunt, to startle and waylay." --William Wordsworth, "She Was A Phantom of Delight" The woman who stands before me wears a tastefully form fitting red dress, ruby red lipstick, has dark hair and dark eyes with red pupils. (slightly creepy, but still…) I blink and take a slow, shuddering breath in disbelief. I realize I must be quite rudely staring, but I’m just not thinking about that at the moment. She speaks, and her voice has a soft, pleasant lilt to it, and it flows with constant gentle teasing. It’s slow and lazy, in the same way that the White Queen’s is, but this voice holds some definite warmth to it. "I am the Queen of Hearts," she murmurs, her words breathy and radiant. She pauses a moment, and studies me with half hooded eyes, though her gaze feels curiously sharp. "And I don’t believe I’ve met you yet." Her gaze doesn’t waver, and one corner of her mouth pulls languidly upward. I note that, and I can’t help but think of a line from Cervantes: ". . . for her my heart is wax to be moulded as she pleases, but enduring as marble to retain whatever impression she shall make upon it." In answer to my unspoken quote, I set my jaw, shoo the implications (perhaps blatant meaning?) of the line away and say with unintended curtness, "You haven’t." I blink at my own harshness, and apologetically soften a bit. "My name is Christina, Your Majesty." It’s not her fault, after all, that the last smile I developed a fondness for belongs to someone I can’t trust. But, of course, I can’t trust anyone here, not even myself—I only just narrowly escaped disaster, no thanks to me, and I can’t allow myself to trip and fall because of a damned (admittedly heart wrenching) smile. Her eyes are still on me, and I brave meeting them for just a second. And in that second, I feel like I’m looking into a smoldering flame whose glowing embers seem to patiently wait for some unknown spark to unleash them, and set them fiercely ablaze. She merely continues to watch me, and I grow unnerved by her steady stare. My eyes now dart about; here, there, everywhere—anywhere that doesn’t land my attention upon the long, lean woman before me. I struggle to think of something to say to break this wretched silence that so seems an accomplice to her scrutiny. "So, the Red Queen says that you’re one of the reasons she can afford to visit the White Queen without placing herself in peril." She answers with that same soft voice, but her tone rings steady, sure, unmistakably regal. "Yes. Were she to command the Queen of Diamonds, it would be by my will that she left, for while I see her, she does not ever see me." I nod in solemn understanding. Well, it would appear that I am not just filling in fanciful details in what I see—this woman has some definite fire to her beneath this coy exterior. After a moment, she extends a hand, and gently cups my face in her palm. My eyes slip shut for just a brief second, and I can’t help but lean my cheek further into the fingers that lightly stroke my skin. Just as I realize what I’m unconsciously doing, my body stiffens, and I pull away from her touch in mild annoyance. I’m sure she caught every last detail of my reaction to her, but I don’t care—my brow fixes itself into harsh lines that betray my unspoken distrust. When she next speaks, she changes the subject entirely, but keeps her gaze unwaveringly upon me. "This isn’t your normal form, is it?" I blink, and then realize that I’m still disguised as Thrace. "No, Your Majesty." "Will you let me see you?" "I’m not sure how I can, Your Majesty…" "…was Thrace the one who locked you?" "…locked me? I suppose so, but…" "Then unlock yourself. You do have a key." "But how?" "Hold the key, and will it." I frown at this, thinking that she must be convinced that I’m an utter dullard. But still, this place makes no sense. If it’s a key, it should be meant for doors. (yes, I know that I’m now the one being literal.) At least, that’s what I’d think with this being a literal world. This key can’t fulfill all the functions of the word "key," because it’s not going to, say, give me legends to various puzzles, just because they’re called "keys" too, and metaphorically "unlock" answers. Despite my misgivings about her words, I do as the Queen of Hearts instructs, and will myself free. It happens. I can feel it happening. Thrace is a cute little thing, and I’m nothing like her. I can sense shifting back into my fleeced, jeaned, booted, short haired, pierced ears and tongue, 5’9" frame. "Whoa," is all I say. I look down at myself, and sure enough, here I am. The Queen appears amused, and then asks, "You are…Chinese?" I nod in answer, and I feel the visual assessment of me as her eyes sweep over my frame once more. "…and still so tall." I don’t know how to answer her light teasing, and so I lamely reply, "…it’s not a common occurrence, no." She sighs wistfully, and then says more to herself than anyone else, "I must get out more." Then she’s silent for a few moments more, and I’m still allowing my gaze to dart about. Eventually, she breaks the silence that is so uncomfortable for me because I know I’m the subject of her study. "Well then, I don’t wish to keep you, and I’m sure you have things to do." Her voice swirls about in my head, fills all the unvisited nooks and crannies of my mind to swelling, and thus adds to my dizziness from the day’s events. Still, I manage to force a choked, "Thank you for introducing yourself to me, Your Majesty." She gives a small smile that could melt even the stoniest heart, and bows her head slightly in answer. As she does so, I can see the figure of the Red Queen reforming. I close my eyes to privately savor the introduction before the Red Queen fully appears, but, to my disappointment, my moment of privacy is over all too quickly. "Roight then. You don’t look too moles’ed. Now 'at there is a doike, she is." I look at the Red Queen in surprise, but she doesn’t allow me time to comment. "Now 'en, you’ll ‘ave to meet my ‘ubby. ‘Ee’s roight nice, ‘ee is, ‘specially now ‘at he can talk." I glance up and see that we’ve approached her cottage. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/7/03 1:51:43 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 44 (1/20/03 9:36 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "When friends are at your hearthside met, Sweet courtesy has done its most If you have made each guest forget That he himself is not the host." -- Thomas Bailey Aldrich, Hospitality We reach the door, and the Red Queen murmurs, “Oh. Zip yourself back up. ‘Ere we go.” She does something to my face, and I find myself disguised as Thrace again. “Now it’s toime t’meet my ‘ubby!” I stop her just as we go in. “Your Majesty, how shall I address your husband?” It occurs to me, once again, that I’ve never heard anyone besides the Red Queen address him, and I think she and he would both be offended if I were to call him “’Ubby.” She considers this for a moment, and then answers, “Bet’r call ‘im t’King o’Diamonds. Most times t’King o’ ‘earts is…indisposed.” I nod, and we step in. I get properly introduced to the King of Diamonds this time around, and greet the warmth of his genuine smile with a sincere smile of my own. We make small talk for a bit, and I discover that this man is, indeed, “roight noice,” as the Red Queen describes him. I watch the two of them swap affections—little gestures, rather than anything overt—for a bit, and I can’t resist grinning openly at their exchanges…how utterly unlike the White King and Queen they are. I mention this to the Red Queen, and I also mention that I met with the White King earlier today. After I relate all that happened, and the strange occurrence with the Bishop, she mutters, “Hmm. Makes sense—methinks ‘ee’s got’n a mite ‘ungry.” I realize that she uses the same word to describe the White King’s desires that the White Queen used to describe those of the Black Queen. So I ask, “What do you mean, ‘hungry?’ What is it with people and wanting to consume others?” “Consume? No, I meant ‘at ‘ee’s male, and so gets male…urges, y’see. An’ ‘ee loikes noice, young girls.” “Oh.” I give a deep and angry frown. How sadly pathetic he must be that he can satisfy himself only by luring unsuspecting newcomers, and betraying their trust in him...and though I no longer want to think on him, my mind continues against my will, and I vaguely wonder how many have fallen prey to him and subsequently became victims to his appetites. I don’t have long to dwell on this, however, because the Red Queen changes subjects abruptly. “Now, I know you don’t loike boys. But since you’re ‘ere, I want you t’meet my Jack.” I meet him. Jack is easily the most girlishly petulant young man I’ve encountered. He is a young man full of withered potential, for he has grown lazy and complacent through years of careful coddling from an indulgent mother. I bear Jack’s attentions as gracefully as I am able (and it’s a struggle), and silently note how awfully impressed with himself he is. Still, I am Her Majesty’s guest, and I am accordingly polite. It doesn’t take long for him to declare me the most beautiful, the most clever, the most yada-yada-yada person he’s ever met, and promptly asks for my hand in marriage. Before I can say anything in response, I blink as the Red Queen places a resounding smack to the back of the Prince’s head. Wow. So, perhaps, not quite as coddled as I initially surmised. “Jack, caun’t you see ‘at she’s a doike? She don’t loike boys!” My gaze darts between both of them, and I marvel at their words—I am still disguised as Thrace. Surely Jack has seen her running about the cottage at some point. Why would he propose to her? And the Red Queen speaks about me to Jack as if I’m not disguised as Thrace. And if she continues to do that, surely an aspect of the disguise is compromised. At this point, my thoughts flit about unguided and uncontrolled in my mind, and I can barely keep my eyes open, since I’ve not yet slept at all. I’m so tired that I don’t even notice Jack leave—the only thing that signals his departure to me is that I’m less irritable than I was while in his presence. The Red Queen escorts me (and Thomas) to a room, and wishes me a good night. Before she leaves us, though, she takes out the rose from her lapel, places it on the floor, and recites a poem that I’m simply too sleepy to catch. In just a few seconds, the rose grows from being a simple bud to a woman who looks like she might be one of Thrace’s relatives. The Red Queen explains that she will protect us through the night while we sleep. I barely have time to thank Her Majesty all that’s she done, and is doing, before I drift off into sleep. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 45 (1/20/03 10:03 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Far off, most secret, and inviolate Rose. Enfold me in my hour of hours. . . .” -- W. B.Yeats, The Secret Rose Morning arrives, and I awake to a curious, but not unpleasant sensation. My eyes lift with the exertion of some drowsy effort, and I find the Red Queen’s servant giving me an unrequested massage. I don’t generally wake well, and this morning is no exception. I sleepily brush her soft hands away and mutter, “What are you doing?” She answers very much the way Thrace would: in a manner unassuming, and without guile. “I am giving you a massage, m’lady.” “Yes, but why?” “I thought m’lady would like to awake pleasantly.” “Thank you, but when I’d like a massage, I’ll request one.” Usually with late nights or early mornings, my already rather deep voice drops in pitch. Thus, I make my request to her with deliberate gentleness, as I know that upon waking, my voice sometimes portrays a gruffness and sense of irritation that isn’t always there. “Yes, m’lady.” I give a wide, gaping yawn just then, and stretch my limbs in the way that my cat does—unabashedly, fully enjoying the sensation of the tensing and releasing of muscles stiffened from a night of sound sleep—when I am interrupted. “Would m’lady like her clothes, then?” I blink and raise my gaze to see the girl’s arched brow, lopsided smile, and teasing expression. I glance downward and immediately take note of my noticeably unclad form. I gasp, and make a mad dash to wrap as much of the sheets and blankets around me as possible. She silently hands me my clothes, and the playfulness continues to shine quietly in her eyes. I take the clothing, and sit there for a moment, watching her. She steadily returns my gaze. Slowly, it dawns on me that this girl is no ordinary servant. She answers like one, but her demeanor is completely different from one who has spent her life in service to the Queen. Instead of asking her to turn around, I just slip into my clothing, ducking beneath the sheets when I need to. “Is m’lady shy?” She asks this so simply, and yet I can hear soft laughter just skirting along the surface of her voice. I think about this for a moment and then I answer, “There is a thing, at least where I come from, called ‘modesty.’” She gives an open smile, but her gaze still holds me captive. “Ah. Within the Red Queen’s court, I am…unaccustomed to such things.” I give my own smile in answer. “I am not from the Red Queen’s court, obviously, so I hope you’ll forgive my little idiosyncrasies.” She continues to smile, and bows her head in answer, but she does not lower her eyes. I frown slightly and ask aloud, “I’m not normally such a deep sleeper. I wonder how you were able to undress me without me waking up.” “You mean how I removed your clothing, m’lady?” “…well, I guess. But I mean without wa—“ “—I began with your shirt—“ I hold up a hand to silence her, and I interject with, “Nevermind. I don’t want to know.” But, of course, I do. I’m masochistic that way, I suppose. Generally, when I have a curiosity about something, I will have it satisfied, even if I have to go out of my way to do so—I’m a stubborn thing. “So you just removed my clothing just to give me a massage? You could have done that with the clothes on.” She arches her brow again, and her good-natured amusement radiates from her. “No, m’lady. I bathed you first.” “But how… I mean…” Do mornings always have to be so confusing? I vaguely recall another life, long ago, when all I had to do in the morning was make sure I was presentable to others before rushing off to work or to class. How simple life was then! I sigh in resignation. “Nevermind. I’m just not gonna ask.” She bows her head in answer again, and still does not lower her gaze. I turn to Thomas, who took the other side of the bed, and I nudge him awake. He murmurs sleepily, and continues to sleep. I find out from the servant girl that the Red Queen is having breakfast, and it’s 9 a.m., which means to me that Thomas should have been bouncing off the walls about three hours ago. I poke at him relentlessly until he finally claims to be awake. “I don’t know why I’m so sleepy…” he mutters. I throw a playfully suspicious glance at the girl, thinking that perhaps she has something to do it. She, of course, only looks amused. Thomas and I get ready to join the Queen when we both notice that the floor is littered with the bloody, stripped remains of…things that didn’t start life out as entrails, surely. I start to ask the girl what they were, when I realize something. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get a chance to catch your name.” She gives a teasing look, and answers, “You can call me Rose.” Recognizing the trick as one that I sometimes use, I respond, “That’s good to know. And your name is…?” The grin spreads further across her lips. “My name is Rose Red.” We ask what they were, and she replies that they were attackers. We then attempt to find out if they were grendels, dreads, or jabberwocks. We find out in a roundabout way that the attackers were none of the three—those three predators possess intelligence, and would have avoided Rose at all costs, “For they would surely die if they came upon me. I have thorns, m’lady.” We accept this answer, since it doesn’t appear as though she wishes to be any more specific. We ask her to join us for breakfast, but she declines. “I was asked to protect you while you slept, m’lady.” I puzzle over this for a moment. “You were asked to protect us while we slept, so you won’t join us for breakfast.” “That’s correct, m’lady.” “…so were you ordered to bathe me and give me a massage, also?” She gives a slow smile. “No, m’lady.” Oooookay. Definitely not a servant. We thank her for her protection, and then move along to dining hall, where the Red Queen already feasts. We eat a bit, and soon the Red Queen asks if Rose would be joining us. I answer in the negative, and she bursts out, “She did it on purpose! I asked ‘er t’protect you whiles you slept, and so she won’t come t’breakfast. Too bad, too; roight noice t’look at, eh?” She then goes on to explain that in the same way that the Cheshire Cat is a power unto himself, Rose is also. “’At poem I reci’ed, ‘at’s one o’hers. I’ve an alloiance with ‘er, and so, within reason, she’ll do most o’th’things I ask of ‘er. ‘Course, she’s got a stronger alliance with t’Queen of ‘Earts than she does me.” Ahh. Then I think about all the risks these people are taking just to keep me from falling into the Black Queen’s hands, and I sigh heavily. “Your Majesty, I can only hope that I won’t make you regret the dangers you’re risking to provide me with protection.” The Queen stops eating for a moment, and looks at me deeply and seriously. “Dearie, I’m from the same world you’re from. About 1753. I feel a responsibil’ty for people ‘oo come through from ‘erre. Loike I said, I don’t know what th’Black Queen wants with you, but if the White Queen thinks ‘at keepin’ you from the ‘er’ll weaken ‘er, it probably will. You won’t make me regret a thing. Hidin’ you moight be a mistake, but I won’t regret it.” She brightens a bit. “’Sides, I think you’ll do roight noice for y’self.” I give her a genuine smile of gratitude, and she responds by heaping food onto my plate, and promptly changing the subject with the rapidity so characteristic of her. “Now eat! No wonder you’re so scrawny! You don’t eat anythin’! Me, I’ve got bones!” And she pulls herself to her full height to show off her roundness with no small amount of pride. I burst into a full, rolling laugh, and nod in agreement. Perhaps mornings aren’t so bad, after all. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/20/03 10:21:19 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 50 (1/26/03 2:04 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men." -- Falstaff, from William Shakespeare’s King Henry the Fourth, Part II "Wit is educated insolence." -- Aristotle Eventually, the meal ends, and the Red Queen pats her belly, sighs in satisfaction, and then leans close to say, “Now, dearie, ‘Ubby and I are off to deal with mat’ers o’State. In th’meantoime, make yourself at ‘ome.” After accepting my thanks, and after delivering a well-placed smack to my thigh, she’s off. I then turn to Thomas to see what he wants to do. He doesn’t really have an answer for me, so I suggest that we return to the room, since there’s something I ‘d like to discuss with him and get his opinion on. We return to the room, only to see Cheshire comfortably sprawled out on the bed. I keep back an inward sigh, greet him warmly, and then flop down on the bed beside him. “Hello, Cheshire! Comfy?” He answers drily, “I was.” I cheerily intone, “That’s good!” And then I proceed to ask him questions on the off-chance that he might actually offer a useful answer. As usual, he gives his answers in the same witty, but roundabout, broad way that starves his words of substance, and cause them to become literal husks of themselves, and fall empty and meaningless upon the air. His way of talking lends a new perspective to the concept of “words ringing hollow.” (The first time we encountered him, I commented on that rather annoying tendency of his by telling him that he has “this odd way of bankrupting words of any meaning.” He replied, “If they are in such debt to begin with, why, then, do we even use them?”) Thus he continues to use my genuine desire to gain useful information from him as an opportunity to exercise his wit and befuddle mine. Still, I do happen upon some information as the Cheshire contentedly stirs up his nonsense soup to a warm simmer: 1. Though he is “not so shining now,” Mr. White’s original role as the “Shining Knight” had something to do with rescuing people, but, according to the Cheshire, the people he rescued tended to be “cute little girls.” 2. When I ask what people here believe in, in terms of an omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent Greater Being, he has no answer. When the question is expanded to include all inhabitants, as opposed to just people, he said that the Sun, Rain, and Earth would be highest ranked. This leads me to believe that Gods don’t really seem to exist here. 3. I remember what the White Bishop said about the Cheshire, that he eats people, and is the “mortal enemy of all who live,” and I casually mention that I heard from someone that the Cheshire does, indeed, eat people. Upon hearing that, his grin widens, and his pointy teeth appear pointier than usual. “Who, I wonder, would tell you that?” “Oh, just someone I happened to meet.” The smile stretches still further as he fixes his feline gaze upon me. I merely return his gaze with a look of curious interest. His voice fairly sways to its own melody when he next speaks. “I have, on occasion, eaten people. I have a great tolerance for madness, you see, but some people still insist on provoking me, and I am forced to eat them.” Upon hearing that, I can’t help but think of a line from a story I once read. “I am hardly responsible for the vagaries of cats.” ** But I ask instead, “Who would provoke you, and why?” “Oh, I don’t know. Something about devils, I imagine.” “What?” “Something about me being a devil.” “…that’s not a very..nice thing to say, no.” A lull settles into our conversation at this point, and after a few moments, I ask, “Do you like to be petted?” His rather uninformative answer is, “That depends.” Tentatively, then, with muscles tightly tensed in case he decides to snap at me, I reach out an arm and begin to stroke and lightly scratch him under the chin. My cat loves being petted that way, and so I thought I’d try the same move on him—all cats are attention whores anyway, so I don’t think I’d be too bad off for giving it a shot. His reaction appears to be overwhelming apathy. Hhmph. Just like a proud cat. Well, I tried, anyway. I am impressed with the way his fur feels, though. In voice genuinely tinged with amazement, I breathe, “Wow…you’re really soft…” He gives a self satisfied smirk as he answers. “Yes. It’s rabbit fur.” “…so you change your coats the way we change ours…?” He gives that mysterious grin once more. “Not quite.” I stop petting him then, and our conversation slows into another peaceful lull. After a brief moment, he looks thoughtful, his expression seems to sharpen, and he looks like he’s focusing on something that only he can see in his mind’s eye. “You’re about to have some…company.” “Mmm?” I glance up toward the window just in time to catch Rose Red walking past, and when I next turn to the Cheshire, I see that he’s gone. Then there’s a knock at the door. ** Click HERE to go to that story. It’s a good read! Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 53 (1/26/03 5:56 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Though thy face is glossed with specious art thou retainest the cunning fox beneath thy vapid breast." -- Persius (Aulus Persius Flaccus), Satires "I slept and dreamed that life was Beauty; I woke, and found that life was Duty. Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?" -- Ellen Sturgis Hooper, Duty I open the door, and I see that, as before, she is clad elegantly in a flowing red dress. And as before, she looks as lovely as befits someone who bears the name of the flower whose mere blush so often inspires poems and songs of passion. Her eyes meet mine, and I catch the same light playfulness that I saw this morning shining forth. I simply can’t help but give her a slow, warm smile in greeting as I look upon her welcome form. In response, she tilts her head slightly, and leans forward just a bit as she says, “I came to ask milady if she would join me for a walk.” Well, this is unexpected. “…Where would we be walking to?” She makes a vague sort of gesture with her hand and the smile upon her lips spreads. I arch my brow in answer. “Where?” I ask. “Through the garden, m’lady, to the gate.” I shrug my shoulders and let her lead me and Thomas out. Hell, we don’t have anything else to do. Curiously, she chooses the most twisty, most winding pathway of all, and as we’re walking, she initiates further conversation by offering in a coy voice, “So. You’ve met the Queen of Hearts.” I frown slightly. Isn’t she supposed to be the woman who can see, but is never seen herself? I try very hard to keep the suspicion in my voice from rising to an impolite level, but I’m not sure I succeed. “How do you know that?” I arch my brow to punctuate my question. So much for keeping suspicion low, I guess. Oh well. With a mysterious smile and an arched brow of her own, she answers, “She’s left a mark upon you.” “What kind of mark?” “…a small one.” “Is it an enchantment of some kind?” “No, but it is enchanting.” I give a hurried sigh, my irritation now probably painfully obvious. “Look, if you’re going to say things like that, I’d appreciate a little more information. The last ‘mark’ I received I wasn’t particularly fond of, and I don’t want the situation to repeat itself.” Her eyes widen in curiosity, and rather than being taken aback at my forwardness, she asks with real interest, “What was the last mark you received?” I furrow my brow and silently note how, since we entered the garden, she has dropped the use of the socially rigid “M’lady” form of address. “…it allowed me to be watched, wherever I was.” Her curiosity continues unabated. “From whom did you receive that?” It’s apparently now my turn to give a smile. “Come now, you can’t expect me to just answer everything without you giving something back in return. Shall we do this on a kind of one-to-one basis, then?” She tilts her head and immediately her expression becomes serious, her eyes probing. “Do you not trust me because you do not know of my nature?” My answer has no hesitation. “I don’t trust anything or anyone here because I don’t know of their natures.” She gives a solemn nod of her head and I look up to see that we’ve reached the gate. She opens the gate, and the path beyond it leads out into the wilderness, rather than another part of the garden. In a voice that I’m unaccustomed to hearing her use, she clearly and rather gravely intones, “Will you come with me past the gate if I give you my word that you will return here?” I look at her curiously, and I vaguely wonder where the serving girl this morning has gone. Though frustrating, I felt safer with her acting more like Thrace. Of course, I’d long since figured out that she’s no mere serving girl, but still, with words like that, I can’t help but feel like I’m signing my life over to her. To make sure that I’m not, I offer the following stipulation. “Unharmed, and unscathed?” “Unharmed. I cannot guarantee that you’ll return unscathed, since you might not like what I’m going to tell you, but I will offer you my protection.” I sigh heavily at this. “Well, I don’t really go anywhere without Thomas, so…” She glances over in his direction, and then says, “I will extend my protection to him as well.” I look at Thomas in silent question, since I can’t make him go if he doesn’t want to. He kinda gives that noncommittal shrug/nod thing. After inhaling deeply, I flatly say, “Lead on.” Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 54 (1/26/03 9:51 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Deadly poisons are concealed under sweet honey." -- Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso), Amorum (I, 8, 104) "The primal duties shine aloft, like stars; The charities that soothe, and heal, and bless Are scattered at the feet of Man, like flowers." -- William Wordsworth, Excursion (bk. IX) We travel quickly and quietly through the forest, with not another word uttered by Rose Red. At the very least, I can ascertain from her behavior alone that this is no stroll through the park, nor a leisurely walk through a garden…I don’t remember who said it (I think it was Mr. White), but I distinctly recall being told that monsters and such dwell in the wilderness. I feel vaguely disappointed at her caution, because that means that I won’t get to see her in action—I am rather curious about how her thorns would work to slice up predators—but I also realize that her decision to keep from drawing unnecessary attention to us is probably wise. Finally, we reach her house, and there can be no mistaking that this is, indeed, her house: roses adorn the entire structure. She opens the door and we step inside. Immediately, I frown and make the off-handed comment, “Don’t you people believe in locks?” Rose Red tilts her head and gives a disarming smile. “Most people would know better than to step into my home uninvited.” “Well, perhaps, but what about the gate that led to the wilderness? That didn’t appear locked.” Rose Red studies me for the briefest of moments before she shrugs and says, “Well, perhaps the Red Queen forgot to lock it.” I quirk a brow at that. I remember the gate in the White Queen’s domain being locked. And if Mr. White (or whoever) said something about monsters living in the wilderness, surely the Red Queen knows about that. I mean, it’s possible that the Red Queen forgot, but highly unlikely, I think. My thoughts stop at that moment, because I’ve actually chanced a look at the inside of Rose Red’s home, and I am immediately assaulted by a wave of red. My eyes widen at the sheer abundance of roses, and rose imagery. I make a comment about it, and she smiles and replies that it’s expected of her to keep a house like this. She offers us both a seat before sitting down herself. Then she takes a breath, and wastes no time. “I am Rose Red, and am by nature an assassin. The mark left upon you by the Queen of Hearts doesn’t actually do anything, except show that she’s touched you. The Queen of Hearts touches the hearts of those she meets, and I can see into the hearts of people, for I am also the Ace of Hearts.” She pauses a moment and allows that to sink in. “This world isn’t quite the land of the dead, but it isn’t the realm of the living. It’s more like a place that’s shunted off to the side of both, where monsters live, saints live, forgotten gods live.” “Saints? Then they’re here voluntarily?” She thinks about that for a moment. “For the most part, yes. You’ve already met one, but I won’t give you the name.” “So since I am none of those, why was I brought here?” Her lips curve into a smile and she teasingly asks, “Are you getting that second answer ready?” Without faltering, I answer, “White Queen.” Her eyes widen and she arches a brow in surprise. “Really…? So she kissed you.” I nod briefly and withstand, as best I can, the gaze that I can feel moving over me in reassessment. Her voice now takes on the familiar playfulness, and I attempt to fight off the blush that I can feel creeping up along my cheeks. “And milady said she was shy. ‘Modesty’ indeed.” The blush creeps further. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Christ already, it was just a peck on the cheek! “Anyway, the White Queen likened it to psychic vampirism, but said that that comparision is still inaccurate, and the Cheshire Cat likened it to cannibalism, but he has a funny way with words. I understand that the Black Queen is attempting to ‘consume’ me somehow, but my question is, ‘Why me?’ I am nothing to her, and I am nothing here. Clearly, she got to where she is now by usurping the positions of those with power. Why not ‘consume’ someone else like that? What could she possibly gain from me?” After a few moments, she gives her answer. “There was once a little girl who came to this realm, and was convinced that she had gone to Hell. After being here for a while, she actually found the real Hell, and after that grew up in a hurry. Now she needs sustenance, and, despite all the trouble you’ve given her, it’s still easier to take what she needs from you, rather than take it from someone else who can give it to her, like, say, me.” “So then even if I got a Queen to grant me the ability to return home, it wouldn’t matter, would it? I mean, if she can get to anywhere she needs to be through the shadows, she could just as easily snatch me back and I’d be right back where I started.” “Yes, but you could avoid her if you’re smart, by avoiding deepest shadow.” “What exactly do you mean by ‘deepest shadow?’” “Shadows so deep that you can’t see the other end of it. Even with a light.” She pauses again. “But even then, it’d take no small bit of effort for her to go from realm to realm.” I think for a moment. “So, since you can see into my heart, I guess that means that you know all that’s happened to me thus far.” “Mm-hmm.” “So when we were running with the Red Queen down that long corridor, the Red Queen remarked that the door that we were supposed to go through was locked.” I look at Rose Red, and she nods for me to go on. “Well, if the Black Queen locked the door, what’s the point of me even being in the Red Queen’s realm if the Black Queen already knows where I am?” Rose Red studies me so hard for a moment, and her gaze feels so piercing, that I would hate to be on the receiving end of her thorns. “Why would the Black Queen lock the door? And, more importantly, how could she?” I frown, though I have an answer ready, and vaguely wonder if my words are to yet again prove me quite the slow thing. “…well, because…there are shadows in the keyhole…?” It sounds so terribly obvious that I normally would be compelled to dismiss it altogether as being too easy, but I’ve made that mistake before, and answers here sometimes are obvious; so obvious that I dismiss them as being too easy. The expression on Rose Red’s face, however, would lead me to think otherwise. In self- defense, I sputter, “What? I think it’s a reasonable thing to assume—I don’t know how the mechanics of your world work!” Rose Red leans close and says in a patient tone, “The only place in the White Queen’s domain that the Black Queen can exist is in the place that the White Queen can’t see.” Thomas interjects here with, “Her shadow?” Rose Red then leans back in her chair and says nothing. Rather miserably, I say to no one in particular, “…but Thrace is still there…” She looks at me then, and her eyes seem gentle, but her voice holds a touch of exasperation. “And just who do you think that’s fooling?” After a few minutes, she adds, “Do you remember those predators I protected you from the first night we met?” She continues after I nod. “Those were assassins, and the Black Queen wants you more or less whole. Why would she send them?” We fall into silent for a while, and after a few moments, she changes the subject completely and lazily asks with a touch of her old playfulness, “The Cheshire Cat left just as I was arriving. Do you know why he avoids me?” “Just thinking about what he would say, I would answer that he avoids anything he finds unpleasant, though that’s terribly vague.” She gives a lovely smile, and seems a bit more like her old self. “Vague, but accurate nonetheless. He avoids me because he owes me a fur coat.” “…now how is it that this creature who believes that the world revolves around him, according to his whimsies, come to owe anyone anything at all?” She leans her head back in thought just for a moment, and her hair cascades prettily past her shoulders, catching the rose tinted light as it goes. “Let’s see…there is no real easy way to explain this. I know; perhaps an analogy. There was once a doberman, a cat, and a mouse. Now the mouse was very small, but had very many friends, some of whom weren’t mice themselves. One day, a cat came along, and none of the mice were able to stand up to it, not even the ablest members of mouse society.” I look at her expectantly, expecting some end, or moral, or closure of some sort, but apparently, the story’s done already, and I’m sure I’m sporting quite a blank expression. Thomas offers, “…so the Cheshire’s the cat…” Rose says nothing, but continues to stare at me. I hate failing to meet to expectations, but apparently, I’m failing a lot at lots of stuff here. “So then, what are you, the doberman? But you can’t be the doberman…” Rose gives a slow sigh, and—despite my frustration at this world’s inability to decide upon whether it wants to be literal, or to exist as one big extended metaphor made up of littler ones—I actually feel a swell of pity for her. It does suck to place expectations upon others, and then have your hopes for them dashed to little bits. “I’m not the doberman. I am a cat, here to help the mice.” I must look utterly pathetic at that point because she says softly, “I’m sorry I can’t just give you the answers outright…” And her voice, surprisingly, actually sounds sympathetic and contrite. She leans close again, so close that her face is only inches from mine, and her breath and words brush warmly against my skin. “"Of friends and allies, you can have one without the other. Your problem seems to be that you have too many friends and not enough allies." I furrow my brow at this and reply, “I think you’re wrong—I think I have no friends, and no allies.” After a moment, I add, “Well, I mean, I have Thomas, but, y’know.” Thomas, of course, responds with an unenthused, “Gee. Thanks.” In answer, I toss him a winning smile. Still keeping the same distance from me (what little distance there is), Rose Red looks at me closely, and though her expression doesn’t change, she seems a little saddened. I don’t have too long to think on that, though, because she says, “One more hint, and then I soon have to take you back, lest the Queen find you missing.” Then, with fervent intensity, she says, “It’s political.” I think upon that, and I’m sure I look blank again. She brightens considerably, however, and fairly chirps, “Now. Would milady like some tea?” I look at her lovely face and her twinkling eyes, and I think, Hell, it’s probably poisoned. I dismiss that as being paranoia spilling over from my apparent inability to figure out any of the puzzles of this place, and my throat feels parched besides. “Sure,” I tonelessly say. We have our tea, and pretty soon it’s time to go back. We walk back, and I think a little. I’ve always joked about being like Pooh, in that I am a bear “of very little brain,” but this is just ridiculous. First of all, what the hell kind of analogy was that? And why would she be suggesting that the White Queen is the one trying to get at me?… And what’s political? Fuckin' hell, it seems that everything here is political in some way or another, and I knew that from the get-go. And I don’t know that she’d say it to mean “everything,” since that would be redundant, so what exactly is she referring to? Before I know it, we’ve reached the gate. Thomas and I walk through, and Rose Red stays on the wilderness side, and shuts the gate. Curiously, I hear it lock. I frown at that, and am just turning to ask Rose Red about it when I see that she’s already well down the path. How odd, I think, that she didn’t even stop to say goodbye, or anything. We walk back to the Red Queen’s cottage, and I fall into conversation about the day’s occurrences with Thomas, who says, “I think I’ve figured it out. She’s saying that the White Queen locked the door, and sent those predators after us. Why she did that would depend on whether or not she knew if Rose Red was there. I mean, after all, she did leave you in the care of the Bishop, for cryin’ out loud.” I shake my head at that. “Could be, but I don’t think so—the White Queen can only control what she sees, so that means line of sight, or scrying. That’s still literal, I think. Even if we assume that she did lock that door, what about those claws and things? Those whispers? Okay, that’s still in her domain, so it’s possible, but those things that Rose Red killed? If we assume that the enchantment placed upon me really is on Thrace the way the Red Queen said, then there’s no way she could send them here, because she can’t view me, or see where I am.” We don’t have much longer to discuss it, because we hear (and recognize) the Red Queen’s heavy footfalls approaching our door. Pretty soon, she appears, and cheerfully asks, “’Ad any good adventures while we were away?” Rather morosely I answer, “No.” Her face falls a bit upon seeing my dejection and then offers solace in the only way she seems to know how. “Oh. Well, I don’t sup’ose you’ve wourked up an ap’toite, ‘ave you?” “Nah, not really…” “Oh..All roight, then. I don’t want t’force it on you.” She leaves then, and I massage my temples. “Thomas, if you’re hungry, you don’t have to just stay here with me. Go eat. I think I’m gonna take a bath. My brain’s in knots.” Thomas goes to eat, and I take my bath. After I’m done, I dress, and, out of habit, I wipe down the mirror which appears to have a heavy layer of condensation upon it. Curiously, it seems to fog up again right after I wipe it down, even after all the steam has cleared out of the bathroom. I feel somewhat self-conscious, but I take a Q-tip and scribble onto the mirror’s surface, “Anyone in there?” Of course, I get no response, and wipe down evidence of my scribblings before someone catches it. This time around, though, what is even more curious than the near immediate fogging of the glass, is that I think I see a pair of eyes peering at me from a thin strip of cleared glass just before it fogs up again. I get a bigger towel that I might clear more of the mirror in one swipe. I do. And I immediately recognize the intense eyes in the mirror—they belong to the ghost girl who first lured me here and ran into the orphanage after Thomas and I were sucked in. The image remains on the glass for only a moment, and it only takes a moment for that recognition to coalesce in my mind, and in that very moment, my vision fades, and everything goes black. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/26/03 11:11:37 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 58 (1/27/03 12:12 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “ . . . Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib’d In one self place. . . .” -- Christopher Marlowe, Doctor Faustus. “Dark Error's other hidden side is truth.” -- Victor Hugo Eventually, my eyes open, and I wake. I almost regret doing so because pain shoots immediately into my consciousness, and I realize that manacles tightly pinch around my wrists. I lie slumped on the ground, and the manacles dangle a few feet above that, so my hands have been held suspended for the amount of time that I’ve been out. I sit up, and begin to flex my hands and fingers in an attempt to get some blood back into them. They react immediately, and I start to get some feeling back into them. I take a look around, and see that, of course, I’m in a dungeon. (like the proper medieval containment kind, not the fancy, BDSM, torture-on-your-leisure-time kind) Drat. Once again, my curiosity has gotten the better of me. I furrow my brow and wonder how I could have so completely forgotten all the warnings I had received from various people about the dangers of mirrors. I sigh, and then brighten again as I remember, Key! I stand up now, allowing the chains attached to the manacles to slack a bit, and then I feel around my neck for my key. Of course, it isn’t there. I lean my back dejectedly against the wall, and note that there is a small amount of bluish light filtering in from the window. God, I think, it’s nighttime…I wonder how long I’ve been out. Although, now that I think about it, maybe it's always night time in this place, because that means that the Black Queen's realm is always cloaked in shadow. After all, this is the first time I've not seen the sun's rays since I got here. I glance about a little more and notice finally that I’m no longer disguised as Thrace, but I’m me again. Minus the key and chain, the mirror, and all my electronic goodies. Great. Time passes, and there’s nothing about to keep me company, not even the comforting, mechanical tick, tick, tick of my watch. More time passes, and more time passes. Just as I think I’m about to lose my mind from the stresses of extreme boredom, I hear footsteps approaching. I blink at the first sight to greet my eyes. This world seems to have no lack of beautiful people, because I find before me yet another very attractive dark haired woman. She wears what looks like a black catsuit, and, even in this darkness, I can see how closely and deliciously it follows every motion of her lithe body. I also note with some curiosity that an inverted, white spade adorns her torso. Her polished boots clack sharply against the stone ground as she comes near, and soon her voice accompanies it. “You’re awake. Good. You’ve been out for some time.” She is pleasant to hear—her voice is clipped, but not rushed; her words precise, but not gratingly so in any over-enunciated sort of way. Without waiting for a response from me, she immediately begins to perform a quick outward check of my health. Upon closer inspection, I notice that her clothing is actually made from a combination of leather and silk, and I almost smile at the appropriateness of it--dark, with somewhat primal connotations, but luxurious at the same time. And, of course, there is the elegant tailoring. The silken thread used on the outfit takes on an eerie gleam in the bluish light, and I notice that the cuffs are delicately but still intricately embroidered. And, because it's black on black, I take that to be a mark of quite a careful artisan, and a careful consumer, that such details aren't overlooked. Her gloved hands turn my head this way and that, and I marvel at the silk that glides so easily over my skin. It’s so dark…I wonder how she’s seeing anything at all, I think to myself. Meanwhile, her voice chatters on. “Good. No side effects. Are you ill?” She pauses and looks at me expectantly. I blink and answer flatly, “Well, I am sick of this place…” She says nothing, but only continues to look at me with a vaguely bored sort of expression, and plainly awaits a proper response. I think about answering that I actually feel nauseated, but since she mentioned something about side-effects, drugs at some point were evidently used to knock me out for a while, and I certainly don’t want more of those in me. Instead, I lamely sigh and answer, “No.” She gives a quick nod, and then leaves. My eyes follow her as she goes, and I think that efficiency seems to be of utmost concern with this Ace. She wastes no time, no words, no movement. Her sharp footfalls slowly fade away in the distance, and I’m resigned to spending more time alone in this little hole. After a while, though, I hear voices far off in the distance, and I, of course, strain to hear all I can. “… …” “…oh, she did, did she?” “… …” “We can’t have that. Bring her to me.” I catch only one side of that conversation, but the voice that I do hear causes me to tighten my torso, and arch my back involuntarily, as though someone has imperceptibly slid an ice cube underneath my clothes, and I didn’t know it until after the ice had run its course. My muscles automatically tense, and it isn’t until a few minutes after the last word fades that my body relaxes somewhat again. I sigh and await the sharp clack, clack, clack, clack of those boots, but they never come. After what feels like hours, I again hear voices off in the distance. The only voice that is coherent is the female voice that I caught earlier, whose harsh consonants remind me of the snapping of branches during a winter freeze. The other voice, the incoherent one, sounds hysterical, uttering pure gibberish. In just a little bit, though, she starts to make sense, and I just barely catch her words. “Please, m’lady! I did what you said!” My eyes widen in disbelief—there could be no mistaking that voice. It’s Rose Red. As the conversation between them continues, my heart tightens in the clench of dread. In a moment, my premonition proves true: the wintry voice spits out, “To the letter, but not to the spirit.” There is more incoherence, but it soon stops. My mind races as I try to figure out what happened…unfortunately for me, my imagination has the tendency to just take flight whenever bad things happen, and I can’t help but envision all sorts of atrocities. I don’t know how long I think on this, but that sharp clack, clack, clack, clack of those now familiar boots interrupt my thoughts. I glance up to see the Ace of Spades again, gloved fingers laced rather indifferently through Rose Red’s beautiful, flowing locks. In the same civil, precise voice as before, she says in a calm and rolling voice, “Just thought you might like to know…what happens to those who attempt to help you.” With those last words, she gives Rose Red’s head a casual toss, and it lands with a soft thunk at my feet. The Ace of Spades looks at me for a moment, her own expression inscrutable, and then walks smoothly off. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 1/27/03 9:50:13 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 63 (1/27/03 10:12 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "What reinforcement we may gain from hope; If not, what resolution from despair." -- John Milton, Paradise Lost "The fresh eglantine exhaled a breath, Whose odours were of power to raise from death." -- John Dryden, The Flower and the Leaf (l. 96) I do my best to just not look at the head at my feet, but eventually, I am drawn to it, and my gaze moves immediately to the eyes that once beheld me so warmly. I release a sad, heavy sigh at the sight before me…Rose Red, who was once as vibrant as a new spring morning, who once carried the brilliance of the sun’s rays in her laughter, now lies waxen, motionless, and cold. My gaze travels from her eyes lower, until I see the horrible, ragged rip at her neck—her head was not sliced cleanly off by, say, an executioner’s blade, but rather rent from her lovely shoulders by a single powerful pull that indiscriminately broke skin, tore muscle, snapped vertebrae. I shudder, and suppress quiet tears for the terrible violence done to such a thing of Beauty. And still, perhaps callously, I give an inward sigh of relief that I’d at least not yet gotten so attached to Rose Red that I’d be utterly distraught over her as a person, rather than a personification of an ideal. As I’m looking at her, though, her jaw simply drops open, and I step back in horror as soon as that motion occurs. But nothing else happens. I peer at that open mouth now, and see that it’s actually concealing something. I hesitate just a little, take a breath, and then quickly dart my fingers in and out. Curiously, what my fingers grasp is a piece of wax paper. Hidden inside is the key, and a thorn. Immediately, I hold the key and will myself free of the manacles. They quietly snap open, and I immediately check my surroundings. I’m pretty much trapped. When the Ace of Spades came in earlier, I heard the bar gate slide open, but when I try now to pull on it with all my weight, it doesn’t budge. It also doesn’t appear designed to be moved at all. The barred window is higher up than I can see, and I have around me four walls, a ceiling, and a floor, all made of very heavy stone. I sigh in resignation, and just then another familiar voice greets me. "Such a tragic end for such a gentle soul." His voice is slow, and he actually sounds sorry—well, as sorry as the Cheshire could get, I suppose. "Yeah. And she didn’t even have the chance to get that fur coat you owe her." The Cheshire extends an arm, and I see in his paw a heavy fur coat. I sigh and say somewhat bitterly, "There’s a saying where I come from that goes, ‘Too little too late.’" The Cheshire merely grins, and responds, "Still, I’m sure she would have wanted you to have it." I say nothing, and merely glance at the pathetically open mouthed head. "It’s a very nice coat," he continues in that same unhurried, rolling manner. "Mmm." "It’s a very comfortable coat." He pauses for moment, and then adds, "But it can only be used once." I finally tear my gaze away from Rose Red and turn to ask, "What’s it do?" when I find that he’s already gone, and only the coat remains where he stood. Great. I guess I have to use it now, since I obviously didn’t get captured with this coat. As I’m thinking this over, I hearing a wheezing kind of sound from where Rose Red’s head lies. I look over at it, and, to my shock, I discover that air is in fact flowing from her mouth . I lean down close to her, and place my ear by her mouth, and I can just barely tell that the air flow forms words, but I simply can’t make them out. Very briefly, I think about forcing air through her trachea, but that idea is so completely unappealing that I immediately dismiss it from mind. Besides, what if I force too much air through, and her soft words become a shout? I’m sure my captors wouldn’t appreciate my attempts at getting hints for a break out from a severed head. Another thing I remember, though, is a game session in which life essence was passed through saliva. Well, I think, this place is totally beyond any rules I’m familiar with, so it might work. It also might not, but then, what do I have to lose? I sigh, and try to release my nervousness with my breath. I sit cross-legged on the ground, pick the head up, rest my elbows on the tops of my thighs, and I cup her face, now slick and unyielding with cold, in my palms. Quickly, I tuck her jaw back into place with a stroke of my thumb. Then, I block out all thoughts except the one that is completely mundane, and has nothing to do with anything. Lessee, how’s that quadratic equation go, again? … Negative B plus or minus … I shut my eyes, and slowly bring my lips to hers. … the square root of B squared… I hold my mouth there for a moment, and await (hope for) the instantaneous transfer of information. To my surprise, her lips start to warm, and they begin to move tenderly against mine. … minus four…Holy crap! My eyes fly open and I immediately pull away. Much to my dismay, her face shows no evidence of change from her former state. Drat. I begin my process over again, and despite my shaking hands, I hold my mouth steadily to hers once more. … minus four A C … Once more, her lips warm, and she begins to kiss me back. My mind just kinda blanks at this point. Though I’m the one holding her head up (and this must be an odd sight indeed), she appears to control the easy, swaying rhythm of the kiss. Eventually, her tongue slides gently against mine, and I can’t help but stroke her soft cheek, now so pleasantly flushed with warmth. I begin to pull back, but my effort is cut short, as I find my lower lip lightly caught between her teeth in a playful nibble. I marvel at this woman—it’s a damned good thing I didn’t get too attached to her while she was, well, whole, because I would have been nothing more than putty in her assuredly skilled hands. I open my eyes to look at her in surprise, and see that her eyes had long since fluttered open, and I can feel my heart warm at the life that shines within them. Finally, she presses her lips firmly against mine one final time, and when I draw back, she says softly, but clearly, "Down the mountain and to the north. I’ll help you. Use my thorn." And, rather quickly as I’m watching, the vitality that so aggressively but sweetly displayed itself just a few short seconds before fades, and Rose Red is really gone. I sigh and lie the head gently on the ground once more. My heart feels something like a stone in my chest as I softly whisper a few lines from "The Last Rose of Summer." "No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh." I spend a few moments mourning, and then whisper, "I'm so sorry..." Poor Rose Red--a metaphorical (but almost literal) pawn in a cruel, cruel game. Surely, being a power unto herself, she would prove for the Queen of Hearts too dear a sacrifice to the will of the Black Queen. More likely, she was a loan, but in doing her duties, Rose Red probably took it upon herself to perform whatever act the Black Queen demanded "to the letter, but not the spirit." Before being captured, I thought that I would prefer friends to allies, since friends are supposedly constant. But I see now an undiluted lesson in just how powerful allies can be--Rose Red was a friend, yes, and she lost her life by meddling in mine, but she was also an Ace loyal to the desires of her Queen. And so here, evidently, alliances take precedence over friendship. By now, however, that familiar clack, clack, clack, clack of the Ace of Spade’s boots interrupt my thoughts. Well then, it’s now or never time; at least I know where to go now. Kinda. I wrap the thorn back up in the wax paper, lest I suffer a prick from it, and tuck both it and the key into a pocket. Then I pull on the Cheshire Cat’s coat, and I feel an immediate change. It constricts, and grows tighter, and tighter, and tighter around, and just as I think my lungs are going to burst from this unexpected binding, my vision is obscured by the hood, which flipped over my face of its own accord. Now the hood covers everything completely, and I can’t see or breathe. My bones get squished tightly together, and just when I feel like they’re either going to snap or grind against each so hard that I’m going to lose all my cartilage, I realize that I can see again. And the pain fades. I feel smaller—either that, or the world has gotten larger—and the clack, clack, clack, clack draw ever closer. I’m a cat! I think to myself. Without wasting another moment, I leap in between the bars of the window (and it’s easily done), and look down. Fuckin’ hell, that’s quite a drop. I look up. Wow, the roof is pretty high up. My captors placed me in a high tower, and everything’s made of stone. It’d be somewhat difficult to jump up from my current position, but that’s preferable to the long drop below. I take a breath and leap, lest the Ace of Spades catch me in the act. I scramble a little…and I don’t make it. I begin my descent, and the only thing I can think of is, Crap, crap, crap, crap…. But, I am a cat, and so I flip my body over in a way that would make the landing (hopefully) painless. I do so, and my body relaxes. Now all I have to do is touch the ground. Hopefully, in one piece. Like I said, it’s a longass drop. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/10/03 10:45:07 am seasong1 a little fish in a big pond Posts: 78 (1/28/03 11:28 pm) Reply | Edit | Del A Very Long Drop a little fish in a big pond (thomas weigel) seasong's home page and story hour Edited by: seasong1 at: 1/28/03 11:28:43 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 81 (2/3/03 3:05 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. Chance will not do the work--Chance sends the breeze; But if the pilot slumber at the helm, The very wind that wafts us towards the port May dash us on the shelves.--The steersman's part is vigilance, Blow it or rough or smooth. -- Sir Walter Scott, Fortunes of Nigel (ch. XXII) Curiously, just after I fully realize the full extent of my descent, the first thing that pops into my mind is, Hey, I’ve always wanted to just leap from a very high place just to feel the adrenaline rush. I’d be a lot fuckin’ happier if I had a chute, or a bungee cord, or something, but still. YEEEEEEEEEHAAAAA! And I pull my little kitty face into a wide, appropriately Cheshire-y grin. I glance back up to see where I’d fallen from just in time to see the stone wall burst and then crumble inward. I blink at that, and then notice that I’m staring right into the eyes of the Ace of Spades who poked her head out past the rubble to search for her fleeing captive…and she then promptly pitches herself forward in a graceful, leaping arc after me. Very briefly, I wonder if she’s leaping because she’s just insane, or because her fear of the Black Queen is great enough to warrant suicide to escape from the consequences of her failure. And that’s just when the Red Queen’s assertion that Aces are "frighteningly competent" is brought to a whole new level. This Ace, while indeed "frighteningly competent," is also simply "monstrously frightening." .. .. But in a good way. I think. Maybe. We continue to plummet, with the tower behind me, and the Ace before me. I’m looking directly at her as we fall in sync, and her beautiful face carries that same cold, calculating expression. While her face bears no change, her hands do. Her fingers elongate before my eyes into long, sharp blades, so that each hand now carries five daggers extended from it. (think aikushi.) In that very moment, I recall a line from the original stories for which the Queen of Hearts is now so infamous for uttering. "There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you know." I answer my own thought with another. I’m neither a cat, nor do I wish to be skinned! In vain, I try desperately to teleport by the sheer force of my will. Apparently, either my will ain’t worth a crap, or this coat doesn’t come equipped with any of the cool abilities the Cheshire displays. Man, I just barely woke up and already today sucks ass. Thus I immediately attempt to flail my limbs to create more wind resistance and push myself closer to the wall of the tower in the hope that I might catch a jutting stone lip to keep myself from being caught in the Ace’s slicey-dicey-not-so-little hands. My eyes remain on the shining edges of the blades, so I don’t immediately notice that I have, indeed, caught something. I’ve landed on a stone parapet with my little kitty torso, and I’m alerted to my sudden stillness by the searing pain in my chest, where a few of my little ribs have snapped on impact. I’m too in shock to even howl in agony, and my eyes still follow the Ace’s shrinking form as she continues to fall. To my horror, however, one hand detaches at her wrist, and the blades sink handily into the stone, like some whacked out grappling hook. Accordingly, the hand remains attached to the rest of the Ace by way of a thin wire, and as I painfully catch my breath on the stone ledge, I can feel my eyes bulge as I watch the wire vibrate with sudden tautness. Without wasting any more precious time, I pick up my battered body from its resting place and hobble carefully along the ledge until I reach the opposite side of the tower. I glance downward (I’ve only fallen halfway down the tower’s entire length) and see that if I can jump just right, I can land in the river below. I take a breath and attempt to reassure myself that even though I don’t know how to, cats instinctively know how to swim—after all, I’ve seen tigers leap willingly into water to cool themselves off in the summer, even though cats in general stay as far away from bodies of water as possible. I push myself forward and down as hard as possible, and await my landing. I tumble into the water with a splash, and grunt in choked pain as I feel myself hit some rocks that lay hidden just beneath the water’s surface—this river is, apparently, not nearly as deep as I expected it to be. This day is going to be definitely difficult to beat on my ‘days that suck the most ass’ list. Pretty soon, the river’s current pulls my broken body along, and I’m swept farther and farther away from the stone tower. The water is ice cold, and I have just enough presence of mind to remember to crawl out of the river lest hypothermia sets in. I go amidst the foliage, recall Rose Red’s instructions, and glance upward to check for the north star. My vision is obscured by the canopy of green that hangs over the forest ground. Bother. I try to pull myself onto a tree to see if I can climb, but seeing as how I can barely walk, I’m not surprised that my muscles simply refuse to pull my body up. Ugh. Bother. I’m still intent on finding the north star, and so I start following the river back upstream to where the forest is hopefully a little less dense. That’s when I see her. As soon as my eyes get a hint of motion, I immediately hop into the green stuff and try to hide myself as well as I can, and I watch. My muscles remain tensed in readiness in case I have to bolt, and I bite back a whimper, and force down the burning protests from my broken bones. I’m hiding underneath a gnarled root that kinda hides a burrow-like thing, and I note with some gladness that it’s actually warm. I don’t have too long to think on this, however, and I keep quiet as I watch the Ace of Spades. Her hands are back to normal, and she’s following the river downstream. She bounds along and clears about 30 feet per jump, and I’d almost liken her to a frolicking fawn, but she (obviously) lacks the innocence and compassion that would accompany a fawn’s bearing. And that’s an understatement. She continues to bound, crouch, seek, bound, crouch, seek, and I watch until she’s out of sight. I sigh in quiet relief, only to hear a whispered, "An’ whot d’you s’pose ‘at is?" A companion responds, "Looks loike an ‘anus felinus’ t’me. ‘At’s ‘cat butt.’" I turn, and see two defensive looking rabbit creatures, one of which has a sword-ish looking thing pointed directly at my bedraggled, dripping, battered form. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 84 (2/5/03 12:03 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “If what must be given is given willingly, the kindness is doubled.” -- Syrus (Publilius Syrus), Maxims I blink in surprise as I study them now a little more carefully. They’re both of a good size (I guess; I grew up in a city where I didn’t see many animals besides cats, dogs, squirrels, and the occasional buggy pulling horse), and they stand upright on their hind legs. They also talk, but pretty much everything I’ve encountered here talks, so that’s not surprising. What gets me, though, is their clothing. The quieter rabbit wears simple, but wealthy looking clothing of a rich, forest green shade. The sword wielding rabbit looks rather appropriately like a swashbuckler in an ostentatious, flowing red cape (…red. in a forest. yeah.) over a puffy ensemble of white silk that makes me think of illustrations by modern artists who always tinge their works of early Renaissance apparel with notions of fantasy and erroneous romance. (no frills or ruffles, though—those come in the late 16th century, I think, and so can’t properly be called Renaissance garb.) I don’t respond to their comments, and continue to study them. They, in turn, continue to talk about me in normal (rather than whispered) voices, all while looking at me expectantly. I do and say nothing, and they seem to take my silence as a sign. "D’you s’pose it’s simple in t’ ‘ead?" "I du’no. Looks loike a Cheshire, though, so it moight be." I give a small frown, but mewl as pathetically as I can manage. It’s surprisingly easily, especially since I’ve a gajillion bruises, and some snapped bones; and the river water leaves a puddle beneath me as it trickles down my matted-in-some-places-stringy-in-other-places fur, and drips off my forlornly drooping whiskers. Even if I don’t look pathetic, I at least feel pathetic. And not even “regular” pathetic, but so damned pathetic that it becomes sad in a funny, “hahaha, better you than me, sucka” kinda way. Damn, but today sucks ass. And that’s an understatement. The swashbuckler readies himself for a not-so-imminent battle by displaying for me a few minor moves with the self-fashioned rapier, and (being an amateur fencer myself) I see that he’s got excellent point control. I have no doubt that he can be rather deadly with his weapon, hatpin though it may be. Very, very briefly, I consider using a paw to swipe at and snap the pointy, but I realize that I’m not in the mood to do even that…I’m not worried about his point control—I’m not really in the mood for worrying, or being remotely prudent at this juncture, either, but I do feel an encroaching urge to wallow in my misery, and so I give another appropriately self-pitying whimper-meow. They don’t appear impressed. The swashbuckler furrows his brow, and it occurs belatedly to me that he’s trying to intimidate me with his hatpin. "I ‘ont trust ‘er. I bet if I stuck ‘er with Foxsticker ‘ere, we’d get some answers." Great. Dueling with belligerent rabbits isn’t exactly on my ‘to do’ list today, so without waiting for a reply from the less excitable rabbit, I offer with feigned cheer, "Good day to you, sirs. I apologize for intruding into your space…I am a bit lost, as you can probably tell." At this, the more modestly dressed, less excitable rabbit looks a little concerned, and then says to the hatpin wielding one, "Put that up. She seems reasonable, at least." In response, the red caped bunny spits out, "I ‘on’t trust ‘er." He sheathes his weapon anyway, but says as he does so, "But at least she knows ‘at Foxsticker’s ready t’be used." Both pairs of eyes focus steadily upon me, and I answer, "You can call me Chris, by the way. What shall I call you?" The green clad rabbit answers, "I’m Albert, and this," gesturing to the rabbit beside him, "is Rodentus." Rodentus greets me with a scowl, and then immediately brandishes his weapon with a flourish again. "And this," he cries, "is Foxsticker!" Albert shakes his head slightly at the display, and says mildly again, "Put that up." Rodentus sheathes the hatpin once more, visibly disappointed. Albert’s concern seems to win out over his companion’s (and perhaps even his own) better judgment, and I eventually get invited in. They’re actually quite hospitable—they allow me to rest myself in front of the fire so that I might dry up a bit, and stop dripping on their lovely rug, and then Albert offers me some of the most delicious tea I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting. All this he does, despite Rodentus’ constant grumblings of mistrust…of course, Rodentus remains comforted by the fact that Foxsticker is ever ready to be put into use, and he takes every opportunity to remind me and Albert of that fact. Albert responds as I’ve seen him do before. “Put that up.” He says this in a dismissive, but still openly affectionate and amused kind of way, so I’m inclined to think that the phrase is often uttered and often heard within their good-natured household. I begin to clean up my fur a little bit by licking it, as I’ve so often seen my cat do. I realize then just how flexible I am, and just what a nasty business it is to bathe oneself with one’s tongue. I don’t know how cats can stand doing it…it does seem to help with the matting of my fur, though, except for the spots that I can’t reach—my broken ribs remind me none too softly of my predicament, and Albert appears to notice. At last! Finally, someone besides me has detected my suffering! After explaining that I fell into the river because I was being chased, Albert rushes off to get a first aid kit. When he returns, I marvel at just how much it appears like a first aid kit made for humans. In fact, it’s so like the ones I’m familiar with that I vaguely wonder if they had stolen theirs from some unsuspecting human “tourist.” They poke and prod all over to determine where the breaks are, and they bandage the minor injuries and splint the major ones as quickly and efficiently as if they’d done this kinda crap all their little rabbit lives. I rest a little longer, and, despite the inviting warmth of the fire, I know I have to get moving, and so I ask them about the possiblity of progressing northward. Albert rushes for a rabbit map, which I learn displays not just centers of population and where they’re located, but all the rabbits’ winding little burrows. To my annoyance, I also learn that going north would lead back to the Tower (which they call the “Big Stone Tree”), and that’d be going back up the mountain, not down it, as Rose Red had instructed. Past the Tower is apparently an area where no sane living creature would venture. Neither rabbit is willing to escort me there, which I had expected. Really, Albert informs me mildly, if I were looking to go “north,” then I should actually be heading southeast, since that’s where the compass with the big “N” rests on the map. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I envision adding a chalk mark on the big mental chalkboard I have where I’m keeping a tally for the “LITERAL” versus “METAPHORICAL” inclinations of this place, and then I note how ironic it is that I look like the Cheshire, and they accuse me of being like him, but they think more they way he does than I do. Still, I thank them for their hospitality, and ask that Albert go and alert all of rabbit-kind that I’ll be using their burrows, and I give my promise that I won’t hurt any rabbit I encounter. Albert agrees to do this, and when he goes, I am left with Rodentus as my only company. He, of course, watches me with narrowed eyes, and with his weapon hand resting on the hilt of the sheathed Foxsticker. After a while, he proudly tells his story of how Foxsticker received its name (basically he stuck a fox in the eye with it), and then we arrive upon a topic I had wished to avoid. “’Ow’d you say you fell in t’river?” I tell him about the chase with the Ace of Spades, and he murmurs, “’At’s not good. Not good a’tall. Likely they’ll be sendin’ out t’Black Knoight t’find you. Listen. Y’ ‘ear ‘at?” I quirk a kitty brow, and place my ear against a wall only to hear a deep, but distant and faint vibration. “’At’d be them, poundin’ ‘im out now.” “…what?” “’Ee’s a good tracker, so ‘ey sends ‘im out when ‘ey needs t’find someone. ‘Ee can change shape, so ‘ey pound ‘im into wha’ever shape ‘ey need ‘im to be to do ‘is job.” I try to envision this Black Knight invading this little home, and I have difficulty. I mean, I’m a cat, and I barely fit into this place. Even if the Black Knight were as good a shape shifter as Thrace, there’s no way… “…’Course, for ‘im t’fit ‘ere, ‘ee’d need t’be a snake…it’d be toight, ‘cause ‘ee’s so big, but ‘ee’d prob’ly be able to do it.” Well, that answers that. Suddenly, Rodentus looks more gleeful than he does when he brandishes Foxsticker. Mischievously, he pronounces, “I bet I could set a lit’le surprise for ‘at lit’le bugger. Won’t ‘ee be sorry he messed with Rodentus!” With that, he slides the fireplace over to the side (I don’t even know how that can be done in an underground house that’s supposedly structurally sound) to reveal a hidden passageway that leads down, down, down, and down still farther. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/5/03 12:28:49 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 88 (2/5/03 3:04 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. " . . .Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry. . . ." -- Thomas Gray, Ode to a Distant Prospect of Eton College Rodentus rummages around in a closet until he finds what he’s looking for, and I watch as he emerges with an absolutely delectable ball of yarn that smells vaguely minty. Normally, I associate balls of yarn with the drudgery of knitting, and so I usually pay no attention to them at all. But today, apparently, I’m more attuned to the yarn than I normally am, and I give my kitty head a little tilt, and harbor a hope that perhaps Rodentus will allow me to play with it a bit before we set into motion whatever plan he’s hatched. The ball is just the right size, too, for bouncing and pouncing and trouncing… But, alas, Rodentus dashes that little hope to tiny bits by tying the ball onto the end of a very long stick. "Lift your chin up." I do so, and he rubs the ball of yarn along my lower jaw. Ahhhh, I think, so this is why Kate always tilts her head up when I pet her. Rodentus rubs the yarn fairly vigorously against my fur, and a soft purr slips past my unsuspecting throat. He stops pretty soon, and I ask, "…are you covering my scent, or something?" He blinks as he holds the ball of yarn aloft. "No. Pickin’ it up." He pauses and then gives me a look that’s half perplexed, and half pitying. "You sure don’t know much ‘bout cats, for bein’ one y’self." I frown and say in self defense, "Well, I already told you that I’m new to this whole ‘cat’ thing—this isn’t my normal form." "Roight, roight, wha’ev’r. Turn ‘round." I do so, and he quickly and efficiently swabs the yarn against my other scent glands…uhm, back there. Before I can even think to protest, he’s done. "Now ‘en…" He looks around then, as if making sure that he hasn’t forgotten anything. "Oh! Roight! I must leave Albert a note." I watch as he scribbles a poorly penned note (I’d call his writing "chicken scratch," but he’s a rabbit, and might feel insulted) to Albert, and I note with a suppressed giggle that he ends it with a series of little drawn hearts. "Roight, ‘en. We’re off. Oh! Go rub yourself ‘round th’front ‘erre, an’ come back ‘ere, an’ we’ll be ready t’go." I creep carefully outside, and quickly do what he instructed. After I return, I see that Rodentus is ready to go, and is starting to lead the way down, down, down into the winding rabbit tunnels he and Albert call "The Warrens." (they say it like it’s a proper name; you can almost hear the capital letters as they pronounce the words.) As we go through the tunnels, Rodentus instructs me to rub up against a wall, that I might leave my scent behind me as a trail. I do as he says, and in the meantime we chat a little bit. "I’d loike t’be an adventurer. ‘Ow’d you get t’be one?" "…I’m not. Right now, all I want to do is lounge comfortably in my favorite chair at home. Someone sucked me into this world without first getting my consent, so I’m not at all a willing adventurer." "But ‘at’s th’best kind t’be! I mean, if I was a willin’ adventurer, lots o’ people would blame me f’things. But if I ‘ave adventurin’ forced upon me, they’d ‘ave nothin’ t’say." "…well, there is that, but what worries me about forced adventuring is lack of preparedness." He sighs at this. "I think I’d loike adventurin’. I was made f’it, I was. ‘At’s why I’ve kept Foxsticker. But t’rabbits ‘round ‘ere don’t much loike it—‘Put that up,’ they always say. If only I weren’t born a rabbit." I fall silent at this, since there’s nothing I can do or say that would offer even a small amount of consolation or remedy. We travel along in more or less companionable silence until we reach what looks like a dock that rests over an underground river. Before us lies another tunnel that leads off into darkness. "Roight. Now ‘ere we go!" Rodentus detaches the ball of yarn from its stick and lets it go tumbling down into the darkness. I watch quietly, saddened as I figure that I probably will never get to play with the yarn at this point. Rodentus chuckles a bit as it rolls farther and farther away. "Won’t th’Black Knoight get a nausty s’prise when ‘ee tries t’follow your scent!" …I don’t get it. "Why? Where does the tunnel lead?" "Why ,we’re on a mountain, y’know. ‘At ‘erre tunnel leads to lava. ‘At’s our incinera’or chute ‘at is." I give a loud laugh, impressed. "Now ‘en." He removes his cloak and binds up my front paws, tightly enough that the cloak fits around both paws, but loose enough that I can still manage to shuffle them a bit to facilitate motion. "Front paws. Scent glands 'erre. We’re going t’keep goin’ now. Try not to leave your scent on anything now." I nod and we shuffle along the docks until we find a barge that’s large enough to fit me. I step gingerly onto it and keep my tail (I finally have a tail! I love tails, and I’ve always wanted one!) wrapped as close to the rest of me as possible (it’s long enough that it hangs off the edge of the barge). And we chat a little more as the barge pushes forward. He asks why I’m going north, and I tell him that those were the instructions Rose Red left me. He thinks that she means for me to go southeast, since the Bane Warrens are in the north. "We’ll check out th’southeast, an’ if there’s nothin’ ‘erre, we’ll come back north." He doesn’t trust her instructions, but he does actually know her, since "We eat flow’rs, and we have t’know which ones we can nibble on. Rose Red is one flower no one nibbles on…Well, unless she lets ‘em, o’course." I think very briefly on her assertive but gentle nibbling of my lips during our kiss in the dungeon, but I quickly push that thought away. Something else soon replaces it, however. Since Rose Red can shift between human and rose shape at will, my heart leaps with the hope that she may yet be alive, with her natural form safely planted in some protected flowerbed somewhere. Rodentus, yet again, unwittingly dashes my unspoken hopes—she is dead if she’s had "’er flow’r ripped off," and it suddenly makes sense that the Black Queen did what she did not just for dramatic effect, but to genuinely eliminate a potential threat to her plans. If the Black Queen can do that, however, and Rose Red said that the Queen can receive sustenance from her, but it’s easier to get it from me, and the Queen (or one of her minions, which is even scarier) has obviously spilled Rose’s life without too much effort, doesn’t that make her chase of me moot? The Queen should have already received what she needed from Rose Red. Unless Rose lied, and she brought the Queen nothing to consume, or I have within myself something entirely different to offer without even knowing it. I don’t have time to think any longer on this—we’ve crossed the river, and I just barely land on the dock when I see and hear a rabbit come rushing past, his voice audibly contorted as he screeches words that are unintelligible to me. It’s not gibberish to Rodentus, though. "Whot?! ‘Ear ‘at? Oh, wait, I f’got you don’t speak Rabbit-Panic. ’ee says ‘at Rose Red’s bein’ led ‘round outside, an’ all ‘er thorns’re out." "But she’s dead!" "It could be a grebbling. Nausty buggers, those." "A what?" "Lit’l things that crawl into t’neck, and animate dead bodies." Just then, the dock buckles as a result of severe pressure forcing its way up from below. Simultaneously, the water from the river surges into waves that crash against the wood, and their splashing accompanies a deafening, eerie roar that thrashes upward through lava, through rock, and finally through water to get to our ears. All in that moment, Rodentus doesn’t miss a beat—as the dock begins to roll, he merely leaps upward, so that he doesn’t get affected as the dock caves inward, and he whips out Foxsticker in the same graceful motion, and he lands with his weapon ready just as the dock stabilizes. If ever there was someone on a set who deserves a wind effect, Rodentus would be that person. Except he’s a rabbit. Not everyone else is as smooth as he is, though. More confusion follows. Through the din, Rodentus not so modestly explains that that sound must have surely come from the dying Black Knight that he cleverly enticed into the pit of lava within the bowels of the mountain. He receives some praise, but mostly the other rabbits are more concerned that Rodentus actually brought a Black Knight into their warrens. To escape this unexpected bout of thanklessness (if not criticism), Rodentus and I keep pushing forward. We climb up and out onto the limb of a tree, and Rodentus’ face is very, very grim as he shows me through a telescope some very bad news. I see her. She’s walking. Not quite living, I guess, but walking nonetheless. Her body is covered entirely with sharp thorns that jut dangerously out every which way. They retract as her arms brush her sides when she walks, then re-extend when her arms pass, and it all looks quite as natural to her as breathing. Her head is missing (as I expected it to be), but where her creamy neck (which, I’m sure, has entertained many a whispered kiss in the past) ends in a ragged stump, there rests a little, black, splotchy…thing. I guess that would be the ‘grebbling.’ Around its small, round top is secured a leash, and it’s held by someone I’ve never seen before. He’s a fairly good looking, slender man who carries in his swagger the careless, uncultivated charm of youth. How appropriate, then, that he’s dressed like a typical game barbarian—he wears studded black leathers, and carries a short sword that I can’t quite identify in this distance. As I’m watching, however, I can see Rose Red stop, and turn slowly. Then, in the same painstakingly precise manner, she raises her arm, and her index finger extends accusingly at exactly where I’m currently perched with Rodentus, while her other fingers dangle with lifeless ease. The man unleashes this unholy, violated hound, and my jaw drops as I see her blur into action. Literally, blur. She moves so quickly that I barely catch sight of her motion. Rodentus notes this as he peers into the telescope, and he readies himself for what will surely come. "Roight, ‘en." Quickly, he secures the map into the bindings around my torso, and points out some directions, and instructs me to go meet the Council at that spot, and they’ll take me southeast to where the compass is on the map. I feel bad for leaving him, and briefly consider staying, but, as he brandishes Foxsticker again, he tells me in no uncertain terms to leave. I must, of course, go…if I stay, his sacrifice would all be for naught, and I would be caught, and of no use to anyone. And Rose Red draws still nearer as I fight off my indecision. And once more, in case I didn't get it before, he seriously utters, "Go. I'll try t'bouy you some toime." I spin on my heel and bound away just as Rodentus prepares to hurl himself, armed with only Foxsticker, at the headless assassin. My heart clenches into a tight little stone even as it pounds in my chest, and I can feel the dread press harder onto me than ever, even over the existing pressure of the bindings that currently hold my ribs together. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/5/03 4:21:06 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 97 (2/9/03 10:52 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "What is deservedly suffered must be borne with calmness, but when the pain is unmerited, the grief is resistless." -- Ovid (Publius Ovidius Naso), Heriodes (V, 7) My breath comes unsteadily as I run, and my lungs feel as though they’re about to burst from the pressure both within and without. My pain is nothing compared to what I hear, though—the metallic sching of Foxsticker peals through the air, but is quickly followed by a soft, mushy glehch kind of sound. I don’t know for sure that that’s the end of Rodentus, but as Foxsticker no longer sings, I fear the worst, and I pour my sorrow into my run as I pound the forest floor still faster. Perhaps, if I run very, very fast, like the Red Queen did, I can escape this madness… …I don’t. But I do follow Rodentus’ last instructions and I eventually find myself at the Council Hall. I’m greeted by two rather bored looking rabbits, and when I explain my situation to them, they recognize me as the one Albert said would be using their warrens. One of them goes to fetch a council member, and he returns with a rotund rabbit who assigns one of the guards to be my escort to the compass in the southeast. Jake, the guard, is none too pleased at this prospect, but accepts his duty in light of the alternative, which is cleaning the pellet room. He starts at a slow jaunt, and when I inform him that I’m rather in a hurry, he replies in a sulking voice, “Well, I’m not.” Not surprisingly, perhaps, I get vaguely annoyed at that. “Perhaps you would be, if you knew that I’m being chased.” “Chased? By whom?” “…well, Rodentus fooled a Black Knight into the lava pits of your mountain, and just recently, Rose Red was unleashed upon us, with all her thorns out.” He narrows his little eyes at me, the distrust dripping from his voice. “I don’t believe you—Rose Red is a rabbit friend. Why would she be here with all her thorns out?” As winding and connected as the warrens are, I guess they’re not nearly as useful as the traditional grapevine. “Well, she’s not exactly Rose Red anymore—she’s being animated by a grebbling.” “…that’s a bad word, you know.” “…what is? ‘Grebbling?’” He merely narrows his eyes at me still further, and then responds with, “Right then.” And he takes off at an incredible pace, faster than I’ve ever seen any rabbit go. (But, of course, all the rabbits I’ve seen (and they are few in number) in the past have all been domesticated, fat little things that live quiety and happily in indoor hutches.) He’s going far too fast for me to easily keep up, and this forest pathway winds this way and that. Now throwing all caution to the wind, I shuck off Rodentus’ cloak that kept the scent glands in my front paws covered, and try desperately to keep Jake’s pace. Off in the distance, I hear a few angry cries. “’S’at a cat, chasin’ ahfter a rab’it?” “Looks loike it t’me!” “Get ‘im!” Wonderful. Now the rabbit equivalents of street thugs are almost literally on my tail. Without turning my head back, I shout in response, “Jake is leading me somewhere on a Coucil approved journey!” And in my head, I can’t help but remember, “Oh, Mister Rabbit! Mr. Rabbit!” “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date…” Still, the group of rabbits continues to follow me, but I don’t think too much on that, because my concentration is already being tested in following Jake. Finally, I can see myself closing on him. Too late, unfortunately, because he says blandly, “Right down there,” just as I pass him. And as I attempt to skid to a stop, I realize that I’m falling off an edge. As I’m falling, I look down to see that below me rests a physical compass. And I’m astounded—these rabbits actually built a compass right where maps say it lies. And it scores yet another point on the mental chalkboard for the “LITERAL” side. I land none too softly on the compass, and after groaning and whining a bit, I hobble on over to where the “N” is. (Very, very luckily for me, this fall wasn't too far, and I happened to land on my feet.) There appears to be a wall before me, and I wait a bit. Nothing happens. Jake shouts from the top of the mountain wall, “Spot ‘n hop! See where you want to go, and then go there!” My brow furrows as I try to imagine what the hell his words could mean, and then I just start to lean my head forward a bit. To my amazement, I realize that the further forward I lean my head, the further my “vision” reaches. When I pull back, the sights pull away from very quickly, like a fast zoom-out on a computer or a camera, until there’s nothing before me except the wall again. I shout back, “What do you mean, ‘spot and hop’? I have to ‘hop’ across all that distance? I can’t do that! I’ve broken bones!” To my annoyance, worry, and chagrin, Jake shouts back, “Hey! Who wants to give a cat a good kick?” I hear of chorus of rabbit approval, and I turn back to see a large number of rabbits jump into the area immediately surrounding the compass. They all get behind me, and I again get my head to the spot that leads me to where I want to be. I see the mountainside, and I let the rabbits know I’m ready. They shove, and I, with my breath held, go through. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/10/03 8:07:31 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 98 (2/10/03 9:14 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "No steps backward." -- Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), Epistles (I, i, 74) As I exhale my breath, I look around and see that I am, indeed, on the mountainside. Well, I think to myself, Rose Red said ‘down the mountain and to the north,’ so I guess I’ll just go down the mountain. And I pray that I’m headed in the right direction. Still, I am alive, and that cheers me. That’s about all that is available to cheer me, because I’m totally surrounded in every direction by darkness. Constellations won’t be of any help to me as I start searching, because the shine of only a very, very stars actually break through the dark canopy of clouds that jealously hide even the moon’s silver rays. I start picking my way past the rocks when a familiar voice greets my ears. "…That coat has been treated very unkindly. What have you done to it?" I turn my head to face the Cheshire, and I frown a little. "Trust me, I would have loved to have been kinder to it, as it would have meant kindness to my own form as well. I didn’t choose to fall into the river, nor did I choose to break my ribs—" "—what did you do, half lick it?" His eyes sweep over my little kitty body in mild disgust. "…what? I tried to do it as I’ve seen my cat do it…" He sighs then, the vexation evident in the way his voice undulates. "You lick it once to get things out, two times to gloss, and the third time to dry." His gaze rakes across my half-wet, half-dry, unkempt, stringy-matted form before spitting out, "Humans. No appreciation for a good coat of fur." I chat for a little while longer with the Cheshire, who continues to relentlessly grin like a fiend, and he tells me a bit about the rabbits’ history, and the origins of the Ban Warrens. A few moments after that, in answer to my question, he tells me that "The Black Queen has two Black Knights. One takes to the air, the other to earth." I glance up in worry, but am relieved to see nothing there. The Cheshire interrupts all my thoughts, however, when he very slowly and with odd inflection says, "If you’ll excuse me—you’re about to have some company." And he vanishes without further warning. I glance wildly about, but see nothing. Still, the Cheshire never hangs around when there’s trouble about, and I’m sure he didn’t vanish for no reason. Despite the protests of my ribs, I run like my life depends on it. (because it probably does. Again.) I guess I value speed over caution in times of great duress, since I step on a loose rock, and begin to slip every which way…and then I start to tumble…and now I’m quite embarrassingly rolling down the mountainside, and I grunt in pain every time I hit the slope. As I roll, though, I catch a glimpse of my hunter, and it is none other than the lovely Ace of Spades. Finally, my tumbling slows, and I try to quickly find a niche or something to hide in. I do (although it’s not a very good or deep one), and I try to will myself invisible. I’m only a rock; you don’t see me. There’s nothing here, nothing here… I chant this mantra and squeeze my eyes shut as I hear the heavy steps of the Ace of Spades draw ever closer. Silence suddenly surrounds me, but only for a brief moment until her steps thunder again, this time just overhead. The mountain gravel crunches uncomfortably beneath her weight as she lands, and because she sounds so near, I risk opening my eyes. To my shock, after a few brief seconds, she continues to bound downslope in her search. A few more seconds, and she’s out of sight completely. Just then, I feel a heavy weight lift from my body, and I glance up to see the Cheshire’s massive paws unwrapping around me to reveal my feline form. He glances down at me, and with that same rolling voice intones, "Never let it be said that I’ve never done you any favors." I blink, and then sadly respond, "…Yeah, thanks. But I guess that I now owe you something." "Yes, it does, rather. I’d like the coat back." Bother. Granted, I don’t know how to get the coat off, but even if I don’t, it’s a lot easier to hide myself when my body’s only 12 to 14 inches long. "…Do you think there might be something else that I could give to you instead?" "Unlikely. And you’ve not yet irritated me enough to warrant making a meal out of you." "Oh." I think a moment. "So how are you going to remove the coat without damaging it or me?" The Cheshire’s grin widens considerably, and for what feels like the millionth time, looks to be more dangerously pointy toothed than should be possible. He extends his claws, and sinks them deeply into my flesh. Now, I’ve a pretty high pain tolerance in general, and all along this trip I think I’ve withstood a lot of emotional testing and physical injury. I’ve endured it all pretty well—I grimace whenever my ribs get nudged the wrong way, but my body doesn’t wince and retract nearly as much as it did before. Of course, maybe that’s because I’ve had time to get used to their ache. This new pain is beyond anything I’ve been accustomed to, or yet encountered. It sears through my consciousness, and rips through my pain threshold like a razor blade drawn against paper. The Cheshire literally peels the coat off with his massive, merciless claws, and I could swear he’s taking his sweetass time about it. He continues to grin as he removes the fur from my body, but it’s eventually over. At this point, I’m probably only about half as aware of my surroundings as I should be, and dark as the immediate area is, the edges of my vision are still hazed with white-hot pain. I feel chilled, and that’s when I notice that the removal of the coat leaves me completely naked. "Uhm, Cheshire, may I have my clothes back, please?" The Cheshire is just rolling the coat up, and as he does so, I see the hood of the coat, and it’s a mask in the shape of a kitty face and head. He looks at me for a moment, and then murmurs, "Oh, are those still in here?" He picks through the coat, and removes my clothing with the tip of a claw. The fall in a heap beside me, and that’s when I notice that while the clothes are still their original size, I’m still a mere 12 to 14 inches long. "Uhm, Cheshire I’m not going to fit into these clothes…could you return me to my normal size…?" He bestows upon me only that infernal grin. "I’m sure, with a little time, that you’ll grow back up." I narrow my eyes slightly at this, thinking that obviously the words spoken are meant literally, but he used those particular words as a metaphorical slap at my development. Before I can open my mouth in protest, though, he’s gone. After releasing my frustrations in a quick but heavy sigh, I bunch my clothes under a root as well as I can, and I check the pockets for the key and the thorn (which are still there). Quite pleasantly (one of the few pleasant things to occur along this trip since I’ve been captured), at this size, the thorn fits nicely into my hand, and the base of it even forms a little handle, which makes grasping it a little easier. Thorn in hand, I crawl into one of the legs of my pants, and, as I collapse from pain and physical exhaustion, everything goes black. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 102 (2/10/03 12:06 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow's bliss." -- Arragon, William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice (II, ix) Eventually, I awake, and I half expect to find myself in a dungeon like the one I woke up in the last time I blacked out. I don't, though, and as I come to, I note with satisfaction that I have, indeed, grown a little, and I hurriedly pull on my clothes. They’re still bulky, but at least they kinda fit, and that’s way better than my situation was before. I continue going down mountain, and after a few hours (and I'm back to my actual size by now), I hit another densely forested area that looks like an orchard. Curiously, all the hefty apples that dangle from the low hanging branches are black in color. Aside from that oddity, they, heavy in their ripeness, look delicious and inviting, and I remember that’s it’s been many, many months since I last tried an apple. Still, despite the temptation, and despite my stomach’s rumbling (I’ve not eaten in many hours), that single oddity proves more than enough to put me on my guard. I’m glad that I am on my guard, though, because as I’m looking at my surroundings, a little old lady calls in a withered, old voice, "Hullo there." I spin on my heel just quickly enough to catch sight of her creeping cautiously out from behind a tall tree that makes her small size look even more diminutive. She continues to speak, her voice creaking like antique leathers. "What are you doing in my orchard?" "I didn’t know this is your orchard." "Aye, it is. Isn’t it lovely?" She seems harmless enough, but I note with no small amount of displeasure that with each word she utters, her shuffling feet draw her closer to me than I’d like. In our chatting, I try very hard to circumvent her purposeful ambling, but I fail. When she mentions the 3 foot tall wall that runs around the perimeter of her orchard "because I’ve got to protect my lovely apples, y’see, but you seem to be alright," I notice with some horror that she has closed the distance between us, enough that she can, and does, reach out a hand to pat my shoulder. When she does so, I could swear that she also pinches my flesh a little bit, as if to test my arm’s thickness. With a touch of concern in her voice, she, again, meekly intones, "Are you sure you don’t want an apple?" I frown slightly at the way my stomach makes my negligence of it known, and hope that I don’t appear rude. "Well, alright. I’ll take one for now—it might come in handy later." Hmph. This lady is damned creepy, and all I can think of as I take the apple is, Snow White was poisoned by an apple such as this… I tuck the apple into a zippered pocket on the inside of my fleece zip up. "Alright, then. Make sure you avoid the seeds." "…What? Why? Because there’s cyanide in them?" I give a short laugh as I ask her, thinking this all too weird to be taken too seriously. She looks at me curiously, and then replies, "Well, they don’t taste good." Well, this is an unexpected answer—I was waiting only to hear a laugh in return. I think to myself, Alright, so the seeds either carry more poison than the rest of the apple, or more than your usual amount of cyanide, OR, more likely, the seeds carry the antidote to the apple’s poison. OR, most likely, I’m overthinking things again, and I should just trust my gut instinct and avoid eating the apple altogether. No matter what I do, I can’t dally in the open too much longer. I ask the old lady about the forest itself, like how long it extends, what kind of things inhabit it, and so on. I don’t get much useful information from her, and in answer to the second question, her answers and the way she gives them makes me think that she’s deliberately trying to scare me. Still, the minutes tick by, and as I’m pondering my next move, she asks, "Are you in any hurry, dear?" I look at her oddly, and think carefully about my words before I say them. Rather curiously, she merely waits for my answer as the seconds draw into a full minute, her face all the while draped in what could be termed matronly patience. I sigh in defeat and answer, "Not quite yet, but I must be gone within a few hours’ time." She nods and leads me amiably to her home, which rests just a little further into the orchard, and I am surprised when we get there—before my eyes, what had been just dark nothingness, now looms a one story cottage. She opens the door and steps inside, leaving the door open for me to follow. I think for a moment before I step in past the threshold, but her voice dismisses my reconsideration. "Wipe your feet on the mat, there." With an unsure breath, I step in, and the door shuts behind me. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/10/03 1:30:04 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 104 (2/10/03 1:57 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible." -- John Milton, Paradise Lost (bk. I, l. 62) "Have a seat. Would you like some tea?" The little old lady apparently goes directly into hostess mode, and I sit down at her little table. I look around me curiously, and see that at the center of the room is a hearth that does little to cheer me, and I realize as I’m looking about that this place also has no windows. I quirk a brow at that, and then think about the little old lady’s offer. I’m really thirsty, I find. "Alright, if you’ve any to offer." I watch her sharply, but surreptitiously as she goes to the kettle hanging over the fire and pours out two little mugs of tea. She sets mine before me, and she takes an immediate gulp of hers. My own tea is so very dark that it barely carries any reflections on its surface. Still, it smells rather tasty, and I take a very small, very tentative sip. To my surprise—well, not really; perhaps half-surprise, half-un-surprise—the "tea" is actually a very potent cider that tastes vaguely alcoholic, and, despite my parched throat, I hold off on drinking more. The alcohol in it doesn’t bode too well, I think—perhaps it’s there to hide something more sinister lurking in the ingredients. The old crone seems to notice that I’m letting my tea just sit, and she makes a comment about it. Rather smoothly, I think, I reply that I’m allowing it to cool, since it is fresh from the kettle. She takes that well enough, and we chat for a little while about and this and that until she bolts upright in her seat. "Excuse me, dearie, but there’s someone else in my orchard." I nod, as she leaves the room and shuts the door behind her. I take this opportunity to slip out of my seat and explore the rest of the cottage. What I find is somewhat disturbing: the cottage is actually round in shape, and all the other rooms form a sort of outer wall around the main room with the hearth. The rooms fulfill different functions as you follow along the arc, and the first room looks something like a kitchen, with pots, pans, herbs, and the like; the second room appears to be a bedroom; and the last…has shelves lining its walls, and along the shelves are carefully polished skulls. A single candle lights this room, and my body and mind begin to feel constricted, as if the room, or the darkness of the room, is creeping up, over and around me, binding me to it somehow. Just as I start winding my way back to the main room, my eyes catch sight of a cat that I’ve not seen before—I don’t note much about it other that it focuses a pair of blood red eyes upon me as I dart past it, and end up back in the main room. My curiosity gets the better of me again, as I begin to think that the little old lady must be having quite an exchange. I move towards the door with the intention of opening it a crack so that I might hear a bit of what’s going on (if anything is), but I find that it’s locked. I immediately reach into my jeans pocket and will the door open as my fingertips grasp the key hidden in the pocket’s depths. Almost instantaneously, I feel the familiar mechanical push, so I crouch down low to the ground and crack the door open just a little bit. My eyes widen as I take a peek at what's going on outside. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 105 (2/10/03 3:21 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "A hunter of shadows, himself a shade." -- Homer, The Odyssey (II, 572) I see the old lady, and before her stands someone who looks vaguely knightly, but he is, of course, dressed all in black. The old lady’s voice is the first to grace my ears, and she sounds rather irate. "Well, you can’t have her. I know my rights!" "…. …. …." I can’t catch the Black Knight’s words, but his sound is so strangely otherworldly and somewhat painful sounding that my body involuntarily clenches and closes in on itself, the way it does when annoying people run their fingernails against a blackboard. The difference here, though, is that the Knight’s voice isn’t high or screeching at all—on the contrary, it’s deep, cold, and sounds more like angry, but unintelligible whispers than anything else. The closest sensation I can liken it to is how your skin might feel upon having a cold, cold snake spiral upward along your limbs, with the serpent’s forked tongue flicking icily at your flesh as it goes. The little old lady doesn’t seem at all perturbed by the figure that towers over her little form. "I found her! If anyone’s going to be consuming her, it’s me!" "… … … .." Again the unearthly voice causes me to grate my teeth, but this time he sounds more like a rushed series of breathy hisses that resonate well in this chill night air. "It doesn’t matter; she’s gone anyway. Now you can get back to your Queen and tell her that. Now get off my property!" I blink at this unexpected display of fire from the withered woman…of course, I know she wouldn't hesitate to defend what she considers rightly hers, but to talk that way to a Black Knight--! She now brandishes something I can’t quite see, since her back is to me, but I know it’s small, since it fits neatly in the palm of her hand. With that the Knight turns quickly on his heel, and the night darkness engulfs him so quickly that I almost don’t see him go. I waste no time as soon as he does that. I shut the door, lock it with my key again just as I’m sliding back into my seat. I just barely notice that the cat, who was perched on the shelves in the other room, now lounges comfortably before the fire, and fixes his eyes hatefully on me, and I resist the urge to throw something at him just to dispel his glare. The old lady comes back in, and curiously, I don’t even hear the lock click open as she comes back in. Oddly, the first thing she notices upon her return is my lack of tea drinking. I tell her that there are some teas that are to my tastes, and other that simply aren’t. She looks disappointed, and offers me an apple. I remind her that I’ve already got one, and she murmurs, "Oh, right, you haven’t eaten it yet." She keeps looking at me expectantly, and I break the silence by asking, "Where did you get such .. an interesting cat?" "He’s a unique little snowflake, he is." "Well, yes…what gave him those .. remarkable.. red eyes?" She sighs at this, and looks me full in the face. "Baby’s blood." "…what?" "Baby’s blood. No milk around here, so I use baby’s blood. ‘ Course, I have to find a baby first…" With that, she stands up, and meets my gaze, her own quite serious. "Now then, since you’re not drinking your tea, I suppose we’ll have to do this the rude way." With that, she lifts an arm, and I can see her fingers elongate into a single, sharp claw. I’ve been waiting for this to happen, and so I’m prepared. Since it appears as though she’s aiming once more for the shoulder area, my fingers immediately grasp Rose Red’s thorn as I drop into a lunge position low enough that she’ll miss, but I can still pull a zorro on her shriveled old ass, and I give a silent prayer that the poison will set swiftly in her veins. My current closeness to her is rather dangerous, but as I whip out the thorn, to my surprise, it lengthens into a full blade, complete with a hilt. I grasp the thorn tightly, and hop backward then, with the distance and speed that so impressed my former fencing coaches and teammates, and I do what comes instinctively. I swipe at her claw, since that gives her the advantage of distance (and is probably poisoned), and try to keep my movements small and precise, lest I leave my own body open to attack. My worries are for nothing, though—I’m amazed at how easily the blade itself, with pointed tip and razor sharp edges, can slice so neatly through muscle and bone…the old crone’s claw clatters to the floor, and she seizes her stump in shock and pain. For a moment, as I hold the blade in the guard position, only the sound of her sizzling flesh breaks the cold silence between us. She is the first to speak. "Well, it seems as though you’ve got a bit of a nasty thing there." I say nothing, and hold my ground. She narrows her eyes at this, and then slowly spits out, "Get out of my cottage." I’m only too glad to go. When I leave her presence, the thorn shrinks back to its original size, and I tuck it safely back into a pocket. I eventually get to the wall the crone mentioned, and see in dismay that it’s not a mere 3 feet, but actually 12 feet in height. I decide to get a running start on it, and I’m damned glad I’m wearing my hiking boots—they’re going to give me a lot more traction on the stone wall than my Docs would have. Unfortunately for me, my adrenaline level begins to drop, and I can feel my ribs starting to protest again. I run as fast as I can, and land a foot squarely on the face of the wall. Using that foot to boost the rest of me up, I reach up and grab the top ledge of the wall, only to realize that my fingers are being mercilessly cut. I endure it as well as I can, and pull myself the rest of the way up. As I reach the top, I see the cause of my pain as it glitters in what little light there is—there, along the top ledge, are shards of glass, strewn presumably just to annoy people, since they don't do enough to keep people out (unless there's something I'm missing, and it's possible). I release a stream of obscenities in frustration…these people don’t even have windows, for Christssakes, but they’ll put glass on top of walls…! Of all the nonsensical…! I drop down over the wall as best as I can, and ignore the pain that now pounds in my chest, and I shake my hands out and hope that the motion will cause most of the shards to drop away from my flesh. I sigh as I look at my hands, now torn open and bleeding. If these past few days serve as any indication, I’m going to have a very impressive list of "days that suck lots of ass" on my "days that suck lots of ass" list. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 109 (2/11/03 12:39 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Conversation is a game of circles." -- Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays—Circles I shake my hands out some more, and I think longingly of the awesome, compact first aid kit resting in the Camelbak pack that I use for mountain biking, which is now sitting quietly at home, instead of on my back, where it should be. I have flashlights, a GPS, a whistle, and a compass in there, because I also use it while hiking. Instead, all I have on me now is a poisoned apple, a key and a thorn—all of which are badass, but they can’t stop my hands from bleeding. When the bleeding on my right hand appears to have slowed for a little bit, I quickly reach into my pocket and take out the thorn again. It stays the same size, but I figure that having it out and ready is a good thing, since it seems to automatically detect trouble, and shifts sizes accordingly. I walk along only a little bit further until I encounter the Cheshire once more. He sprawls himself out before me, and any random passersby might even think that he owns that patch of land. He watches me with lazy eyes, and I just furrow my brow in response before I contribute, "You seem to always show up when trouble has already passed." He gives me that menacing grin once more before he speaks, his voice rising and falling with careless indolence. "Yes. And your point is?" I sigh at this answer, and just give my head a quick shake. "Nothing—I was just thinking that it must be nice to be you." "Yes. It is, rather." As usual, I don’t get too much useful information from him, but I do ask about the forest, and he states calmly, "You are in the forest because this is where you are." I answer him with a look that shouts Well, yes, but… He continues patiently, "…in your mind." I continue to give him that look of patented blankness. At my apparent inability to comprehend his words, he offers with a slow sigh, "Still not ready for mirrors, I see." Evidently not, especially if they have the habit of talking in riddles around issues, the way the Cheshire does. I ask, "Well, how far does the forest extend?" He appears thoughtful for a moment, and then he replies, "Well, I would say about a thousand steps." "…a thousand steps for me, or for some other creature?" His gaze roams over me in impassive estimation, and he finally says, "Perhaps…for one a little larger than yourself." I look down further into the forest, and attempt to imagine a thousand steps from here. As far as my eyes can reach, there are trees, trees, more trees. I turn to him to voice that comment when I realize that he’s already gone. Sighing, I trudge onward, and begin to count my steps—I’ve nothing else to do to keep myself amused, after all, and it helps to turn my concentration onto something other than the aching that still throbs in my chest and hands. At nine hundred and ninety seven steps, I reach another cottage, this one two stories tall, and more wholesome looking than the last. Still, having my last experience with a cottage in this forest still fresh in my memory, I decide to pass this one quietly. I take it as a good sign that the thorn is still its small size, and I’d like to keep it that way. As I’m walking past the structure, though, a soft, warmly serene voice greets me and stops me in my tracks. "Might you be the one named Christina?" My features contort with annoyance and distrust, but as I spin around to confront the mysterious speaker, I see a very pale skinned woman with dark, dark hair, and ethereal tranquility frames her beautiful face. Well, this is unexpected…but then, everything that happens here appears to always be that way, so perhaps I should just get used to expecting the unexpected. In the meantime, the woman stands quietly at the doorstep, awaiting my answer. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/11/03 1:14:19 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 112 (2/12/03 11:20 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Oft expectation fails, and most oft there Where most it promises; and oft it hits Where hope is coldest and despair most fits." -- Helena, Shakespeare’s All's Well That Ends Well (II, i) I finger the thorn for a moment before I answer, and note with relief (and, I won’t lie, a loose sense of disappointment—damn, but it handles well as a blade!) that it’s still its small size. I call out rather brusquely, "Why? Who’re you?" I add as an afterthought, "…if you don’t mind my asking." Her voice, as before, remains slow, warm, and rings in quiet peace. "I am called Snow White, and I was told about Christina by a friend." Okay. That’s two unexpected bits of news in this short expanse of time—one more, and I guess I’m out. (out to where, I’ve no idea…) "And who might that friend be?" "…well, if you’re not who I’m looking for, then I’d rather not implicate the friend." I think about that and resist the urge to smack my forehead. Duh—I mean, if I were her, I wouldn’t answer either. Still, it doesn’t hurt to try. After breathing another sigh in resignation, I answer, "You can call me Chris, by the way." She nods, ands then asks gently, "Won’t you come in? I don’t believe this is something we should discuss out here." Silently, I note the pattern of people trying to get me into their houses (so far, everyone I’ve met has done it, except the Cheshire. I wonder if that’s significant somehow), but apparently, staying outside really is rather dangerous, what with all the monsters running about. I give another sigh of resignation (I seem to be doing that an awful lot), follow her into her home (as curiously windowless as the last cottage), and quietly shut the door behind me. "My name is Kate, by the way." Her voice seems to offer the most composed calm that I’ve yet heard in this realm, and I shut my eyes briefly at the way the sound and her words envelope me. "Well, you already know mine…" She looks at me expectantly then, and I wonder if she’s waiting for me to elaborate, or to confirm that that is, indeed, without question, my name. I merely let my voice trail off, and let the air hang silent between us. After a moment, she tilts her head slightly, and then says with a concerned voice, "You appear to have some severely broken bones. May I mend them?" I grit my teeth, since I know that most favors like that don’t come without a price. .. .. But they also hurt so badly, and I know that I can’t continue fleeing at my current pace for too much longer if these bones don’t heal quickly, and soon. Unable to keep my suspicion hidden in my voice, I ask, "And how are you going to do that?" She gives a small, embarrassed smile as she answers with light teasing, "…well, it’s difficult for me to explain without showing it to you." Drat. On one hand, I’m in terrible pain. On the other hand…I’m in terrible pain. I guess the pain wins out this time…and, if any bad happens, I won’t hesitate to break out Rose Red’s thorn—I happen to rather like the feel of it in my hands, anyway. God, I’m such an incorrigible action junkie. Before my thoughts can wander any further astray, I set my jaw, and brace myself for the unexpected. "Alright, go ahead." She arches a questioning brow, and ventures, "Are you sure? This is a an issue of trust, you understand…" My eyes almost narrow to slits as I state flatly, "Yes, I know." I think that that statement makes it pretty plainly clear that I don’t quite trust her all that much. Still, her words do bring her a small amount of favor from me—you don’t acknowledge trust issues without some kind of good intention…unless she knows that I’d think that way, and would purposefully use that to her advantage…Or, again, I could be thinking too hard about it. My ribs hurt. Have I mentioned that already? She steps near to me then, and I can feel my body involuntarily tense in self protection and readiness for any potential danger. She leans close and presses her lips to my cheek. In the moment that her lips touch my skin, I give a sharp gasp at the cold that seeps into my flesh, and spreads outward into my limbs. As I inhale, though, a kind of healing glow follows quickly on the heels of the cold, and I can feel all my extremities tingling with warmth that soothes everything that hurts. My ribs no longer scream in pain, throb, or even ache. Hazily, I glance at my hands, and see that they, too, are no longer battered or torn. The only response I can manage to give her through this odd, but pleasant sensation, is a dim look of gratitude, and the dimness isn’t something I can control. The warmth took over so suddenly that I feel as though I’ve just newly awakened from a deep sleep, and, as the warmth fades, the blankets that covered me are now being gently removed. She watches me with a small smile, but after a moment, it fades, and then she quietly says, "Rose Red asked me to watch for you." I perk at that, and briefly wonder how long ago their last exchange was. "So, is this the place I’m supposed to stop at, and find?" Kate furrows a brow at this, and I can’t help but stare—her fine skin wasn’t ever meant to accommodate creases, and the relative harshness of the expression seems terribly out of place on her flawless features. Still, she answers in the voice that so reminds me of weeping willow branches swaying to a dying summer breeze. "I’m not sure…what instructions did she leave you?" "Just, ‘down the mountain, to the north.’ I’m not sure what my final destination is supposed to be." The frown deepens. "That’s all? It isn’t like her to be so imprecise." An image flashes brightly in my memory as I remember Rose Red’s masterful, breath-taking kiss, and I can feel a blush start to sneak up into my cheeks. Embarrassed, I offer, "Well, she didn’t have much breath to go on when she spoke those words…" And I give Kate a furtive glance. Her response is evident confusion. "Well, that is…" I now breathe a long, weary sigh. "I don’t know how long it’s been since you last talked to her, but she’s dead now. Her head had already been severed when she told me that." My words fall heavy and flat upon the air, but despite the feeling of sickness everytime I think about the incident, I feel better now that the information's in the open, and out of me. Her response is evident surprise. After several long seconds, she says with stony calm, "Well, I’m sure that must have been a shock to her." At this point, brisk, staccato rappings shatter the quiet, and we turn our heads towards the closed door. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 120 (2/13/03 12:13 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Great souls by instinct to each other turn, Demand alliance, and in friendship burn." -- Joseph Addison, The Campaign (l. 102) I give Kate a look, and hurriedly whisper, "I guess I should hide, then." She merely glances at me and says in a voice that’s half amused and half perplexed, "You can, if you feel you must." I take that as a "yes" and scurry behind the couch thing just as Kate’s footfalls sound lightly against the wooden floor. Shortly after she crosses the room, the door creaks open. I stare at the floor (since there’s nothing else I can look at, being behind the couch), and lightly finger Rose Red’s thorn. "You’re hiding Christina." Thus without explanation or preamble, the Ace of Spades’ voice cuts through the air, and slices easily through the pleasant crackling of the fire. To my surprise, Kate takes the accusation in stride, and answers with the serenity that I thought so remarkable upon meeting her. "I am not hiding her, though she is in my house." My eyes bulge at this answer—this isn’t serenity, this is stupidity! You damn woman, you’re going to get me killed! The Ace’s immediate answer displays that unapologetic, near military efficiency that I’ve come to expect from her. "Give her to us." Kate, not to be outdone by this intimidating figure, responds in kind. "Well, she certainly isn’t mine to give. But I can offer some tea. Would you like some?" If I weren’t listening very carefully, I might have missed the very, very brief pause before the Ace gives her answer. When she does, though, I aurally sense in her voice the scowl on her lips, and the glare from her slitted eyes. "We’ll be back." If my eyes could bulge any more, they’d fall out of my head completely because of my gaping incredulity. How weird that she can’t just come in and snatch me away! And just why can’t she? The composure in Kate’s answer remains undisturbed, and unbroken, but I’m sure I hear a just a touch of challenge in her words. "I’m sure you will." The door slides shut, and Kate calls out somewhat teasingly, "You can come out now." I clear my throat somewhat self-consciously as I crawl out from my hidey hole behind the couch, and then look at Kate as if to say, Now what? She placidly retakes her seat, and after shaking my head a little bit, I follow suit. Right after I sit down, I ask, "…so, I don’t think that greeting a hostile Ace of Spades is an everyday occurrence for you…How is it that you can prevent her from barging in here and taking me away?" She graces me with a smile, and her face shines in the glow of the fire. The genuine warmth of her gentle expression is made even more interesting as I watch the orange tendrils of light play with the shadows cast upon her face. They flit across her features unceasingly in a merry show that strikes me with a vague, but sudden significance. Kate starts to talk now, though, talk, and talk, and talk. I don’t mind listening. She has me captivated, for the most part, by the rhythmic rising and falling of her quiet, silky voice. The effect of her sound reminds me of the White Queen, in that both their voices make me feel warm and drowsy, and I can feel my perceptions get all hazy again in this languidness. And in thinking of the White Queen, and of the light and dark chasing each other across Kate’s face, I’m just barely able to remember that a quote that’s been sitting so quietly in one of the darker back corners of my mind. "Thus shadow owes its birth to light." I attempt to recall who said it, but I gradually realize that I’ve forgotten. Another image rises from the foggy depths of my understanding, though, and I find myself remembering the White Queen, and her always-180-degrees-away shadow. The thought begins to lead me elsewhere, but I, in my slowness, lose it in the enveloping warmth of Kate’s voice. She tells me that this world isn’t quite the land of the dead, but it’s also not the land of the living—it’s actually more a land of archetypes. Sometimes, though, when people die, they get waylaid into an existence in this world. The Queen of Diamonds, perhaps fearing what the land of the dead has in store for her, is one such person who intentionally got herself stuck, and carved out a position of power for herself from the archetype of the former Queen of Diamonds. Kate is herself the archetype of Snow White, and the old hag in the other cottage down the way is her other half, and also an archetype. I show her the apple I received from the crone, and Kate merely looks at it in evident distaste as I ask, "That’s the same thing with the White and Black Queens, right? Halves of each other?" Kate lifts her eyes from the apple then to look appraisingly at me before giving me a smile that bears both mild surprise and encouragement in its curve. "…They are opposite sides of the same board, yes." And then she looks at me for a quick moment before continuing. She claims to live in the Black Queen’s realm because she can do more good here—that’s why the Ace of Spades didn’t challenge Kate’s words. In the same way that she freed me from pain and injury, she can free the Ace (or any other servant of the Black Queen) from the Black Queen’s hold, and that wish is something they are forbidden. In doing more good here, Kate’s place in the scheme of power becomes a little more fixed—once one begins to serve a greater purpose, that person becomes more difficult to get rid of. This is why Rose Red’s death must have been such a shock—Rose Red was essentially an assassin for hire, and thus served many masters (one of the terms of her contract is that anyone who hired her couldn’t be killed by her), in addition to being also the Ace of Hearts. In Kate’s words, she "filled many niches." In her guise as the Ace of Hearts, Rose Red wasn’t just an assassin, but also a seductress and a lover, in the employ of the Queen of Hearts, who rules all the passions. When she chooses to be, the Queen of Hearts can be the world’s most beautiful woman…but she also rules darker emotions like rage, and jealousy. The Ace of Diamonds manages all the bookkeeping for the massively wealthy Queen of Diamonds. (When I mention "The Red Queen," Kate draws a distinct boundary between the Queen of Diamonds and the Queen of Hearts. She says merely that no one’s seen the Queen of Hearts in a while, and so the Queen of Diamonds rules the Queen of Heart’s lands and servants as if they were her own.) The Aces of Clubs and Spades, of course, belong to the mysterious Black Queen. What is known about the two Aces, though, is that the Ace of Clubs is pain personified, and the Ace of Spades is death, attractively packaged. All the Aces are competent at everything, but they are the best at their specialty. For example, the Ace of Clubs would be competent at killing, but excels at torturing her prey. The Ace of Spades is a killing machine, but would be decently competent at torture. All of these people are archetypes, and Rose Red used her power and skill as protector and defender of the innocent. Only when she lost guidance from the Shining Knight (because he himself fell to the control of the White Queen) did she change her direction and end up being an assassin for hire. The next Rose Red may or may not continue in that direction, or may or may not revert to the role of the protector, depending on how definitively these shifts have affected the archetype. Because she made mention of the Shining Knight, I am reminded of Rose Red’s informing me that I met a Saint, but she wouldn’t tell me who he is. Kate seriously doubts it’s the White Bishop, and doesn’t think it’s the Shining Knight. When I ask about the Cheshire, she responds that she knows little about him, and so cannot say. And now I seem to be shedding some of my previous haziness, as questions now appear to formulate in my mind with a little less struggle, and a little more ease. I ask about the White Queen’s "Jester," and Kate responds that she is not a pawn, but is the Queen's Bishop. The King's Bishop, in his "Vassal of God" guise, might actually take after Catholic bishops, since bishops are people from whom one receives advice, and spiritual guidance. The archetype of the jester fulfills that role as well. I bring up the White Queen's lost bet to the Black Queen, and its consequences for the jester, but she doesn't quite know what to make of it. Finally, I ask something that’s been bothering me since Rose Red’s head was tossed at my feet. In answer to my question about the Black Queen slurping up the "sustenance" she needs from Rose Red, Kate confirms that she probably do did some "slurping," but she doubts that the Black Queen was able to get it all. And after I wonder aloud if her slurping would make the Black Queen’s pursuit of me moot, she answers, "Suppose you came upon two pouches. The first pouch costs six coins, but holds seven within, and the second pouch costs only one coin, and holds three within. If you are forced to purchase the first one, would you pass up buying the second?" I want to weep. She gives me a kind look, and then with furrowed brow, she asks gently, "Have you any allies?" I want to weep. All too clearly, Rose Red's fervent words reverberate in my mind. In a pathetic voice that could even outdo my broken kitty mew, I give a soft, "…no…" Kate says nothing, but continues to look at me, her eyes full of compassion. After a moment, I say rather in a frustrated rush, "But how am I to get allies when I’ve no position of power, and no one dares challenge the will of the Black Queen?" She nods and this and then murmurs, "You’ve no niche besides the one you don’t want to fill." She thinks for a moment and stares into the fire. I can’t take it anymore. "I’m really sorry to interrupt, and I know this a horribly inopportune moment and a total non-sequitur, but I’ve not eaten in very many hours. Have you anything, by chance, for me to munch on? Well, that isn’t a poisoned apple?" She answers my grin with a smile of her own, and points me to her pantry. "I’ve some bread and some cheese, if you’d like." And she keeps her eyes so fixedly upon me that I feel rather odd. Curiously, I ask, "What..?" Her smile just broadens. "It’s good to see that you’ve managed to trust again, that’s all." Trust her or not, I’m starving; that’s all there is to it. Although I do feel a greater sense of trust in her inching up on me… She watches me eat for a few moments before she says, "I can bring you to Rose Red’s place…" I blink and almost leap out of my chair with joy. "You can?!" She seems a bit puzzled at my outburst, but understanding immediately dawns upon her now grave features. "I’d be taking you to the house within the Black Queen’s domain…but I can’t guarantee your safety once you’re there—I don’t know what kind of reception you’ll have." I reach into my pocket and then rest the thorn in the palm of my hand. "Well…she did leave me this." Kate arches a delicate brow in genuine surprise, and her voice, though somewhat teasing, further betrays the amazement so plainly written on her face. "Really. Then I do believe you’ll be very warmly received, indeed. Tell me, did she say anything to you about help?" I’m still trying to figure out why she had the reaction she did to the thorn thing, but eventually I pull myself back to her question, and answer in a stumbling voice, "Well, uh, yeah. Her exact words were, ‘Down the mountain, to the north. I’ll help you. Use my thorn.’ Why?" She gives a dazzling smile, and again she reminds me of the White Queen in that I get the distinct feeling that she’s just a few steps ahead, and offering glimpses into secrets that I almost get at, if only… But she speaks, and there’s no missing the hint of pleasure that lies just beneath the pacific tones of her voice. "Because there may be hope for Rose Red’s archetype yet." I blink. "I’ll have to think about this a little bit, though. I’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, help yourself to as much bread and cheese as you wish." She already has the door open, and stands ready to step beyond it. With a mouthful of cheese, I nod at her, and then she’s gone. Though the rest of me is just delirious with the thought of filling my tummy, my shoulders slump with the weight of anticipated responsibility. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/14/03 11:48:06 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 132 (2/17/03 12:15 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Our inquisitive disposition is excited by having its gratification deferred." -- Pliny the Younger (Caius Caecilius Secundus), Epistles (IX, 27) After a few moments, after I’m done stuffing my face with Kate’s bread and cheese (which are, by the way, quite tasty), I decide to explore this cottage in very much the same way as I did the cottage before. Before I go, I grab another hunk of bread and I nibble on it every so often as I go. This cottage seems to be a perfect example of fairy tale perfection: every room (though spartan) is clean and tidy, with picture perfect beds and quilts (certainly not ergonomic, Craft-matic or Sleep Number things, but really comfy looking), and a mysteriously ambient white glow permeating every area of the house. With the exception of the white glow, none of the rooms are lit, but the glow does a good enough job that not even candles are needed. I see nothing out of the ordinary throughout the entire structure, until I return to the first story and notice a door that I haven’t seen before. I check the knob, and realize it’s locked. My lips pull into a carelessly lopsided grin then, and I brush my hands against the fabric of my jeans to rid myself of any remaining bread or cheese crumbs. With a small tinge of guilt, I don’t quite think that I can open a door that Kate purposefully locked, so I knock lightly against the door’s face and await a reply. I’m greeted by overwhelming silence, which, of course, only piques my curiosity further. Why lock a door inside a house if there’s not something on the other side? "Hello? Anyone in there?" My voice, quietly conspiratorial, still carries with it some sense of delighted curiosity, and I place a hand flatly against the door. I was hoping for some sign of life on the other side, but I feel nothing aside from the faint vibrations of my own voice as it slowly fades against the wood. Throughout my exploration of the house, I’ve come across no pebbles or anything, and I have nothing metallic on me. (it’s at this point that I realize that all my piercings have been removed, and that really annoys me—those things are expensive! If my tongue piercing closes up before I can get another barbell in it, I’m going to be very, very upset at the Ace of Spades. Well, more than I am now…and perhaps I should hold off on expressing my annoyance until I can actually do something about it.) So, I can’t really slide anything under the door the way I planned… … My eyes now dart suspiciously about to make sure that I’m really alone. Well, maybe a little peek won’t hurt… My hands slip into my pocket and find the familiar curves of the little key. I feel that customary mechanical shift, and hear the lock click open. To my surprise, it clicks once more than I expected, and I find upon testing the knob that it has relocked itself. I frown slightly at this, and estimate the interval of time between clicks to be about half a second. That’s not enough time for me to exert control over the force I use in jerking the door open, and I certainly don’t want to unwittingly unleash some unknown terror within the goodness of Snow White’s home. But why would there be something like that in a dwelling of archetypal good? But then why would Snow White enchant a door to relock itself when unlocked? As usual, my over-active imagination takes off at this point, and I envision a labyrinth beneath Kate’s home, with a Minotaur (or somesuch creature) wandering around underground, looking for prey to sate its hunger. I grin and shiver in delight, but, after a moment, I pat the door gently, return to the main room, and slip back into my seat. When I sit down, my eyes land upon the black apple once more, and I grab it, give it a little toss to enjoy its weight in my hand, and tuck it back into the zippered pocket of my fleece. I glance about somewhat self consciously, half expecting the Cheshire to appear. Curiously, he doesn’t. After waiting a few minutes, and murmuring aloud, "Well, Cheshire, this is kinda your cue," I give an inward hrumph. Just like a cat to spite you in your expectations, just because. A few moments later, though, the door swings open again, and Snow White stands before me. Her breathing flows with more speed than I ever thought she could be capable of (since she always seems so tranquil and quietly composed). I furrow my brow at that, and then notice the bloody tear in one of her sleeves. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 133 (2/17/03 10:19 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The house of every one is to him as his castle and fortress, as well for his defence against injury and violence, as for his repose.” -- Lord Edward Coke, Reports, Semaynes' Case (vol. III, pt. V, p. 185) After watching Kate catch her breath for a moment, I quirk a brow and ask, “…Hit a few snags along your journey?” Despite her breathlessness, and the bloodied, torn sleeve (but she doesn’t act like she has a wound), she answers with the same evenness that makes her quiet voice ring sure. “Yes, rather. I can take you to Rose Red’s house now, since the path is clear.” I blink. “Do we have to leave now?” “Well, I know that the path is free from danger now.” Hmm. Good point…one I can’t really argue with. I still have questions to ask her, but I decide to ask her as we walk, and as soon as we set off, I begin. My first question is one that has been troubling me for some time, and it deals with the locked door in the White Queen's domain while I was escaping with the Red Queen. Kate tells me that the Black Queen can only see through the shadows, but can't actually control anything within them. So, just because there are shadows in the keyhole, she can't make the bolt mechanically shift its position. It is curious to me, though, that she can't control the shadows that way, as I have been transported to different places via mirrors twice now, and I know there's a connection between mirrors and shadows, besides the fact that they both conceal more than they appear to show. And the White Queen controls what she sees as an aspect of being a queen of chess, as opposed to a queen of cards. The Black Queen is also a queen of chess, so why shouldn't I assume that she can do something similar? I do realize that everyone says what they would have you think they know, whether or not that's truly what the limit or extent of their knowledge. Certainly, Kate is telling me what she understands to be true, but perhaps there are holes in her knowledge of the Black Queen, just as she merely said that no one's seen the Queen of Hearts "in a while," even though I've seen her a day (few days?) ago. As we wind through the wilderness, I think back to when I woke up in the Black Queen's realm after the second mirror-transport, and another question comes to mind, this one regarding the Ace of Spades. I further learn from her that she’s not really sure of the significance of the Ace of Spades’ inverted, white spade adorning her torso. Wondering if perhaps the Ace of Clubs is Elizabeth, and/or also wears an inverted, white symbol, I ask, "And the Ace of Clubs? Have you seen her?" "I've only seen her once, and she wasn't in human form at the time. When I saw her, she was an animated flail." I try to imagine this (so the Ace of Clubs and the Black Knights can shapeshift, and so, to an extent, can the Ace of Spades), but my thoughts return to the Ace of Spades. All too clearly, the memory of the white spade gleaming bluish in the dungeon is accompanied by the image of Rose Red’s head dangling so casually from the other Ace’s delicately gloved hand. Waitaminnit, I think, Kate was told to watch for me by Rose Red, and while the Ace of Spades had intimated that I’d “been out for some time,” Rose Red died pretty shortly thereafter, and Kate was surprised to learn of Rose Red’s death. So how was Kate informed of my existence, unless…? Suddenly feeling a little warm, I hurriedly ask, “How long ago did Rose Red ask you to watch for me?” She thinks for a brief moment before answering, “About a day ago.” She pauses. “But it might have been more time for her or for you.” “…what?” I’m totally lost. She looks at me kindly then before saying, “Time passes differently for different people. What was a day for me might not have been a day for her, or for you.” My jaw drops open in plain disbelief. “Wait, what? But…how can that be?” It’s her turn to look confused. “What do you mean? It just is.” I frown at the implications of this—I had wondered before how people told time, since all the realms I’ve been to are perpetually either night or day, and since I’ve been unable to tell without the aid of my watch, but I guess I wondered, but never really thought about it. I say flatly, “…where I come from, the effects of time are constant and universal, whether you notice time’s passing or not.” She gives her head a charming tilt, and offers a look that shows without a doubt how she considers this concept both amusing and novel. “…how…odd.” Well, this new bit of information doesn’t help matters much—by asking about how long ago they last conversed, I was hoping to gain some insight into how long this betrayal (of both me and the Black Queen) had been set in place, and if I know the time frame, I might be a step closer in divining her motivations. But now, with even time acting as a variable, the pieces of the puzzle become puzzles within themselves. I grow curious about Kate’s involvement in this—if she’s willing to help me simply because Rose Red asked her to, does that mean that they are allies? “She asked me to watch for you out of regard for our friendship. There is a phrase, where you come from, that goes something like, ‘for old times’ sake,’ yes? When she still took the role of the protector, we were allies. We ceased being allies once she shifted her archetype. The word ‘ally’ carries special meaning here.” “…what meaning does it carry? Well, other than the political one, I mean.” She looks at me curiously. “That’s the only one.” We walk in silence for a moment before another question pops up. “So…she was Rose Red, and she was the Ace of Hearts. What happens when there’s a conflict of interest between the two roles? That is, what happens when the two positions of power one holds go against each other?” “…You sound like you’re asking about individual responses to a moral dilemma.” “Not really morals, but I was wondering if there’s a protocol, or expected standard of behavior.” She gives me a quick half smile then, and its arch is almost harsh. “No.” “…so I wonder why she did what she did—whatever it was—when she knew that it would cost her her life.” She takes a breath and studies me hard before answering. “Most likely you triggered something in her that resonated with her original role of protector.” I curl my lip slightly at this and mumble somewhat angrily, “Yeah, ‘cuz I’m so frickin’ pathetic…” She doesn’t answer, but does smile somewhat. After a moment more, our steps slow, and Kate breathes, “We’re here.” We’ve reached the front gate, and its walls surround the perimeter of her house. Not surprisingly, it’s locked. Kate furrows her brow in evident distress, but I take hold of my little key, and will it open. After the customary click, we step in, and I lock it again. I turn after that, and I’m amazed at what I see. We can clearly make out her house as it looms before us a little ways in, but to get to it we must first walk past four thick, almost artistically displayed, panes of crystal, each housing a person trapped in a pose of eternal pain…and the captives are, indeed, alive. As I move past, I can feel my own body tighten in sympathetic pangs of hurt, and my heart instinctively starts to close in a vague sense of shame. Each person has been set differently within the crystal, and yet they all have similarities about them. They all wear nothing but their own expressions of everlasting agony and humiliation at their unmitigated exposure. They, in frozen silence, must suffer the thorny kisses of roses that spiral upward, slowly but unceasingly, from the bottom of the crystal, and catch and pull mercilessly against the tenderness of their bare skin. They have also all been bound in one way or another. (but I doubt that they could break out of the crystal even if they weren’t tied—the panes are several feet thick.) A male rests within his crystal upside-down in a spread eagle position, and his muscles seem to almost tremble from the tautness of the ropes pulling his wrists and ankles. A woman next, upright and vertical, but also bound by the ankles and wrists in an apparent attempt to unnaturally stretch her. After her is a male hung by the neck, and his head lolls in a show of not-quite-death as the rope presses relentlessly against his airway. Last is another woman, this one upside-down, with ties at her ankles to strain her supernatural repose. I take a shaky breath as we walk past them, and I softly intone to Kate, “…what, a trophy case?” She answers just as brusquely, “I’ve never been to her home within the Black Queen’s domain. I don’t know who or what they are, or why they’re here.” Eventually, I tear my gaze away from them as we venture further in, and suppress a shudder—I could almost swear that as we walked past, their eyes quivered in wordless pleas for help. This is difficult to digest…obviously, Rose Red was an assassin, but assassins usually bring death swiftly with them. This—this!—is simply inexcusable, no matter what the captives' original offenses. As I think on the reason could possibly have led to the undying torture of these individuals, we travel on past a series of rose bushes until we come upon a fountain and a statue in the middle of the garden. I pause for a moment to look upon the likeness of the one I thought to be Beauty personified, the one I mourned because of the violence done to her. The statue stands as I remember her, but its face holds no trace of the mirth that so endeared her to me. Her hand, so strong and competent, grasps a thorn shaped blade, and she rests the tip of it lightly against her base, as if she were taking this moment to pause from her martial activities to pose for the creation of the statue. I take another, wider look around, and see more panes of glass…but these are definitely windows that leave unobstructed views into various bedrooms. I quirk a brow at what I take to be an implication (at the very least) of voyeuristic tendencies—yes, the windows also look out into the garden, but they’re windows made for sunrooms in a place where no sun shines. We finally reach the front door, and Kate reaches a hand out to open it. Unlike the front gate, this door isn’t locked. I’m mildly surprised at that, but I’m even more shocked at what I find within. Past the front door is a grand entryway, and beyond that, another room. In this other room stands an impressive figure clad all in black, and as she turns, I see it is none other than the Ace of Spades. Her exquisite lips actually bear a hint of a smile, and with that same precise enunciation, she says, “Like prey to a watering hole.” As I stand and gape, her hips swing forward, and she launches herself toward us in a sudden blur of motion. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/17/03 11:08:35 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 136 (2/18/03 11:06 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Nothing in the world is so exhilarating as to be shot at without result." -- Sir Winston Leonard Spenser Churchill What the hell is she do--!… My thoughts get cut short as Kate yanks at my hair in an effort to pull me back the way we came. A good idea, really, since the Ace of Spades is quickly and efficiently closing the space between us. I stumble a little bit (since I have to run awkwardly backwards), before I right myself and haul ass right alongside Kate. My thorn is out and ready, but strangely, it doesn’t grow to the impressive blade that I so like to wield. As I’m watching it, it just remains its quiet little shape, and I jerk my head up to look around me in annoyance. Kate runs slightly ahead of me, and I’m using all my energy to sprint in an effort to keep up. I don’t need to look back to guess that the Ace of Spades isn’t far behind. Right before my eyes, though, I see something disturbing. The rose bushes that looked so innocuous before, are growing. The thorns, pointy tipped and sharp edged, elongate and lengthen, until they’re about the same size as my forearm. Briefly, I recall Jeff Goldblum’s character from Jurassic Park as he mumbled, "Must go faster. Must go faster." It might even be funny, if my life weren’t in danger. Though I’m about to die (metaphorically, from my running, but also literally, from the Ace of Spades behind) , I try to sprint still faster, and now I’m keeping up with Kate. Just as I put on my extra burst of speed and clear the roses, the bushes seal the distance between us and our pursuer. Some thorns jut ominously outward, as though to impale any intruders that its brethren might miss. The other thorns immediately lace into and against each other, dovetailing in a thick tangle of barbs that would surely slice and shred any normal person into ribbons. The Ace of Spades, however, is no normal person. Very quickly, I jerk my head back toward the garden, just to see how the Ace of Spades is getting along with the spiked barricade. I realize with some shock, worry, and disappointment that I need not concern myself with her well being—she handily hacks the thorns off as if they were no more than annoying, dried branches on dying trees that impede her path. I run. I run, and I don’t glance back. Eventually, we get near Kate’s home when she shouts, "You keep going! You’ll be safe at my house! I’ll buy you some time." I shake my head vigorously at that, as I remember those to be Rodentus’ last words, also. Kate, however, throws me a quick grin as she says, "Don’t worry; she can’t kill me here. Now go!" I don’t think she’s lying, but even if she is, I’d defer to her judgment, anyway. I run from Kate’s side just before the Ace of Spades closes in on her. Aside from my boots pounding against the forest floor, Kate’s voice rings in my ears as a loud, dark laugh. This time, I do glance back. The Ace of Spades has shifted her hands once more into those impressive daggers, and obviously has no qualms about using them. The Ace moves very quickly, but I see that Kate can, at least, keep up. Anywhere from five to ten of the Ace’s blades sink, hook into, and continuously carve into Kate’s flesh. Curiously, distracted by my running as I am, even I can tell that the Ace isn’t trying to kill Snow White—she’s merely trying to get around Kate, but Kate keeps placing herself in the Ace’s way. Once her hands catch Kate’s flesh, she moves her arms in a wide, sweeping motion, as though to toss Kate away. The maiden’s fine clothing is bloodied beyond recognition from its past shade of white purity, and is now torn beyond repair. Past the shredded fabric I can see the gaping wounds the Ace left. But as I watch, I can also see them seal completely, with no scars left behind to even hint at the acts brought on by the Ace’s brutal fury. This goes on for a few seconds—with the Ace now attempting to gouge and tear a hole in Kate’s flesh that’s large enough for her to fit through to get past this intensely annoying obstacle—when another figure enters the fray. It’s the old crone, and she perches a scythe (which appears taller than she is) delicately on her rounded shoulder. As she comes upon Kate’s form, she extends a foot, and lands it squarely against Kate’s rump to kick her out of the way. Now she stands between me and the Ace, and her shriveled, old voice sounds through the air, gravelly and crackling. "Always wondered what would happen…" And she moves as quickly as the Ace does, spinning her scythe into a blurred circle of movement. My jaw drops open. (I’m still running at this point, but this is simply damned interesting…) Apparently, this isn’t something that the Ace expected, either, because her hands, now sliced cleanly off her wrists, drop to the ground. The crone cackles in self-satisfaction. "Ha! Not so frightening now without those ‘implements of death,’ eh?" I’d barely had time to tuck my jaw back into place before it drops open again—the Ace’s daggers now leap from the ground, apparently of their own volition, to tunnel into then cleave the old woman’s flesh. I concentrate on my running now, and Snow White’s house draws a little closer…and it’s at this point that massive hands clamp down hard around my shoulders, and it’s at this point that I finally realize that my thorn has long since shifted into its blade form. Without seeing my attackers, I’m yanked harshly into the treetops above, and more long, long fingered hands grasp my wrists, and then my ankles. As I cannot move my limbs, I futilely swing the blade about against the hold on my wrists. Just as suddenly as I soared up into the trees, I’m now falling, falling, face first into a long dark tunnel. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 139 (2/18/03 3:57 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "There are certain events which to each man's life are as comets to the earth, seemingly strange and erratic portents; distinct from the ordinary lights which guide our course and mark our seasons, yet true to their own laws, potent in their own influences." -- Edward George Bulwer-Lytton (Earl Lytton) I’m not sure if I’m flying, but certainly the air whooshes past my ears in a roar of sound, and I can barely make out the curves of the underground passage as my captors push me ever deeper into the tunnel. Still their hands clamp down hard on my wrists and ankles, but my limited swinging of the blade hasn’t been completely for naught—I did feel it lightly cut the arms of my abductors—although now their hold forces me to point the blade ineffectually forward, while they remain behind me. Eventually, we slow, and we come to a stop as a cave opens up before us. Apparently, this clearing has already been prepared for my arrival, because these unknowns immediately secure my limbs to chains that are pulled taut—not painfully so, but enough that there’s simply no room to wiggle around. I don’t relinquish the sword, and I guess they understand that I don’t intend to, so to make sure that I can’t put it to use, they begin to pile massive rocks over the blade, my hand, and my forearm, for good measure. Once that’s complete, they leave. (I guess; they were silent the whole way, and I’m guessing they’re gone because I hear no motion, or shifting of anything around me to indicate motion) I bear the silence and the boredom as well as I can as I lie here on my belly atop the cold, rocky ground, and I begin to wiggle my sword loose by twisting my wrist around. They used big rocks, after all, and, heavy as they are, the apertures they left between each rock will work to my advantage, I think. Slowly but surely, the rocks begin to shift, and after many minutes, I finally coax one rock to fall from its perch. As pathetic as it is for the amount of effort I put into it, I’m delighted. Small victories, I guess. Diligently, I continue doing this until I feel a sudden weight upon me. Having had experience with a little brother who was fond of attacking me while I was lying down, I involuntarily tense, and immediately liken the weight to one of a child, who now sits quite comfortably on the small of my back. Strain as I might, I cannot catch even a glimpse of the one who’s made my body a place of rest. Long, slender fingers that end in piercing claws scrape gently against my cheek, and their pointed tips lightly pull my hair away from my face. With words that sound like serpentine but guttural whispers, she says, "Ahhh, yes. Pretty, pretty, quite pretty. He will pleased, pleased, he will." Her voice, already dangerously close, tickles the inner folds of my ear with its moist breath, and I frown slightly at her nearness. Again, strain as I might, I still can’t see her. To make up for this lack of visual assessment, I ask almost harshly, "Who will be? And who are you?" Another moment, and she removes her hand from my hair to let it fall back over my face, further obstructing my vision. "I must report." "What?" But it’s too late—the weight has already left my back, and I’ve been abandoned to my fate. I console myself by continuing to work my sword from the pile of stones. So intent am I on my task that I almost don’t notice the heavy tread of steps approaching me. I eventually do, though, because the steps cause the ground to vibrate against my cheek. And I don’t need to strain to see the cause of the vibrations, because I can see him as he approaches. He is a great ogre of a person, and even then, he only looks vaguely human. His back is hunched, and his shoulders are broad, but rounded, and extending from his shoulders are long, long arms, at the ends of which rest massive hands that droop to the ground. My eyes widen as he comes close, and gives me a dainty sniff. I blink, and vaguely wonder if it’s possible to reason with him… That’s when he puts his huge paw of a hand directly on my face, and leans in close. I try not to stare too rudely, but it’s difficult, and I’m not sure if I succeed. Still, it appears as though he has his own actions in mind, and just then he places his nose very close to my face and inhales so deeply that I worry for a moment that I might actually get sucked up one of his nostrils. He stops pretty soon, though, and nods in satisfaction. "Yep, you smell like what I’ve been told. And it’s too bad, too, because you’re a pretty little thing…I’d keep you if I hadn’t already sold you. But he’ll be pleased." Recognizing that phrase, I grow intensely curious about this person who seems to command so much obedience. "Who will be?" The man looks puzzled for a moment before flatly stating, "Why, the one who bought you." He looks at my rock covered hand, and then speaks in a tongue that reminds me of the girl child that visited me before—the words sound like they form deep within the throat, and even after they’re spoken, they still sound like they’re struggling to escape the confines of the larynx. He then turns to me and says, "You gonna let go of that?" Without hesitation, I say, "No." He sighs, and then murmurs something else to another of his compatriots. Shortly thereafter, he holds in his meaty hand a cleaver, and he tests it in the air, seeming to enjoy its balance. "Well, it’s quite a shame, and I’d rather not do it, but I guess he won’t mind a little blood…" Oh, surely they’re not so savage as to…are they? "Why, what are you going to do with that?" "Well, you won’t let go of your sword, so we’ll remove it from you." And already others of his kind are binding my wrist and elbow, leaving the middle part of my forearm exposed. …okay, so they’re not kidding. "Well, if your buyer is anything like those others who pursued me in the past, I’m almost certain that he would prefer me whole, and undamaged." "Well, we can’t have that sword loose." "…you seem genuinely sorry at your position, and for having to do this at all, so what if I gave you my word that I won’t use it on you?" "Alright. Shrink it down, then." I frown slightly at this, never having thought of such a thing. Is that possible? Still, this is my arm at stake here, and even if I get to keep the sword, it’s not much use without a hand to wield it (and I've tried fencing with my left hand—I’m not terrible, but I’m not nearly as precise). Knowing that this is likely going to decide whether or not I get to keep my hand, I try very, very hard to will the sword smaller, and to my surprise, it works! It surprises me so much that I even released an exclamation of, "Oh!" The ogre man nods, then casually swipes at the tall pile of heavy rocks, and they topple as if they were nothing more than leaves. My arm is free, but is immediately grasped by those behind me, and bound along with my other limbs. The ogre guy takes the thorn delicately into his meaty fingertips and tucks it gently into my pocket. It’s now that I realize that I’ve been tied to a wooden frame, with my extremities at each corner. I get lifted, with my back toward the top of the cave, and my face aimed down at the ground, and I’m now apparently being transported to my buyer. The weight from before rests once more on the small of my back, and, suspended as I am, I wince in discomfort. Again, the breathy voice trails lightly against my ear. "It is a great thing to be wanted by the King of Grendels." I whisper in response, "Why, is that my buyer?" "No." "Oh…so the King of Grendels is that guy there." "Yes." "…and my buyer is…?" "He is called ‘The Bishop.’" "Which bishop?" "I do not know. I only know that he is called ‘The Bishop.’" "And who are you? My name’s Chris, by the way." It occurs to me that this must seem an odd time to be introducing oneself, but I hope to gain a little more of the thing’s trust, so perhaps it’s not that odd… "…I have no name. But perhaps, in finding you, I have earned one now." "…what…?" But it’s too late. She’s vanished again. In this way, I silently bear being borne upon the shoulders of grendels as we make our way through the winding cave tunnels until we come to a clearing. The grendels set me down (belly and face to the ground), and the King of Grendels merely tells me to wait before he departs to fetch my buyer. I take a look around as well as I can, when I see a gargantuan tree before me. While I normally wouldn’t consider that so impressive, the tree itself appears to be wholly otherworldly--where knots and whorls would reside on the trunks of normal trees, human faces peek out, their features full of life and expression. Further up along the tree, its boughs bear heads as unearthly fruit. As I gawk at this abomination of nature, two heads in particular catch my eye. Blinking and aware, just above me, rest the heads of both Father MacHaggerty and Rose Red. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/19/03 8:11:33 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 141 (2/19/03 11:05 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Either make the tree food, and his fruit good; or else make the tree corrupt, and his fruit corrupt: for the tree is known by his fruit." -- Bible, Matthew 12:33 All around me grendels go about their business, as though a human bound to a wooden frame is an everyday display. Still, I’m thankful for their obliviousness—they don’t notice my moment of rather private sorrow as I languish on my rack. I watch Father MacHaggerty’s eyes roam over my surroundings before I give my head a sad shake and murmur, "I’m so sorry…" To my surprise, he notices and responds. "Christina, is that you?" My eyes widen in disbelief, and my heart lightens for a moment…until I remember how absolutely torturous his existence must be. I nod glumly, and my chin touches the dirt with each dip. "What happened to you? We couldn’t find you during that night, or after." With a calm and even voice, Father MacHaggerty relates his sufferings to me, and I keep my eyes fixed on him, because it appears that every time I look away, he stops talking, and returns to merely watching those around him. Apparently, that night while Thomas and I were chatting after being sucked in, Father MacHaggerty had been captured by grendels, and taken to a hidden cave somewhere. Once there, the grendels, with painstaking care and precision, removed the priest’s head and set it gently on the table. When they completed that task, Father MacHaggerty merely watched in horror as the grendels proceeded to eat his body. Then his head was brought here, and placed upon the tree. I bite my lower lip and savor for a brief moment the pain that that evinces, before offering in a stony and bitter voice, "I’m so sorry…" Sorry or not, these atrocities have already been committed, and my sympathies will do no one any good. He continues to speak, but his voice carries much more gentleness. "Why are you sorry? You haven’t done anything wrong." "Well, it’s because of me that you were brought here at all in the first place!" I bear down on my lip again, and try to focus on the sharp sting of the bite to fend off this overwhelming sense of guilt. His response, of course, is appropriately Catholic. He believes that this has been God’s judgement for him, and he will abide by that decision. Still, those are his feelings, not mine—since my coming here, I’ve brought risk and danger to everyone I’ve encountered, and have caused (albeit indirectly) the loss of at least two, but perhaps three or four lives. I’ve never been faced with such grave responsibilities before, and never so much all at once. Even though I’m not directly the cause of these atrocities, I can’t help but close my eyes in response to the wave of sympathy that first tosses me about like a little broken rag doll, then abandons me to the undertow of futility, frustration, guilt, and self-loathing. I ask my next question then, my voice painfully small. "…and how does God look upon those who have caused the deaths of others?" Despite the fact that he’s now really just a head embedded in the trunk of a tree, he still holds that priestly demeanor. "Have you done anything directly to cause the loss of life?" "…no…and they made their own decisions, but…" "Did you actively influence the decisions they made?" "…no…" "Then you have done nothing wrong, child." …I know he’s right (and I probably believe it to keep myself sane), but there still sits a heavy doubt in the middle of my chest, and it’s making breathing difficult. Fairly soon, a metallic bitterness makes itself known against the side of my teeth, and I realize now that I’ve bitten down hard enough on the inside of my cheek that a light stream of blood steadily trickles down the slope of my mouth and over my tongue. "If ever you’ve prayer to spare, Father, I’d appreciate it if you’d whisper one for me." He responds that he’s not sure what good a prayer will be coming from a condemned soul, but he will pray for me. I nod in silent thanks (chin once more hitting the filthy ground), and then turn my attention to the face of the woman whose mere presence once warmed my heart. I breathe a heavy sigh as I look upon her flawless features—she remains as breathtaking as she was before, and my words only barely escape my throat. "Oh, Rose Red, that you’d be kept this way…! I’m so sorry…" She blinks once and searches for me, not quite seeing that I’m so low to the ground. I alert her to my position, and then her eyes widen at the sight of the wooden frame to which I am bound. "Christina, is that…?" "Yes, it’s me. I’ve been captured by the King of Grendels for the purpose of being sold. I’m told the buyer is the Bishop." Rose Red closes her eyes for a moment and exhales a long, whispered breath. The thorn that rested so quietly in my pocket before now inches its way up and out, and scuttles along the dirt until it’s just below my lips. I quirk a brow and ask, "…what would you have me do with it?" Rose Red’s eyes bear deeply into mine before she says, "Take it into your mouth. If he is evil, blow it at him." I shrug (as best I can, being so thoroughly bound), and nod, and then gingerly grip the thorn with my teeth, and tuck it between my other (non-bleeding) cheek and my teeth. Might as well get accustomed to talking with it in there… "So you’re still alive…?" "…not quite. Most of me resides in the thorn you have with you. This tree merely…expresses me." I shiver, and change the topic. "Rose Red, I’ve been to your home within the Black Queen’s domain. It … isn’t… quite like the other house I visited." It takes a little getting used to, talking with the thorn, but it’s smaller than a dumpling or wonton, and I talk well enough with those in my mouth. (though, no, I don’t do it often—I’m not fond of smacking lips or open mouths during mealtimes) She nods, and her countenance darkens. "That is another side of me. I have roots that go deeper into darker places than you know. Remember that when you meet my successor." I blink in evident shock. "There’s already a new Rose Red?" She looks at me for a moment before saying in a cold, calculating voice, "Rose Black." Very quickly, my memory flashes an image of the Ace of Spades standing calmly past the entryway as Kate and I entered Rose Red’s house. Oh my god. This doesn’t bode well. I sigh again, and now offer the words that now sound so hateful to me because I’m beginning to remind myself of a broken record. "I’m so sorry…" "Why are you sorry? You didn’t cause any of this. I am sorry that I haven’t protected you better. It has always been my duty to protect the defenseless, and the innocent." And she looks at me then with such contrition, that I almost can’t bear her gaze. After a moment, she murmurs, "For what it’s worth, thank you for the kiss." I can’t stop my cheeks from flushing, and I can feel the warmth spread over my entire face. Voice stumbling, I mumble, "Oh, well, thank you also, since, y’know…" And I simply allow my voice to trail off into unintelligibility. She merely watches me with that same persistent, warm, kindness that first allowed me to reluctantly give her a place in my heart. In making that ultimate sacrifice, in my eyes, at least, despite the other aspects of her personality that I only recently discovered, she has redeemed herself. I consider her current plight too cruel for past wrongs, for the same reason that I can’t condone the souls she trapped in crystal. But at this point, a grendel comes scuttling around on the tree, a cloth loosely held in a long hand. "’At’s enough outta you!" And without wasting another moment, he unceremoniously stuffs the unflattering gag into Rose Red’s beautiful mouth. I begin to shout at him in an uncontrollable swell of anger. He doesn’t seem to hear me, but if he does, he certainly doesn’t seem to care. I take careful mental note of this particular grendel, since he might be the one I may later need to overcome. Maybe our sense of religion comes from vague subconscious knowledge of this place, but I remember Rose Red telling me that a real "hell" exists, away from this land of archetypes, so there surely must be a real "heaven," as well, and perhaps even a "purgatory." Or something. If I can, I will return later to retrieve the heads of Father MacHaggerty and Rose Red, and release them from their undeserved punishment. I don’t have too much time to plot this out, though, because soon those heavy, heavy steps that cause the ground to quake return, and I turn just in time to see the King of Grendels emerge from elsewhere, and the White King’s Bishop follows close behind. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/19/03 11:51:00 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 143 (2/19/03 1:11 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The usual trade and commerce is cheating all around by consent." -- Thomas Fuller "Everything is worth what its purchaser will pay for it." -- Syrus (Publilius Syrus), Maxims The Bishop, quite expectedly, carries a vague curl to his lip, and looks at his surroundings with evident distaste. A small group of monks—dressed not in white robes like the Bishop, but muslin tunics—follow the Bishop at a slight distance. They eventually come upon my prone form, and I glance up just in time to see the Bishop display a look of arrogant self-satisfaction as he passes over a single gold coin into the waiting hand of the Grendel King. Immediately, that act brings to mind Kate’s single-coin-pouch analogy, Goddamnit, I’m worth at least a coin and a half by now…! The Grendel King, unaware of my thoughts, appears immensely pleased with the transaction and voices a guttural command to his subjects. They proceed to unbind my wrists and ankles, but many, many other grendels take careful hold of my limbs, and I note that the Bishop watches this with a puzzled expression that wordlessly expresses just what kind of a threat do you think she is, anyway? And when the grendels tie a band of cloth around my mouth, the Bishop raises his quirked brow still higher. I manage a small grin hidden by the band of cloth, and feel the comforting press of the thorn against the inside of my cheek. When the grendels thrust me, face-down, over to the Bishop’s monks, the Bishop calmly intones to the monks, "Tie her hands to her feet," and I soon find myself with knees bent, and arms pulled low, so that my wrists meet my ankles. As the Bishop leans down to check on the bindings himself, he gives me an oily murmur of encouragement. "Don’t worry; this is all for show." Pretty soon, the monks hoist me up, and I’m ready to go. In the span of several long seconds, I have been bought and traded as if I carry no more intelligence than a cold slab of meat. We go through more winding tunnels, and, labyrinthine as they seem, I notice that the Bishop moves only diagonally up, in straight lines. Hmm. Still literal. We eventually emerge in an apparently religious space with white stone work, but as I’m set gently upon the ground, the Bishop heaves an impatient sigh before saying, "Untie her." The monks do so, and begin to await their next set of orders. The Bishop doesn’t give them long to wait. "Oh, for God’s sake, rid her of that gag—it’s not like she’s going to spit poison at me." They do so, and I defiantly meet the Bishop’s smug gaze. We spend a silent moment just letting our eyes war: he in self-satisfaction, I in hateful rebellion. Ultimately, he wins, because in that transaction, I was literally nothing more than chattel. His words take this opportunity to remind me of that, and of his superiority. "So it would seem…that leaving my protection has not been in your best interest." He pauses, and then gives me a summary dismissal. "I've done my part; you are free to go wherever you wish. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some real business to attend." I scowl in response, and ask, "How did you know to get me? And how'm I supposed to know where to go, if I don't even know wher I am?" He has already started to turn away, but he stops, and half turns his face toward me in response. "You are in the cathedral, and I bought you as a favor to an old friend." Undaunted by his demeanor, I don’t relent. "Who?" "Snow White, if you must know." I gasp. "So she’s still alive!" He frowns slightly at that, and gives his answer, his voice now definitely tinged with impatience. "I only know of two elements that can kill Snow White, and the Ace of Spades isn’t one of them. Now, excuse me." Before I can further protest, he spins on his heel (and he rather reminds me of the White King as he does so, except the Bishop isn’t nearly quite as magnificent), and leaves. I sigh at this, and for the first time take a good look around. And it’s incredible. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/19/03 3:31:02 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 144 (2/19/03 3:59 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "A quiet conscience makes one so serene! Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded That all the Apostles would have done as they did." -- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron), Don Juan (canto I, st. 83) "...there is no future pang Can deal that justice on the self--condemn'd He deals on his own soul." -- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron), Manfred (act III, sc. 1) Many monks fill this little room, and most are involved in acts of contrition. I’ve never been a religious person, so perhaps my opinion of their actions is a little biased. Still, my eyes bulge at what I see going on. One monk has in his hands a mortar and pestle, and I tilt my head a bit as I watch. He’s actually grinding down shards of glass, and then taking them into his mouth. I see him swallow, and my insides start to churn in pain. My breathing quickens as I watch his long scholar’s fingers bring more splinters to his waiting lips. I turn away then, only to see another monk whipping himself with a knotted rope. As the rope arcs through the air, I catch metallic glints gleaming from the fibers, and I realize with wide-eyed shock that embedded in the rope are blades with razor edges. Transfixed, I stare in horror at the way the cord eats so quickly away at the skin of his back, bestowing upon the monk a haze of crossed markings, and leaves his skin open, raw, gleaming with bloody repentance. This is, without a doubt, a religious space, but ascetic to the extreme. Oh. My. God. I thought flagellants died out by the 1400s! Somewhere else in the back of my mind, I vaguely wonder if they know about anti-bacterial soaps and the like, because this certainly is rather unsanitary… I yank my gaze away from the hypnotic self-mutilation going on to take another glance around. Other monks busy themselves with more mundane tasks, like cleaning up, or bearing water. In a few moments, I notice a priestly looking type dragging a young altar boy down the hallway. This priest’s clothing can’t be compared to the Bishop’s finery, but his steps are just as purposeful. He drags the boy along with an earlobe, and I just watch, mystified. Thoughts of intervention quickly cross my mind, but I don’t know enough about either one of them. I now look at the monks, to see if I can follow their cues, but I notice instead that they quietly retreat to little corners, and all their previous activities cease--the only sounds to break the thick silence are the footsteps of the priest and boy, and it's only after they pass that the monks return to whatever they were doing before. I have no idea what's going on, but I seek to rectify that now by asking a nearby monk. It’s also at this point that I realize another detail that nudged so subtly at my sense of discomfort. None of them speak. Throughout all this suffering, the slaps of the whips, the sloshing of water, there is no human vocalization of any kind. And as I start a rather vicious game of charades with one particular monk (vicious because I’m terrible at charades, though I do pretty well this time around), I find out why: they have all taken vows of silence. In attempting to find out what this monk is "talking" about, I find out after an ungodly amount of time (ironic, being in a house of God in a place where no time exists) some very useful information, with only intermittent grunts of frustration and minimal forehead smacking. 1. They know when the White Queen is watching, because they can feel it, but she isn’t watching now. 2. There are, indeed, children in this realm, though this altar boy is the first I’ve seen, with the exception of the ghost girl (I don’t really count her, since she’s a ghost). 3. The priest who dragged the boy along isn’t as highly ranked as the Bishop, but is still part of their order, and ranked higher than the monks are. I mention that I when I was in the White Queen’s domain last time, she sent me to the care of the Bishop, but warned me not to trust him. The monk intimates that that Priest may be why. I could easily defend myself against him, though, by using Rose Red’s thorn. 4. They know about Rose Red’s thorn because they can feel it—the Bishop didn’t notice because he is fixed on the mind, rather than on feeling with the heart. 5. Puzzled about the priest, I ask about why the White Queen doesn’t control him, since she controls what she sees. He answers that she has two eyes, and so has two puppets she unyieldingly controls. The Shining Knight is one, and the White Spider the other. 6. The Spider he likens to Rose Red—it is the White Queen’s own personal assassin, and is very difficult to notice, since it tends to stay out of one’s sight, and keep to being just around corners. 7. When I ask about gaining an audience with the White Queen, he begins to imitate the effeminate gestures of one that I immediately recognize as the Queen’s Jester. 8. I’m amazed that he can so freely tell me all this, but I’m also impressed with the sheer amount of knowledge of the realm he possesses. He tells me that there is a library within the cathedral that he uses for research, and confirms his facts there. I ask him to take me there, and we’re on our way. We go through more winding passages that make my head spin with its convoluted design, when we finally approach the library. I walk in, and am immediately reminded of some of the older sections of college libraries, where books date back to late 1800s. These, however, are far, far, older, and undeniably religious in content. It’s at this point that I take a broader look around, and I notice something that, yet again, causes my eyes to bulge. There is by the ceiling an Angel of such beauty and light that I’m sure Michelangelo himself would have sworn off art because of the impossibility of hewing such magnificence into stone, or capturing such divinity on canvas. My jaw simply drops open in plain admiration, and I almost want to leave the library for fear of sullying the Angel’s grace. My eyes move slowly from his face and body outward toward his arms, and outstretched fingers…only to see him serenely drive thick, heavy nails with his palms into the open hands of another monk. And I notice that all around the perimeter of the library rest bloodied monk bodies, all crucified with that same look of patient penitence. My monk guide mimes to me that the Angel is from God, that all the men around the library were once monsters. To reform them, the Angel crucifies the bodies, and leaves them hanging for 30 days before releasing them. Only after they have borne that punishment will be able to begin the path to righteousness. As I figure all this out, I see the Angel release the body of a monk from its place, and as the monk is gently set upon the floor, his body begins to convulse, until another monk arrives to aid him. In that time, the Angel never sets foot on the ground, and when the monk is helped, the Angel begins to soar upward toward the stained glass…and the sunlight seems to gives his skin and wings a shimmering coat of white, heavenly fire as he simply passes through. I’ve had enough religion for today, I think, and request to be taken down to the jester. We spiral down, down, and down further still, until we come to the dungeon cell that houses the first human I encountered when I got here. I close my eyes after I look upon her, for, put simply, she is not as she was. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/19/03 4:36:47 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 146 (2/19/03 6:07 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.” -- Rosaline, William Shakespeare’s Love's Labor's Lost (V, ii) “Extreme justice is extreme injustice.” -- Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero), De Officiis (I, 10) My eyes eventually open again, and my lungs heave a heavy sigh. The Jester stands manacled before me, and her previously fine look of Dominance has been reduced to a simple white dress. Her current situation has sapped her of the jaunty vivacity that lit her features before, and her face now rests in a perpetual state of sorrow and remorse. We greet each other, my voice terribly unsure, hers dulled and broken by the weight of regret. After a few moments of chatting, I learn from her that the White Queen put her here as punishment after I arrived within the Queen’s domain. Not too surprisingly, the Jester no longer speaks in that funny way where she uses obvious words to draw attention to obscure facts—there is no exercise of wit, no bright gleam of humor; she speaks plainly and openly, although there are questions I still have to ask. “…I thought you were given the Queen’s powers because of a bet she lost, to the Black Queen.” “Yes.” “…then why are you the one being punished?” She releases a quick sob, but calms down almost immediately. “She doesn’t trust me anymore…She believes that I’ve been compromised by the Black Queen.” “But you had no hand in the bet’s creation—if anyone should be punished, it should be the White Queen. It seems to me that the only reason she administers any punishment at all is because she can’t bear to face her own guilt.” She blesses me with a small smile. “…If I were allowed to be witty, I might have a comment for that.” I quirk a brow, but she doesn’t elaborate. “I’ve been told that you’re the White Queen’s Bishop.” She nods during my pause. “So…do you have a group of people who report to you, the way the White King’s Bishop does?” She gives her head a slow shake. “The White King’s Bishop follows a more religious role, but his primary duty is to offer the King advice. My role as a Jester is different, but fulfills the same function.” My lips part as understanding suddenly dawns upon me. So this is what Kate was talking about, but I just didn’t get it then. “You’re a Shakespearian jester…” “There is very special wisdom that lies within the art of humor.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “But I’m no longer allowed to be witty, or to indulge in jests.” I sigh and furrow my brow. “How exactly does she punish you? I mean, how can she punish you in a way that makes you not compromised by the Black Queen?” Is that even physically possible? “The White Queen comes every day, and she promises that by the time she’s done, she will have ridded me of the Black Queen’s taint, and that I will once again be as white as white.” Thinking back to the orgy of flagellation upstairs, I ask gently, “So…what, beatings?” Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, no…she comes everyday to drown me in vinegar.” “…what?” “She removes me from my cell, ties me down, and then dunks me into vinegar until I can no longer hold my breath. Then I’m lifted, and allowed to breathe before she dunks me back in again. And this goes on, and on, until I finally faint. When I wake, I find myself as you see me now.” I have no words, no thoughts of possible justification for this kind of punishment. And why vinegar? Somewhere in my head, I note that it probably has something to do with the liquid’s acidity, but I’ve no idea what, or how the taint could be physical (that it could be removed by a physical means), when the two Queens reside in separate realms. “How long has this been going on?” My throat now clenches at this injustice, and the constriction stretches my voice thin. “Days…weeks…I’m not sure. But this is my punishment, and though I am not at fault, I will bear it.” I merely look at her with widened eyes. Those monks upstairs at least have something to voluntarily repent, but this woman… When she next speaks, her voice still rings with some sadness, but sounds a little lighter than when she did at the beginning of our encounter. “You’d better go. The jailer will be coming around soon, and he might mistake you for someone who is supposed to be inside, rather than outside.” I nod, but momentarily keep my eyes fixed on her as my sympathy for her presses angrily against my ribs. I’m sure my face is rather grim, but her next words ease that somewhat, as they surprise me. “…will you visit me?” My surprise slips through into my expression a little bit, I think, but our eyes lock, and my answer is swift. “Yes.” Silently, I think to myself, And if I can, I’ll do more than that… She doesn’t quite smile at this, but she nods, and looks a little gladdened before her eyes dart to the hallway in wordless hint. I nod, and go down the hallway to get my monk guide. I request to be taken back to the library, and he brings me there. As I look around at all the books around me, I realize that I’ve a few hours to plan, yet. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/20/03 8:33:32 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 152 (2/24/03 12:39 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The doings of men, their prayers, fear, wrath, pleasure, delights, and recreations, are the subject of this book." -- Juvenal (Decimus Junius Juvenal), Satires (I, I, 85) The Secret Lives of… (Part I) My lungs heave a sigh as I look around, and I idly run my fingertips against the ancient spines of the books surrounding me as I walk aimlessly past shelves. After a cursory examination, I notice that these books have been arranged not by subject matter, but by the date the books arrived in the library. Because I wish for books that will give me some background on the realm, I start with the newest books first, hoping that perhaps the latest ones will have incorporated older information from the books that came before them. My search proves fruitless in terms of background information, but I do find something of vague interest entitled, "The Life of Edward Frakes." As I open the cover, I mumble, "…who is Edward Frakes, and why would anyone care?" But, despite the relative obscurity of the subject matter, I’m still something of a bibliophile, and I breathe a soft sigh as I marvel at the most ancient thing my hands have ever been lucky enough to hold. I skim the text then, but am careful (though not painstakingly so) about how I handle the pages. Apparently, this Ed Frakes guy started out destined for an esteemed and distinguished life within the Church. The book starts with his glorious birth, and lists the names of various Angels who were in attendance, and tells of what gifts they brought to the child. The book pretty much moves along chronologically, with various miracles being attributed to the child as he got a little older. As he got still older, he voluntarily joined the ranks of the castrati, presumably because the boy felt a need to do penance for some unknown, greater sin. After a while, as he reached the age of manhood, he decided to take a more active role in the Church, and he was eventually awarded a Bishopric, and at last he, at age 55, died of a peaceful heart attack. The final miracle associated with him was the abundance of white rose petals that simply covered his room when his body was found. The book ends there, and I frown slightly in rather evident repulsion. The book speaks in glowing terms about this guy, but, hell, I know that no one’s that perfect, particularly no one in the Catholic Church. Call it a personal bias if you must, but man, the Church (at least, when I left) wasn’t on trial for being the epitome of religious or secular perfection. Anyway, I return the book back to its place on the shelf when I notice my monk guide standing beside me. He glances at the title of the book I just returned, and he places a finger in his mouth and gives a look of vomited disgust. I blink at that, and he merely responds by giving me a near impish grin, and follows that by waving at me to follow him. I do, and I realize that he’s taking me over to a section of shelves that house not just books, but ancient tomes that even sit impressively upon the shelves. They’re so grand and imposing, in fact, I immediately liken them to the imagined grimoires of fantasy sorcerers. My guide begins to lightly tap a finger against a shelf until he finds what he’s looking for, and when he does, he heaves a tome from its place and hands it to me. As he does so, I ask, "Who’s Edward Frakes, anyway?" I silently take the book from his hands, and, once his hands are free, he steeples his hands and arms into what I recognize as the shape of the Bishop’s hat. "…he’s the Bishop?" He nods, and then points at the massive piece of literature I now hold in my hands. It reads, "The Book of Life: Edward Frakes." I quirk a brow, and thumb through the first few pages. Already, I notice a complete difference not just in perspective, but style as well. For one, this book is written in third person omniscient, and even the angels present at Frakes’ birth aren’t in accord—they have an argument about whether or not Frakes will eventually stray from the fold, and whether or not the path planned out for him is too risky to take. I glance up from my reading to cast a questioning glance at the monk. "This one isn’t at all like the other book…" He mimes to me then, his eyes serious, that the other book was written by Frakes himself, while this Book of Life was set down by God. The corners of my lips pull downward for a quick moment as I think on this. "But if you already have this version, why keep the other?" He motions, and I get the answer. "…because this library is inclusive. I see." I continue reading, and see that of the miracles attributed to him in the other book, the young Frakes himself witnessed none. The boy also chose the route of a castrato not genuinely out of a sense of repentance, but because he felt he could achieve greater power within the ranks of the Church that way. As he rose up the hierarchy, he involved himself with all sorts of obscure—but dark—pursuits. Still, being a eunuch, his interest in them was not motivated at all by sexual charge or deviance, but rather driven academic curiosity that grew into expertise in fields like necromancy, sex magick, the science and spirituality of pain, and other such lovely subjects. Finally, at a later point after having been awarded the position of a Bishop, the book shows that he made a deal with the White Queen for eternal life in her realm as the King’s Bishop. After the pact was made, he popped pills to bring about his own death. The book doesn’t stop there, though. I also learn that the Bishop has no faith in God, and what’s more disturbing is that he admitted this while chatting with a demon companion. The demon seemed puzzled, since Frakes obviously believes in him, so why not God? Frakes answered that the demon is an entity like the angel who sometimes appears in the library—he has no problem with believing in them, because they are political factions, and don’t necessarily have anything at all to do with God. I shut the book now, my head swimming in the strangeness unveiled to me. I frown slightly as I give my head a quick shake to clear my thoughts. My guide watches me for a moment before showing me what he has in his hands: "The Book of Life: Matthew Vonnegut." I quirk a brow and begin to lightly massage my temples. "…okay…who’s Matthew Vonnegut?" He smiles slightly, and points to himself. My hands clasp the weighty volume and I nod. He motions, as if to remind me, once more that before coming here, he was a monster, and then he leaves me to my reading. I give my head another slight shake, wondering just what could possibly be so terrible within these pages. I don’t know what exactly I’m expecting, but whatever it is, it’s not this. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 157 (2/24/03 11:21 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The doings of men, their prayers, fear, wrath, pleasure, delights, and recreations, are the subject of this book." -- Juvenal (Decimus Junius Juvenal), Satires (I, I, 85) The Secret Lives of… (Part II) I had previously dismissed Matthew’s assertions that he was a monster prior to finding God’s path when he arrived here. Throughout his dealings with me, he has displayed a charming sense of humor, despite his marked resolution to remain true to his rather grave, rather funless, vow of silence. He has shown care and gentle interest in who I am, and what I have to say, and has borne with patience my sometimes rather pathetic inability to comprehend his pantomimes. Lastly, I can see his good naturedness shine through whenever that mischievous grin starts to play on his lips. Of course, I only met him an hour or two ago. This book documents his entire life. Apparently, Matthew was one of those guys we all love to hate: a creepy, sociopathic man who got his kicks by terrorizing others. In childhood, he started with kittens. After hearing one day that cats lose their sense of balance and direction if they lose their whiskers, Matthew experimented. From that day forward, that cat made its hate of Matthew pretty evident, and so Matthew drowned it, without any remorse. He graduated from kittens to other animals, and eventually, he realized two things: first, he derives a sexual charge from his acts, and second, others certainly wouldn’t allow him to continue if they found out. So he kept his tendencies hidden. As he got older, as his “kick threshold” got pushed upward with every act of perversion, he took the next logical step and began to prey on people. He kept himself hidden in the forests as he traveled, but would, every so often, loose himself upon villages, and left behind ravaged, mutilated, and long expired bodies as the only signs of his passing. After a while (read: after he had committed so many crimes without any one knowing who he was that he thought himself invincible), he got careless. And he got caught. Public sentiment raged against this person who had terrorized their villages for so long, and the public rightly thirsted for vengeance on behalf of those they lost. Word of this person who hunted his own people like an animal reached the ears of the king, and an execution was staged. Literally, staged. The man killed was not Matthew, because Matthew had already been brought before the king, and put in the king’s employ. It’s not tough to see why: Matthew had been doing this kinda thing for years now, and in all that time, he proved excellent at not getting caught. The two reached and agreed upon a bargain: Matthew was to do the king’s dirty work, and in return, whatever crimes Matthew wished to commit, no matter how heinous, the king would conceal in return. This worked pretty well, for a time. The king had always kept Matthew on an extremely tight leash, and relations between them were as amicable as could be expected of an alliance arising from such a pact. Still, the king unknowingly allowed his guard to drop one day, and Matthew used the familiarity developed between him and the king to commit his most accomplished, most delectable act yet. His last, most prized victim was none other than his own queen, the king’s wife. Matthew’s own death quickly followed. This time, there was no righteous cry of satisfaction from the public he tormented. Nothing but the wrath of the king he betrayed accompanied his final breath as he hung lifeless from the gallows. Then he woke to find himself crucified on one of the walls of this very library. I stop here, shut the book, and immediately head over to Matthew. He’s sitting at another place in the library, quietly poring over another book. He lifts his gaze to meet me as I approach, and though his expression doesn’t change, I can almost see the silent question in his eyes. With a small smile of encouragement, I lay a hand on his arm, and gently say, “I quite admire what you’re putting yourself through now, you know.” He merely shrugs and gives me a modest grin. A thought strikes. “Do you have one for Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide?” He shrugs, as if to say, “Maybe…” I don’t give up—this is a valuable opportunity to gain some very valuable information, so I try to recall every bit of information on her that I can. Unfortunately, I don’t know anything about her. “Well, how about we start looking for stuff with her name on it from 60 years ago?” He shrugs, and directs me to a section of shelving that apparently holds stuff from 60 years ago. We split the shelves up, and we actually find Books of Life for three different Elizabeth Adelaides, but none have “Catherine” as a middle name, and when I flip through the pages, none of them appear to be about the person I’m thinking of. Undaunted, I ask, “What about the Black Queen?” Matthew simply shakes his head, apparently certain of this fact. “Well, what about the White Queen?” He thinks a moment, and then shakes his head, but his face bears a look of puzzlement, as if to say, “Hey, now that you mention it, that is kinda weird…” Then, in a wild frenzy, I check the shelves for another book, and I slump in relief when I don't find one bearing my name. Once I settle back down from that, I continue my barrage of questioning. “And her jester?” Jackpot. He nods then, but holds up three fingers. He mimics the Jester’s effeminate gestures again, and then ticks off on his fingers that she’s the third one this current White Queen has had during her reign. I start reading, and I find out that the first of the three was born around the year 800, and was a celtic warrior/shaman who had already gained some knowledge of this place by the time of her passing. Once she died, she immediately headed over to a place where she could carve out a position of power for herself. This warrior woman didn’t start out being the Bishop of the current White Queen, though. By the time the current White Queen got her position, this Jester had already enjoyed quite a long career under the previous Queen. The current White Queen actually killed this Jester by sneaking into her room at night, knocking her out, and then drowning her. Because the White Queen needed a replacement, she picked a European peasant girl born around 1400. Her stint as the second Jester of the current White Queen actually lasted a pretty long while, until she made an unfortunate joke at the expense of the Red King, who immediately demanded her execution in recompense. The White Queen complied, and had the second jester drowned, also. (I’m beginning to wonder what it is with her and drowning people…perhaps she was drowned in her own life, and so wishes that pain and panicked misery upon those she wishes killed?) The third jester (the one I know) came to her position only two years ago, after she died as Eileen Bradson, an idiot savant from Alabama (of all places). The White Queen needed a replacement jester desperately, and appeared to have just picked someone at random. Still, as entry into this place seems limited to those who know about it, or have been led here (like I was led here by the influences of both the Black Queen and Mr. White), the White Queen did get someone who was as free of outside influences as one could be. Just as I finish digesting all this, I hear the White Queen’s voice by the library entrance. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/28/03 2:38:05 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 159 (2/25/03 12:39 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Who will not mercie unto others show, How can he mercie ever hope to have?" -- Edmund Spenser, Faerie Queene (bk. VI, canto I, st. 42) "In common things the law of sacrifice takes the form of positive duty." -- James Anthony Froude, Short Studies on Great Subjects--Sea Studies " Is Christina in here?" I quirk a brow, and, rather than make my presence immediately known, I unobtrusively wind my way back to the less incriminating section of the library just as Matthew moves in the other direction to meet the White Queen. As I go, there is only silence, so I suppose the monks are pantomiming to the Queen, who gets a little more impatient with every wordless moment. Eventually, she fairly bursts in an obviously irritated rush, "Well, does someone know where she is?" A pause. "Well, yes. Please do." Despite the forced civility of her words, her voice carries plain annoyance, and I set my jaw in preparation for her already ill temper. To make my stance in the boring section of the library a little more convincing, I place a fingertip against the top edge of the spine of some random book (hierarchy of the Angel order, I think) and tilt it towards me, as if I were going to pull it off the shelf. It’s just at this point that Matthew arrives with the White Queen. I take an unsteady breath as I "replace" the book back into its snug spot, and lift my gaze to greet the beautiful woman before me. "Good morning, Your Majesty." By now, her voice regains its characteristic slowness, though her words belie her sense of urgency—her voice may undulate, but she herself wastes no time in getting to the point. "I was told you wished to speak with me." "I did, indeed." I pause for a moment, and she merely looks at me expectantly. "…did you want to discuss it here?" "Where would you rather discuss it?" She fixes her dark eyes on me, and her gaze is persistent and unyielding. She makes me so ill at ease…why does she always make me feel like a little kid who got caught on the way to the damn cookie jar? But I’m not a little kid, and there is no damned cookie jar. I glance nonchalantly around, and realize, yet again, that our voices are the only sounds ringing in the air. "Well, I guess it doesn’t matter if we talk about it here—it’s not like these monks are gonna say anything about it anyway, even if they wanted to." She gives a charming smile then, and says, "Yes. It is rather nice that they can’t pass on any information." My brow arches involuntarily at her words, as I briefly consider just the sheer amount of information I got from Matthew alone, but I change the subject. "…I met with your jester yesterday." "Did you?" Her eyes don’t move from me, but her voice strikes me as being rather coldly bored. "I did, and she told me of the treatment she is currently enduring. Is this her punishment for your loss of a bet to the Black Queen?" "No. It’s not." There’s no mistaking the boredom in her voice now, and I frown grimly in anger that such an injustice could be so callously dismissed. "When I first arrived, you said that she would be punished for the mess she made." "I did, and she has been. This is something different." "What is it then, that she must endure unjust penalties twice over for actions that had nothing to do with her? She sighs then, and glances idly around before landing her gaze on me again. "I am ridding her of the Black Queen’s taint. Because things have happened the way they have, the Black Queen now holds some influence over my jester. I’m purging her of it." "What exactly is this taint, that you can remove it physically?" She answers quickly, but a slight edge of impatience tinges her voice. "The taint itself is not physical. In this realm, you can remove it by performing ritualistic acts. It doesn’t matter who the acts are performed on, so long as they are done. Just or not, this time, the burden is hers." "Well, if the taint isn’t physical, why can’t you let the jester will it away, or otherwise fight it off, herself?" She tilts her head at my slightly, and arches a delicate brow. "Believe me, if I thought she were smart enough or strong enough to fight it off on her own, I would allow her to do so. As it stands, she is not." "How long do you expect this to take before the taint is eliminated?" She looks thoughtful for a brief moment before answering, "…perhaps a month or so." This is my chance to repay all those who have made sacrifices for me, though I could do nothing for them in return. I take a deep breath, and then plunge headfirst into my next sentence. "And if I were to offer myself in her place?" The White Queen merely gives me a look of mild disbelief and contempt as she responds. "Then it would be keeping with the trend of foolishness all your actions have thus far evinced." She pauses for a second, and then gives me a look of harsh appraisal, though her eyes don’t move from mine. I meet her glare defiantly, and don’t give any reaction to her words. "Why, are you indeed making such an offer?" "I am, on certain conditions. In the interim, I want my relationship with you to remain as it is now. That means no enchantments, no putting the jester back in for punishment when I’m done, and you can’t take any of my stuff." She almost chuckles as she gives me a look that bears both haughtiness and gentle pity. "You carry nothing that I want." I answer that with a modest shrug. "Hey, I’m still being chased by the Black Queen, so obviously I have something someone wants. I’m just making sure." She looks thoughtful again as she as studies me again in silent estimation. "Well, I do need a jester. While you are in her place, she can get back to her duties. Quite a lot of work has piled up for her." Only my patiently expectant look answers her, and pretty soon, she appears to have reached a decision. "Well then, shall we go meet the jester?" She leads me back down through the winding halls until we reach the dungeons. She calls for guards, and to my amazement, I see the top portions of empty suits of armor come to greet us. Silently, they float above the ground, but seem to go about their duties the way normal guards do. We reach the jester’s cell, and when she looks up to see us, she murmurs sadly, "…is it time again already?" I say nothing, but quietly grit my teeth—her sentence, already as broken as she, is braced by only an audible dread, and I can feel my heart again start to protectively close against what I see, even as my pity begins to leave its bitter taste on my tongue. For the White Queen, however, it’s simply business as usual. To the guards, she intones, "Take her to a room." I try to catch her eye as she is carried past, but the guards remove her from my sight too quickly for any meaningful glances to be exchanged. Once she’s gone, the White Queen turns to me, and with a bit of a smile to her lips, motions me to the manacles. I move swiftly toward them, and I don’t allow the Queen to see any hesitation to my movements—I feel no regret for the situation I’ve voluntarily placed myself in, I try to let her know that through my body language. I place my wrists squarely in the holds of the cold metal, and the White Queen clicks them shut. Then, as she stands before me, I can feel the metal rings around my wrists contract until they fit snugly against my skin. Not that I was planning to wiggle out of them, or anything… My eyes remain on hers in adamant confidence while she chains me, and when she’s done, she gently cups my chin. She leans close, and her voice now comes across as a whispered caress that glides evenly over my lips and the tip of my nose. "You’re strong. Perhaps for you, it’ll only take a week." Then she turns slowly on her heel, and walks smoothly out of my little cell. A lone remaining floating armor guard follows her out, and locks the cell door behind him. As he begins to float away, I notice Matthew emerging from..elsewhere..(I don't know if he was there for the whole exchange, or if he just showed up. I didn't see where he was hiding, in any case) before reaching out an arm to gently yoink the cell's key from the guard's belt. The guard continues onward, completely unaware of any pilferage. As the guard vanishes from sight, Matthew merely shakes his head in amused disgust before letting himself into my cell, and greeting me once more with that delightfully impish grin. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/25/03 3:37:11 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 161 (2/26/03 12:13 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Confidence is conqueror of men; victorious both over them and in them; The iron will of one stout heart shall make a thousand quail: A feeble dwarf, dauntlessly resolved, will turn the tide of a battle, And rally to a nobler strife the giants that had fled.” -- Martin Tupper, Proverbial Philosophy--Of Faith (l. 11) “Great wits and valours, like great states, Do sometimes sink with their own weights.” -- Samuel Butler, Hudibras (pt. II, canto I, l. 269) He sits down near me, and merely looks at me with a tilted head. His look is so intense that I, for some reason, feel the need to explain and justify myself, and I do so in a sudden burst of rushed words. “…I know this looks rather odd, but, really, the injustice of the punishment was just more than I could bear. This whole time I’ve been here, others have made sacrifices for me, and…” Before I could finish, Matthew holds up his hand and sort of pats at the air until I allow my voice to fade. I look at him, puzzled, and then he just nods his head as if to say, I know, I know… I frown in response, and ask, “…how do you know?” And he motions to his heart. “..Ah. You can feel it.” We begin to “chat,” then, in the normal way to which we are accustomed—that is to say, with him pantomiming, and me guessing at his meanings. Hey, it whiles away the hours. In the meantime, his actions make me laugh so hard that I’m sure any casual passerby might think that I’m throwing a party in these dungeons, or that I’ve gone completely mad, since it sounds like I’m quite enjoying myself down here, by myself. Because he’s willing to just sit with me to keep me company, and because so far he’s been one of a very, very few people who actually answers my questions with straightforward responses (ironic, considering how he communicates), I ask him bunches of questions. Matthew seems to think me an angel or saint of some kind, and that’s how he explains my willingness to susbstitute myself for the jester. I shake my head at that and reply that I can’t possibly be an Angel because I bear guilt, and I’ve reason to bear it, because of the trouble I’ve caused others. He merely shrugs, and continues to look at me. Though he is (of course) silent, I am grateful for his company—his whole presence shines with a quiet warmth and gentleness that I’ve quite missed in my encounters with others. Soon, he shows me the key he stole as he rests it in the palm of one hand. He places his other hand over it, and shuts his eyes. As I watch, I can see the key shrink down from its large size down to a size similar to the artifact key that I have. I openly gape at this, and then he shows me that he can will it large again. He shrinks it once more by squeezing it between two fingers, and then places it in my hands and gestures for me to try. I will it large, and it works well enough. I try squeezing it smaller, but it’s a lot more difficult than I imagined it would be. Eventually, I get it, and Matthew it tucks it snugly against my ear, where a circular barbell used to rest. He then intimates that that single key will unlock the manacles around my wrists, the cell door, and the gate leading out of the dungeons. With that characteristic grin, he mimes out exactly what he thinks of the person who runs this place, and what little sense she has. I laughingly concur, and then I ask if he’ll get in trouble for saying such things. He merely nods merrily and shrugs it off by flipping his middle finger toward the hallway leading out of the dungeons. He makes it known to me that he can see in her eyes that in punishing me, her treatment of me is going to be far harsher than the Jester’s treatment. My lips curve into a small smile as I tell him that I knew that already, and that that’s okay, and I then ask about the Black Queen. He doesn’t know much about her, but he does know something about the Red Queen when I ask. He thinks that she’s pretty smart, and wields more common sense than the White Queen does. I wonder aloud how he knows about her, and he “tells” me that she’s been in the cathedral before, and demanded a tour from the reluctant Bishop both times she was here. In thinking about the Red Queen, my thoughts drift back to the tragic Rose Red, and I mourn a little again. He’s puzzled, and I let him know that Rose Red is dead, and her sacrifice is something that I’m attempting to start repaying with my own suffering. He nods in understanding and sadness, and then a thought strikes me. I wonder about the ability to make her thorn shrink and grow at will, and I experiment with it with Matt for a little while. Eventually, we determine that I cannot will it back into my hands if I drop it, but I can make it grow and shrink if I kiss it beforehand. (Matt pantomimes to me that it’s because she’s lesbian, and ..somethingsomething.. that I didn’t get. He knows she’s a lesbian because he’s heard the Bishop yammering on about it, and apparently, the Bishop talks a lot about lots of people, and is quite a gossip.) Neither of us are sure how long the effects of the kiss will last. But at least I now know that much. Remembering now Rose Red’s words about a saint that I encountered, I ask him about the Cheshire. He responds that in the Catholic sense of the word, the Cheshire is certainly no saint, but in the way that I mean for use in this realm, he thinks that the Cheshire is, indeed, who Rose Red was referring to. And in talking about the Cheshire and Rose Red, he also informs me that the way the White Queen came into power was by winning a riddle contest. The White Queen, he tells me, is quite fond of riddles…so long as she can find answers to them. The Cheshire and Rose Red both infuriated her with riddles that she couldn’t solve. She came to power because she challenged the previous White Queen to a riddle contest. The current Queen prevailed, and the previous Queen had her head bitten off by the Cheshire, which was the consequence of losing the match. Just then, a familiar voice greets us both. “So you know, I was asked to judge between the two fools.” I give a faint smile then, and think about how odd it must look to him to find me so chained here. “Hello, Cheshire. Fancy meeting you here!” He turns to me, his eyes roaming over my manacled form. “I heard my name being bandied about, and decided to make sure it wasn’t being taken in vain.” And he gives me that impossibly wide grin. “And that contest was dreadfully boring.” My voice bursts forth in a cheerful laugh. “Yeah, well, you know we can’t all be fond of world play and as—what did you call it—tolerant of madness as you are.” His lips continue to curl upward, revealing still more toothy whiteness. “Flattery will get you flattened.” This time, I give a derisive snort in response. “Who’s trying to flatter you? Don’t be so arrogant!” He continues to grin. “I’ve no desire to flatten you currently, anyway.” “Good. You’ve no reason to. I used the very same words you used, so if you’re going to get upset, you’ve no one to blame but yourself.” “And speaking of taking blame…” And he motions calmly to my new dungeon accoutrements. “Yes, well, the jester’s punishment was just too completely unfair, and I couldn’t take it anymore.” It’s his turn to arch a brow, and he looks at me with a more-myterious-than-usual glint in his eyes. “How very interesting.” After a pause, he asks, “Where was it being taken?” I frown before bursting out, “To apathy! Such injustice was being carried to the altars of apathy!” He doesn’t respond, and to fill the silence, I venture, “…so when you bit off the previous queen’s head, what happened? I mean, if this place can be likened to the land of the dead, what happened to the previous queen if she was already dead?” He tilts his head slightly, and narrows his feline eyes. “I shall say this: the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard is that the soul cannot die.” And after a moment, he adds, almost as an afterthought, “You know, the White Queen is drowning the Jester right now.” I frown deeply at this, and then ask, “…but that’s the same word that the jester used to describe her punishment before…so do you mean it that way, or do you mean to express the more permanent meaning?” “The permanent one. I thought you’d appreciate knowing.” “…but…” And slowly, comprehension dawns on me. In stating the terms of my agreement, I never said that no further harm should be inflicted upon the jester as a result of this…I merely said that she not be put back into receiving punishment after I go through it. And my thoughts now come as a rushed blur of emotion that I release in a ragged cry. “F u c k! F u c k! That fuckin’…! F U C K!” The Cheshire looks at me askance, and then murmurs, “You keep saying that word, but I don’t think you’re using its proper meaning.” Angrily, I spit out, “Yeah, well, it’s a very versatile word where I come from.” He grins again. “Yes…bankrupt of meaning.” Semantics isn’t on my mind right now. I’m so furious that I actually tug on my manacles so hard that they bite mercilessly into my skin, and I’m so furious that I savor the pain as a method of emotional release. “F u c k!” I glance around for Matthew, but he’s nowhere in sight. The Cheshire appears to notice, and then he says, “Your friends has left your company for now…I believe he’s gone to do something rather precipitous.” “Well, I can hope. .. .. F u c k.” The Cheshire watches me a moment longer before grinning again and intoning in that calm, carefree manner of his, “Now, if you’ll excuse me. You’re about to have some company.” He vanishes, and I’m left with nothing to accompany me in the ensuing silence except my own failed righteousness, and a botched sense of nobility. F u c k. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 163 (2/26/03 12:54 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shapes, And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice!" -- Duchess of York, William Shakespeare’s Richard the Third (II, ii) "Deceit and treachery skulk with hatred, but an honest spirit flieth with anger." -- Martin Tupper, Of Hatred and Anger I hear footsteps approaching, but I’m too busy trying to work on my manacles that I don’t care. The metallic rings, of course, don’t even begin to give—they merely leave my wrists red and raw from all the tugging I do. I’m not actually trying to get away (if I were, I’d use either one of my enchanted keys), because I fully intend to go through with what I’d agreed to. I’m examining my wrists as the footsteps draw to a stop in front of my little cell. Warily, with my head still turned toward a wrist, I sidle my glance to the cell gate only to meet the gaze of the persistently unhappy Bishop, whose voiced greeting sounds more like an alluring purr than its usual nasal nastiness. "Well, isn’t this an attractive sight." I scowl in return. "Hmph. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that this is your style." He returns my comment with an expression that looks as if he’s just been vaguely insulted. "No, actually, it’s not." "Not that I care. What d’ya want?" I tire quickly of his needless banter, and I can feel my anger press persistently against my throat and rib cage. Accordingly, my words slide from my lips in a curious mix of stuttering frustration and smooth speed. The Bishop doesn’t miss a beat in shifting gears, either. "There is a particular monk who has been spending an inordinate amount of time with you recently. Do you know where he is?" "How do you expect me to know? He’s not my brother, and even if he were, I still wouldn’t be his keeper." "You’re dodging the question." I release a frustrated sigh. "Fine. Straight answer: no, I do not know where he is." He quirks a brow and looks at me probingly. It’s just at this juncture that I realize he’s not holding his skull at all, which is, I realize, odd for him. "No idea at all?" "I barely even know where I am! Did you check the room of contrition, or whatever you people call it?" He narrows his eyes to slits, and I can sense his own sense of frustration trickle forth into his words. "It’s where he should be, but he isn’t there." "The library, then?" "Not there." "Then maybe he went to find the White Queen." He arches a brow at this, and those eyes, already so dark and hard, darken and bear into mine still harder. "Why would he go visit the White Queen?" My words now come as a harsh shriek. Is this man daft? "How’m I supposed to know? I’m just throwing out possibilities. The library, the flagellation place, and the banquet hall are the only places I’ve ever even seen or been to in this fuckin’, god forsaken place!" He nods then, studies me a moment more, and then leaves me. And I’m now in a worse mood than I was in before. I bend my knees and place my feet squarely on the stonework behind me, and pull on my already raw wrists so that my body rests in a horizontal line perpendicular to the wall. Without paying any mind to anyone who might or might not hear, I release my anger in a primal, unintelligible cry of fury. Now tired from my own exertions (but feeling vaguely better because of the self-induced fatigue), I drop back down to my normal position and slump against the wall. I whisper a prayer for Matthew, and hope that he, at least, is doing better than I am. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 164 (2/26/03 8:40 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Actually, both this flogging and the chain... are intended less to make you suffer, scream, or shed tears than to make you feel, through this suffering, that you are not free but fettered, and to teach you that you are totally dedicated to something outside yourself.” -- Pauline Reage, The Story of O “‘Tis hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of Faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreathes that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.” -- William Wordsworth, Weak is the Will of Man Some time passes…how much time, I’m not sure, but eventually, footsteps sound against the stone walls, and I look up, expecting to see the Bishop. I see the White Queen instead. As she starts to enter my cell, I immediately start to ask her, “Where’s the Jester?” but to my angry astonishment, I realize that I can’t speak. I start to open my mouth, but no words come out—sound escapes my lips only as a rushed breath of air. In response to my assuredly shocked expression, the White Queen motions for the floating armored guards to take me down from my position, and then merely calmly intones, “Go limp.” And I do. My body slackens as it becomes nothing more than a dead weight that refuses to obey my own commands. I still manage to shoot the White Queen an angry glare, but she doesn’t seem to notice. And just for good measure, in case she does have some telepathic ability, and because I can do nothing else as the guards go about their duties, I think at her, I hate you, I hate you…Just you wait. One day. Your ass. My platter. I fuckin’ hate you. The armored guards hoist me up then, and we follow the White Queen down more winding pathways until we come to a little room that holds nothing more than a tub of vinegar (vinegar has a pretty distinct smell that always reminds me of dumplings and salads, so I recognize it immediately), and some manacles and chains dangling from the ceiling. “Hold your breath.” Even as I continue to bear my eyes angrily into her, I feel and hear myself breathing very deeply before trapping the air in my lungs. Then the guards grab my limbs, and at the White Queen’s command, toss me rather unceremoniously into the tub of vinegar, clothes and all. My head is only halfway in the liquid, and I furrow my brow at this—the vinegar isn’t acidic enough to even vaguely sting the skin (except at my wrists, as they were already tender and raw), let alone burn away the Black Queen’s “taint,” whatever that means. I find I have no cause for that kind of “worry,” however, because the guards approach me once again, and tie weights about my forehead. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of my head, I think, Oh, the apple in my fleece is gonna be so nasty when this is over with… I shut my eyes as my head sinks low, and I just wait for the pressure on my lungs to become unbearable. Eventually, it does. I don’t know how to swim, and so I don’t do much of it (obviously). I’m not accustomed to having to hold my breath except for singing, and even then the breath flows forth in a slow, smooth release, depending on the length of the note I have to hold. I’m thankful I used to do at least that, and that my lungs are healthy and strong in general, but I’m not at all accustomed to this crap. After about close to a minute and a half (maybe less…like I said, I don’t hold my breath often), my panic instincts start to kick in. Luckily for me, I’m a little calmer than I would normally be because I’m sure I’m going to live through this experience. Just then, the White Queen reaches a delicate hand into the liquid to lift my head out of the vinegar by the hair—not completely, but enough that my ear emerges. Softly, in that infuriatingly rolling voice, she murmurs, “You can release your breath now, if you wish.” Just to spite the woman, I hold my breath for a little while longer before I release it in a surge of bubbles. My lungs, gasping for air, force me to inhale. And I take in vinegar. Now I see the point of it—as the vinegar flows into me, I feel as though it’s setting my insides aflame. I give in to the burning, and I black out. ______________________________________________ I awake groggy, dry but fully clothed, fully manacled, and in my little cell again. I bring a few fingers to my ear, where Matthew left the tiny key, and I realize with some relief that it’s still there. I take it out, unlock myself, and check my pocket for the artifact key, and the thorn. They, too, are still there. Lastly, I check on the apple, just to make sure it isn’t rotted and disgusting. To my unsurprise, it’s still as pristine as it was when the crone picked it. I nod in satisfaction, and then relock myself, and tuck the key back into the pierced space in the cartilage of my ear. After what feels like about 30 minutes, the White Queen re-emerges into my space, and just as I get ready again to ask her where the hell her Jester is, she immediately repeats what she said the last time she showed up. “Go limp.” Of course, I do. Any words I formulated before remain lodged in my throat, since she’s still not allowing me to utter them. The floating armor guard things still accompany her this time, and at her command, they begin to unshackle me and I simply fall helpless in their arms. Again, we go through the winding halls until we reach the little room, and this time, she begins with, “Stand up.” I do. She continues, “Now, since I promised not to harm your clothes, strip. Leave your clothes over there.” The White Queen vaguely motions to a corner of the room, and though I want to protest, I can’t. I find myself stripping as told, leaving my clothing (and my items) in a neat pile in the designated corner. I take a shaky breath, but I refuse to let her see my discomfort, even though she has already taken away the only way I have of showing my defiance, while still adhering to my promise. I grit my teeth at the sudden draft, and I try not to think about not even having the ability to hide my nakedness. I don’t have too long to dwell on that, however. She motions me over to a circular rack, where the curve presses outward. I am placed with my back against that, with wrists and ankles now tied so that the frontside of my body becomes almost like the outside of a “C.” So securely am I tied that I can’t do anything with my body except wriggle my torso. Then the guards pull on the ropes so tightly that as my backside presses against the wood, my back actually pops. Despite my current situation, my body actually relaxes and slumps a bit (as well as it can, being suspended from my wrists), and I release a sigh and give a lopsided grin in mild satisfaction. The she starts. While I’m tied, she begins by taking a small brush and applying it to my skin. What’s different about this brush, though, is that instead of hair or some other such material, its bristles are made of metal. Without ink or paint, they scrape persistently against me, and, my skin, being as sensitive as it is, welts up so completely and so quickly that the art the Queen leaves behind protrudes from me like Braille. It doesn’t hurt beyond the brief, occasional sting when some of the bristles abrade hard enough to actually draw minuscule traces of blood. I’ve never been a human canvas, and so I watch out of curiosity and in fascination…I’m so engrossed in this activity, in fact, that I temporarily forget even my earlier rage. The “art” she leaves behind is actually a language that I recognize as Arabic. I quirk a brow as I study it, and then realize that it’s the same series of symbols, over, and over, and over again, and now that I’m looking at it, I see that the symbols extend on my naked torso from just below the collarbone all the way down to my knees. Soon, she discards that brush, and leaves to get something. She returns after a moment with a new brush, and small jar of something that smells like ammonia or bleach. This time, the brush gets dipped into the mystery jar before being traced onto my skin. The welts from before are still pretty prominent, and she follows each curve as exactly as a sculptor or architect would during model construction, or a medieval scribe would in the creation of a book. This time, it stings. I grimace unpleasantly, but I still watch—the pain is not unlike that of a tattoo, but at least these markings are being placed mostly over fatty areas, as opposed to bone (where I do have a tattoo). As I watch, the lines of the brush blacken my flesh quickly, and what looks like irreparably, and my eyes widen at that. Goddamnit, she’s using…! But it’s too late now. I volunteered for this s h i t, and now I’m tied to a rack that I can’t escape from, even if I tried—all my stuff’s sitting unthreateningly in a distant corner, and I can’t do crap…I can’t even talk, for Christ’s sake! Slowly, she traces the words down along my body with painstaking accuracy, and her eyes remain unwaveringly focused upon her task. She doesn’t seem to notice or care that I don’t fidget at all, nor does she seem to notice or care that my eyes are burning in anger again. As she finishes, she leans close to me again, and gives me a look of smug self satisfaction. My eyes narrow to slits again, and I (probably futilely) think at her, “You fuckin’ cheater…” She gives no hint that she cares. Beside the mystery jar of mystery alkali sits another jar which she now picks up. Slowly and sensually, she trickles this new liquid over my freshly tattooed form, and I recognize its smell as the vinegar that I’ve come to hate. As the rivulets of acid run over my skin, it sizzles and foams every time it contacts my damaged skin. When the vinegar runs out, the White Queen turns her head, and I follow her gaze. This is when I notice something I hadn’t seen before: at the other end of the room rests a dial on a pedestal. On its face are seven diamonds, six of which are smoky in hue. The Queen arches a brow then, and murmurs quietly, “My, but you are quick.” Then she turns back to me, and with that devilish smile, she fairly purrs, “Go limp.” No matter how my mind rages against her command, my body can do nothing but obey. The floating guards remove me, helpless and silent, from the rack, and we go through the drowning procedure again. Except this time, it goes on for a lot longer, because she forces me to take breaths before she eventually allows me to black out. When I finally do, I’m so exhausted that I don’t even notice the darkness. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 165 (2/27/03 12:04 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “For there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue.” -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci (act III, sc. 1) The Taste of Mercy, The Color of Sacrifice (Part I) I awake manacled, but clothed, groggy, but otherwise unhurt. I unlock myself and again check to make sure my items are still with me. They are. And I’m still tattooed. I relock myself, and I wait. Some time passes, and pretty soon, I hear footsteps approaching my cell again. I look up, and see the White Queen accompanied by the dour Bishop, who, at least today, looks a lot less dour than normal. I blink as they both enter, and barely catch the White Queen’s words as she turns to leave again. “Remember. You promised three. Get them.” Though her voice is still characteristically languid, her tone plainly carries unspoken warning and threat. The Bishop bows his head, and murmurs, “Yes, Your Majesty.” Without a greeting or even a glance at me, she turns, and leaves. The Bishop approaches me slowly, a curl of pleasure upon his lip. “The White Queen is used to obedience, and not cooperation. I’m asking for your cooperation.” After a moment of silence from me, he adds, “You can speak now, you know.” I frown in answer. “I know. Why do you need my cooperation? What will you be doing that’s different from the White Queen’s methods?” With some curiosity I note that every answer he gives me now isn’t quite as sinister as I thought his words used to be. It’s almost as if he’s being kinder, more patient than he has been with me in the past. Though I know that that should be some cause for concern, but I can’t help but feel mildly grateful for his allowances now. “The White Queen’s methods of drowning are actually very efficient at getting done what we need done. However, my techniques will maximize your time here by heightening your pain. I need your cooperation to do so, because you must feel it, not turn it away.” I feel almost insulted. “I’ve never been one to simply turn physical pain aside when it’s inflicted upon me.” His lip curls further upward in response. “Well, then.” After a moment, he motions to the key in my ear. “Will you hand that to me? I will give it back, of course, since the White Queen agreed not to take anything from you.” After my quick nod, he takes it into his hands, unlocks the manacles, and then tucks the key back into place. He leads me out of the cell, and back down those winding hallways until we come to the room again. He asks me to strip, and I again pile my belongings in the same spot they in yesterday. (Yesterday? This morning?) The tub of vinegar is still there, but he gestures for me to move toward a chain that’s dangling from the ceiling. His eyes roam over my nude form in cold, impassive study. Normally, I would feel very, very, painfully shy about just standing there while allowing someone to stare at my unclothed body, but his expression is plainly academic, and bears not even a hint of sexual interest, so I relax a little, and try to think about anything other than standing naked before a creepy little man. He speaks first. “We’ll start by removing that.” And he waves a long fingered hand at the markings across my torso. “It wasn’t part of the deal I made with the White Queen, but I usually do it as a favor for those who find themselves with it on them.” “What does it say, anyway?” He lifts his eyes to mine, and his voice nearly dances with amusement. “It says, essentially, that you are the White Queen’s bitch.” My only initially response is a released breath of incredulity. He arches a curious brow and gives a sadistic looking smile in return. I parry that smile with, “Well, let’s get started, then.” “Here. First I’ll demonstrate what you should be expecting.” I nod as he reveals a razor sharp scalpel. Now, I’m one of those people that everyone thinks is weird, and I’ve even unnerved doctors in the past. Whenever I give blood, I watch the needle insertion as it penetrates a vein. I watch when I get stitches. I don’t know why, but I always watch. This time isn’t any exception. The Bishop wields his scalpel with as much confidence and finesse as an experienced surgeon, and I watch, captivated, as he cuts away a square of flesh upon which rested one of the White Queen’s dark symbols. He cuts hard, and he cuts deep. And just behind my eyes, white hot pain flashes as I mentally compare the coldness of the metal scalpel to the fire left behind by its clean lines. As the flesh peels away, I can see the fatty tissue separate from the layer of muscle beneath, and I don’t allow myself to whimper, let alone cry out. With my eyes glued to the missing square, I watch as the muscle, now unnaturally exposed, quivers and gleams when I take a sharp breath of pain. Eventually, the pain subsides to a dull stinging, and I realize with amazement that brand new, fresh baby skin has already grown over the perfectly square wound. The Bishop gives a grin at my evident astonishment, and then says, “See? Like that. Are you ready?” “…since this wasn’t part of your deal with the White Queen, does it still do anything to remove the Black Queen’s taint?” “It does help. You can gauge yourself by that.” And he points to the diamond faced dial. “…and I won’t bleed to death?” His smile is almost kindly in its amusement. “You won’t bleed to death.” “Well then, let’s get this over with.” I tightly grip the chain dangling overhead and resolve not to struggle. He gives a little bow then, and then obligingly complies with my request. In graceful, sweeping, controlled arcs that even painters would envy, he begins to literally tear into me. My eyes peel open then in searing agony as wide chunks of my flesh drop to the floor with rather unflattering schlish kind of sounds when the layers of fat make contact with each other and the stone ground. Blood pours forth, but I’m too preoccupied with the torment of being shredded alive to worry too much about bleeding to death right now. I don’t notice too much else going on, and mentally, I can’t handle doing anything more than merely floating aloft on these angry waves of fire. Just when I think I’m coming close to transcending the pain itself, it ceases, and I realize that I can finally look around without the white heat blurring the edges of my vision. I look at the Bishop now, panting as I give him a look of silent question. He answers, and I may be delusional, but I could swear that he seems a lot more kindly now. “Now that part’s done. You took it much better than others do.” I merely look at him blankly, my mouth open and slack jawed, my breath ragged. He seems to accept this as answer, and then says, “We’ll wait for your skin to heal fully before we continue. In the meantime, if you have any questions, I’ll answer them for you.” I blink, and try to concentrate on regaining some steady breaths. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/27/03 8:54:16 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 167 (2/27/03 12:02 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "For there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue." -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci (act III, sc. 1) The Taste of Mercy, The Color of Sacrifice (Part II) I take a few moments now to experiment with my breathing, and as I force my breaths to slow, my chest trembles with every inhalation. After a few seconds of this, I slowly let go of the chain above me, and I give a quick glance to my hands, which bear white imprints of the links I gripped so tightly just a little while ago. My fingers seem to move of their own accord to the new, freshly grown skin, and I gingerly run my fingertips against it, shivering at its tenderness and sensitivity to sensation. The Bishop remains quiet throughout all this, and merely watches as I play. A single, uncontrollable giggle escapes my throat as I think about what I had just endured, and, after that, my mind seems to calm a bit. Not much, but enough to begin conversing like a normal person again (well, as normal as one can be after such an ordeal). I begin to ask him questions, then, all the while absently dragging a fingertip or two over my seemingly haphazard but precise patchwork quilt of dermal layers. My questions begin to shoot forth as they arise from the remnants of foggy pain in my mind, and they appear as random and unrelated to each as the alternating strips of pink and white running down, over, and across my naked torso. "…why does the Ace of Spades wear a white spade?" "I’m not sure. I don’t have much experience with the Ace of Spades, myself. I’m more familiar with the Ace of Clubs." "…because you’re both sadists." He merely gives me a slow smile. "…perhaps." A moment more, and I ask him another. "…isn’t there some other way for this taint to be fought off? I mean, there has to be another way. The White Queen pretty much has said that there is a way to will the influence away. I voluntarily put myself in this situation, and I will go through with my end of the agreement, but I did it because it’s simply too cruel for the poor Jester, and I’m showing her mercy to repay the mercies shown to me by others. And if anyone should be here suffering through this, it’s the White Queen, since it’s her lost bet." He leans back now, and regards me as coldly as he did when we first met. "The White Queen is unsubtle. She has a strong offense, and so she plays chess aggressively. In winning the bet, the Black Queen has garnered some control over one of the White Queen’s subjects…think of it as a cancer. Is it your fault if you are suddenly struck with cancer? Does it matter whose fault it is? In any case, it’s still there. We’re getting rid of that cancer, and one of the most effective ways is to harm the one who bears it. In causing that person to feel pain, the cancer itself will voluntarily retract. There are other ways of doing it, yes, but they’re not nearly as efficient." I nod in understanding…it’s an unhappy rule, but it makes sense, at least. "Alright…can I request that the Jester be present next time to watch? Perhaps, in seeing me suffer, she can develop some strength of will." I watch carefully for the Bishop’s facial response, but I’m surprised when he next speaks his words. "I know that the jester has been told of your sacrifice for her. I can’t be sure of her response to your actions, however." My eyes widen considerably at that, and I don’t remember to try to hide my shock. "You mean she’s alive?!" He furrows his brow at me, and plainly drawn across his face is the curiosity that I should have any reason to doubt her continued existence in this realm. "Well, yes." My shoulders slump in momentary relief. And then, as random as the questions that came before it, I ask, "…how did you know to buy me from the grendels? Snow White didn’t have time between the Ace of Spades and my capture to let you know..." "I am friends with Snow White, yes, but her other half possesses a magic mirror, by which she can divine things, and see things and talk to people a great distance away." "What do you mean, ‘divine?’" "…well, she consults the shadows." Incredulous, I ask, "…so they’re sentient?" His answer is quick and teasing. "I wouldn’t go that far." And now for something completely different. "Why did you attempt to betray me to the White King?" He arches a brow now and gives an almost self-defensive smile. "Was I betraying you, or was I serving my lord?" I frown in response, and then say, "…doing one doesn’t preclude the other." He thinks a moment, and his smile softens somewhat. "Well, that is true. But I cannot refuse the will of my lord, and you did what you were supposed to do." My voice rings now as an angry shot into the quiet air. "Only because of Thomas’ quick thinking, with no thanks to you!" His smile seems genuine now, and amusement seems to lurk just beyond the legacy of wrinkles left behind by centuries of dourness. "Well, regardless, you did what you were supposed to do. If my lord were to now request access to this room, I would have to grant it. Luckily for us, he doesn’t know you’re here, and he doesn’t know about this room." With that, he glances about, and then gestures to the tub of vinegar. "Speaking of which. Are you ready?" I glance downward just long enough to see that my skin has returned to its normal state. I nod, and head toward the tub with some amount of nervous, uneasy anticipation that makes my teeth itch. ______________________________________________ I crawl in with the front side of my body above the surface of the vinegar, and inhale the unpleasantly familiar scent of the mild acid, and the Bishop gestures to the chains dangling over my head. He goes to get something, and when he returns, I see that he’s carrying a small wooden block, and an earthenware jar similar to the one the White Queen used yesterday. The pungency of the liquid it contains wafts toward me, and my nose gives an involuntary, unpretty scrunch. The Bishop offers me the block of wood, and without hesitation I take it between my teeth as my hands reach upward for the chain hanging above my forehead. He regards me for a moment before asking, "Are you familiar with alkali burning? It damages body tissue far worse than acids do." I nod, and curl my fingers and palms still tighter around the links above my head, and bite down hard on the wood to brace myself for what will surely come. The Bishop reaches a hand down into the vinegar and cups me between the shoulder blades to push my chest further out of the vinegar. He just holds me there momentarily as my breaths start to come faster, and real fear starts to set its claws into my heart when he raises the earthenware jar above me. Then, slowly, with as much calmness as one who’s merely adding cream to coffee, he lets the alkali drip from the jar onto the newly regrown skin on my left breast, starting with the fullness along the side before lazily swirling it toward the sensitive tip. My pain escapes my throat now as scream muffled by the block of wood between my lips, and I watch in horror as my breast blackens and is eaten away by the liquid. He then drops my chest back into the vinegar, and I release another grunt of pain as the vinegar further sizzles and chars my damaged flesh. He continues to pick out specific parts of my body to dispassionately destroy, next moving onto my knee, before he pours some directly into one eye, then the other. My pain knows no bounds, and I gradually realize that this must be what hell is like, to feel and endure the pressure of liquid fire as it tears and chars one’s flesh. Beyond that, my thoughts spiral out of control, their edges frayed by the now familiar white heat that I recognize as the consequence of my sacrifice. My body reacts without my cognitive command, and I think I’m actively resisting at this point, despite the uneaten flaps of flesh that flop relentlessly about. I can’t see, and can barely think, so I don’t know. Eventually, I feel a hand push my remains far down under the vinegar, and with some vague sense of gratitude for this small act of mercy, I black out. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/27/03 12:29:20 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 171 (2/27/03 10:51 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Amidst these restless thoughts this rest I find. . . .” -- Thomas Gataker Interlude For the third time (I think?), I wake to the sensation of manacles pinching my wrists. I open my eyes, and I squint and blink rapidly at the light that now seems so harsh to behold. My lips pull themselves into an involuntarily grimace until I realize that at least this means that I can see again. As soon as this realization hits, I quickly check the rest of my body in the customary manner (unlocking myself, checking for various things, relocking myself) and I sigh in relief as I see that my whole body, consumed and scorched as it had been, now bears no more scars than it did when I first got here. Pretty soon, footsteps draw near, and I lift my head just in time to see Matthew slipping his lanky, undernourished monk’s body between the bars of my cell to step within my little space. I welcome him with a genuine smile, and he answers me with that warm, jaunty grin. “God, I’m glad to see you.” I pause as I examine him closely, and he seems—at least to my eyes—unchanged from the last time I saw him. “Here to check up on me?” My gladness expresses itself plainly in my voice…and it’s at this point that I fathom just how much a friendly face means to me when I find myself surrounded by a sea of sharks. No more delusions about this now: I can fight as hard as I want, or believe myself as competent as any Ace (though I know this isn’t true), but it’s really because of the kindnesses that others bestow upon me that I’m able to survive in this world. His grin spreads still wider as he nods, and I shake my head a little bit as I consider how like a child he seems when he does that. Still, my heart swells with gratitude for his concern, and though it’s not something I voice, I think he understands. In wordless answer to my usual barrage of questioning, I learn from him now that the White Queen did, indeed, intend to kill the jester, but he intervened. When the Queen left the jester to drown, Matthew went and hauled her from her watery grave, but he was caught. Prior to coming to my cell, he informs me, he released himself from his own crucifixion. And he shows me the palms of his hands, which do, indeed, bear the scarring of such an act. I’m horrified that the Angel would punish him for saving a life, but Matthew interrupts, and tells me that actually the White Queen personally drove the nails into his palms, because the Angel wouldn’t. Matthew merely waited until the White Queen had left before he forced his hands through the nails, and left the library. He has seen the jester since then, and she is alive, though not completely well. I find out that she’s been drugged, though I can’t discern the reason why. After he relates all this, I shake my head as I admire his audacity, but then he points at me. I relate to him all that’s happened to me since we last met, and his eyes bulge in disbelief. To further express his dislike of the White Queen, he again flips his middle finger toward the door of my cell. I’m puzzled. “…why do you always do that? It’s not like anyone can see.” And he pantomimes to me that the White Spider is actually watching. I give him a doubtful look, and he motions for me to wait. I agree, and he, with his usual rather carefree gait, slips through the bars of my cell, leaving me alone again, but in much better mood than I was before. During the time I wait for him, I swipe at my nose with a finger, and happen to notice just what a cool klink sound the chain produces with the links clash against each other, and I start playing with them. Without really meaning to, I begin to mimic with my chains the rhythm of Poe’s song “Haunted,”** which was the last thing I listened to on the subway on the way to Staten Island (how long ago that seems!). For no reason at all, other than that it amuses me, I start to sing, and I’m impressed at the way my voice sounds in this place of long hallways and heavy stonework. During the course of the song, my sound ranges from soft and plaintive to harsh and demanding, and I quite like the way the song sounds in here. Lyrics kinda fit, too, which is a little funny. Pretty soon, I finish the song, and I’m just experimenting with various rhythms and sounds (scraping the chain against the stone while accompanying it with the stomping of my boot, and such) when Matthew returns. He slips into my cell again, and shows me the reason for his search: he’s clutching a mirror. He motions for me to watch him, and I do, curious. Casually, he sticks an arm out between the bars, with the mirror aimed toward the dungeon exit, but tilted so that I can see what it reflects. The first thought to cross my mind is, …My boot isn’t big enough to squish that monster… It’s massive. It rests atop eight hairy legs, and has many eyes (can’t quite see how many, but at least four) that gleam with inhuman intelligence, and it’s white, and it’s hairy. And it’s massive. Matthews watches my reaction, and when he notices that I’ve seen the thing (and it’s not hard, because my mouth drops open), he pulls the mirror back and approaches me again. He goes on to inform me that shadows reside behind the mirror, and that’s how the Cheshire gets around so quickly. (I’m not quite sure what this means, especially since Matthew tells me that I’m only getting it half right.) The White Spider, I learn, in getting to those the White Queen has enchanted, can’t cheat that way—he gets around really quickly by hauling ass, like any other schmoe. And Matthew, apparently irritated by the spider’s presence, flips it off again. I laugh, and ask, “…won’t you get into more trouble for doing that? I mean, if the spider’s there then the Queen’s watching, isn’t she?” He nods, and then grins and shrugs, as if to say, “Eh. Whatever.” Suddenly, he bolts upright, and then delivers a quick kiss to my cheek before waving cheerily, and then hurrying through the bars of my cell again. I quirk a brow at that, and then understand his need to flee, because now the Bishop approaches. **Click here to read Poe's lyrics. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 172 (2/28/03 12:35 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "For there are deeds Which have no form, sufferings which have no tongue." -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci (act III, sc. 1) The Taste of Mercy, The Color of Sacrifice (Part III) We go through the usual routine, the Bishop and I, but as the Bishop leads me down those now familiar hallways, he remains quiet, but appears almost pleased with something. I find out why when we enter our sparse, little torture chamber. (Oh, gone are the days when I thought torture chambers had to be decked out with expensive equipment in full dungeon splendor for pain to commence!) The Bishop motions to the diamond faced dial as he says with a hint of pleasure, “Look upon that, and be proud.” I frown a little bit as I turn my head to look, and to my astonishment, I see that of the original seven, only two are filled with that smoky haze. The other five dazzle me with an icy brilliance that shines incredibly clear and pure. Once I’m done admiring the diamonds (and marveling at just how well I held up through this entire ordeal), I strip, and head over to the tub of vinegar. This time, though, the Bishop stops me from crawling in. “You’re going to be tied this time.” My first instinct is to see this as an act of betrayal of our tenuous, slowly-and-oh-so-painfully developed trust, and my voice relays that before I get a chance to stop it. “What? Why?” He looks at me then in vague annoyance as he placidly intones, “You kicked me in the ribs last time.” Then, rather lamely, he adds, “It hurt.” I giggle a bit, and then offer a genuine apology that’s only tinged with teasing. Surely, after what I’ve gone through, a kick to the ribs isn’t so terrible… He doesn’t relent in his rather childish petulance, however. “Yes, well, I’m sure you’re sorry, but it’s not my pain that’s necessary for this to continue.” He attaches me to a contraption that holds me at my wrists and ankles, and I dangle in the air with my nose, breasts, and belly only inches above the vinegar. Somewhere above me, I can hear the Bishop rustling about. “You resisted quite strongly last time, so we’re going to be using a milder alkali this time. We’ll be using more of it, however, and will be destroying more of your body, besides.” Despite what my brain knows about how I’m healed after every session, I can’t stop my muscles from contracting on their own as they seem to already anticipate the horrors that will be done to them. In a small voice, I ask, “…may I have the wooden block, please?” The Bishop hands it to me graciously, a small smile curving his lips as he does so. “Are you ready?” I briefly think about saying “no,” but I nod before I allow my voice a chance to react and slip out around the block lodged between my teeth. The Bishop begins now, and I squeeze my eyes shut in response to the terror that grips my every nerve. Though I’m not normally one for prayer, I seem a lot more inclined to whisper or think them of late, and I mentally entreat whatever powers exist that this session be mercifully short. The searing of my flesh immediately jerks my attention from my fervent, almost religious pleading, and places it squarely on the agony that quickly sweeps its way from my ankles up to my calves, still further to my thighs. The liquid itself, as it washes further up along my body, licks its way into every crevice, every pore, and it leaves a dark trail that renders me as marked as being branded. My tormentor doesn’t quite seem to be as involved this time as he was during the last session—his motions are nonchalant, as if my torture is merely a chore that he’s completing. Pretty soon, he flips me over so that I’m resting in the air on my backside. Now I can sort of watch what’s going on. He starts with the same pattern again, starting at my ankles and working his way up. It’s true that this alkali is milder than the other, and it eats away at the flesh less, but the pain isn’t reduced by much. I watch as my body chars, and I whimper as I see its effects. Eventually, the Bishop gets past my neck, and splashes some onto my cheeks. My eyes aren’t affected, and that’s how I’m able to see the next step. The Bishop now embeds the points of hooks into the parts of my flesh that haven’t been too seriously eaten away by the alkali, and he pulls. The points catch skin, muscle, bone, and I tear. My eyes catch a metallic glint by my thigh, and I simply watch with horror the mutilation as the hook rips through my quadriceps to snag itself on my femur until freed. Then it meanders upward, plowing through my flesh, grazing my hipbone as it draws ever closer to my face, toward the block that muffles my screams. It’s at this point that I just stop watching. I shut my eyes, and I try not to think. I try not to hear, but it’s hard—my flesh is falling off my body in chunks, and the schlish sounds it makes when it hits the stone floor, or splashes into the vinegar, keep making their way into my head, even over the conflagration of pain that tongues its way into my consciousness. I spit the block out now, and, not caring anymore about dignity, my eyes fly open, and I scream out, “I’d better get a lot of fuckin’ diamonds for this!” I hear the Bishop chuckle before resuming his work, and when he answers, his voice has regained that oily feel to it. “Trust me.” And he looks at me then as if to say, “Oh, ye of little faith…” And he stuffs the block back into my mouth. Then he flips me over, and begins with the hook procedure on my backside. He walks around until he’s by my head, and I see his fingers reaching toward my eye. Two long, prying nails force my eyelids open, and I can’t help but watch as his mouth comes ever closer to my face, until my eye rests between his lips, and I’m gazing into the darkness of his mouth. To my horror, he starts to suck. On my eye. Until it pops out of its socket, and is just dangling from my head by the optic nerve, and causes my vision to dart in whichever direction the eyeball currently faces. Without missing a beat, he reaches over, and repeats the steps on my other eye. Because of the multitude of sensations I’m currently withstanding, I’m high on my pain, and in my delerium, I giggle uncontrollably as I remember those googly, fake-eyeballs-attached-to-slinkies glasses I once wore as a kid. I catch a random, oddly angled look at myself as I lie here, and my heart (still intact) clenches tight in my chest (not even remotely intact) as I see what’s been done to me…I shine angry, red-purple where blood continues to flow forth, black from the alkali, white where bones show… And it’s at this point that I’m dropped into the tub of vinegar, and I take in a deep, cleansing breath. The acid burns me, but I welcome it because I know it brings respite from this tortured consciousness, and I leave the white-hot flames behind as I yield to the darkness. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 173 (2/28/03 2:11 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Tender handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains.” -- Aaron Hill, Verses Written on a Window “By audacity, great fears are concealed.” -- Lucanus (Marcus Annaeus Lucan), Pharsalia (IV, 702) I awake naked, and I blink in surprise before I notice that I'm lying in a bed. After I take a look around, I realize that I'm in the same room that I first stayed in with Thomas, and my clothes are neatly left by the bed. I pull them on quickly, note my complete health, and check for all my belongings. They're all there, along with the new key that Matthew fashioned for me. Without wasting another moment, I stride into the banquet hall. To my surprise, no one's there except the Jester, and Thrace. I walk closer to them, and I realize that they are leashed, and attached to great pikes that rise from the floor. They're both naked, and sitting quietly in front of the wooden stakes. Not even my soft footsteps disturb the pervading quiet as I walk toward them, and I watch them carefully, noting their apparent disconnectedness with their surroundings. I approach Thrace first, and I force my voice to be as soft and gentle as it can be, though my confusion must be evident on my face. “Hey…” She lolls her pretty head toward me then, and squints at me, as if trying very hard to remember something. In a slow, slow voice she speaks, and despite her slowness and her attempts at enunciation, her words are nonetheless slurred. “Hi…I re..member…you. You're…Chr…is…tina…” My lips attempt to curve into an encouraging smile, and I try to focus my attention on that, so that my heart might not be further weighed down by pity. I cup her face then, and lightly stroke her cheek. “That's right…Oh, Thrace, what are you doing here?” “…be…ing…impaled.” “…What?!” My shock mingles together with that now recognizable rage, and this new emotional concoction begins to press relentlessly against the edges of my mind. “I … don't…like..be…ing impaled. It's messy…I bleed… a lot!” She furrows her dainty brow then, and looks as though epiphany has struck. “Wa..it.. a minnit…If you're…here, and…the…White…Queen…knows you're…here.” She pauses. “What am I…doing here?” And her countenance falls with sadness. “…why hasn't…the Red…Queen called…me..back?” I wrap my arms around her in, I hope, a comforting manner, as I whisper, “I'm not sure…but I'll get you home, don't worry.” Obviously, Thrace, as usual, isn't going to be much help in terms of offering information. I release a heavy sigh as I turn toward the jester, who rests beside Thrace. Thrace merely goes back to blinking in evident confusion. I lightly trail a fingertip along the top of the jester's hand, and she slowly turns to look at me. When she speaks, her voice is as sluggish and slurred as Thrace's is. From her, I find that both she and Thrace have been impaled as dinner entertainment for unknown male guests for the past two nights, and because the White Queen can't actually issue commands to the jester to force her to keep quiet, the White Queen had the jester drugged. Thrace was undrugged until she, while sliding down the pike, had the gall to kick a guest in the head for fondling her. Thrace now chimes in with the information that she said that he is not her master, and is a base born son whose father is white trash. We all chuckle heartily at that, and I admire Thrace for her spirit. And this point, the Jester thanks me for offering to take her place in purging the Black Queen's taint. The White Queen has shown her some of what was done to me, and she immediately says that being impaled is a lot less painful than what I endured. She also makes some comments about liking my body, and that it's such a shame that it had to go through what was done to it. Embarrassed, I reassure her that all my wounds have been healed, and everything that had been torn or eaten away grown back. She nods, and then after a few moments, she looks at me, her eyes imploring. “…will…you release…me?” I frown then, since I was just wondering that myself. “I need to speak with the White Queen first. Yes, this is more cruelty for her at someone else's expense, but I'm not sure I can just free you--you are one of her subjects, after all.” “…but…this is not…my place…as jester. And .. Thrace…shouldn't … even be here…” “Well, I know, but…” “…I .. could get … you to … the Red Queen.” “You can? How?” “…There's … a door…but it's hard…to open. But…you have a…key.” “Well, yes, but…” “…did you know…that the White Queen…used to string up…little girls…and bleed them…to death? She…bathed in their…blood.” “…what, you mean in life?” She nods, and I immediately follow up on that, lest she forget what she said. “How do you know this?” “…as jester, I can see…into the hearts…of the King and Queen. It's how…I'm able…to offer guidance .. and advice.” She then grips my lapels and pulls my face near. “…you have .. to unlock us. She's..watching to see what..you do.” “What?” “The…spider's there, watching. She's waiting to see what you…decide. If you do…what she wants…you to…” I remember. This is exactly what I spent the last few days trying to fight off: unbidden influence garnered by someone else's machination. Now borrowing a page from Matthew's book, I don't turn around, but I do spin my wrist with a little flourish above my head to proudly give the White Queen my middle finger. The jester sees this, and grins. I grin in response, and slip my hand into my pocket. My fingers touch upon the magic key, and the locks on the leashes of both women snap open. Once that's completed, I grasp the sharp thorn, and hide it in my fist. The Jester stumbles up, and as Thrace is still more out of it than the Jester is, I heave her over my shoulder. The Jester leads us away from the banquet hall then, until we reach a corridor with a door visible at the end. We draw close to it, but our path is soon blocked by the White Spider. I stop short, and await its move. Surprisingly, it talks. “The White Queen requiresssss that thossssse two ssssstay…” Curiously, the spider sounds more like a hissing serpent than anything else I've encountered in this realm. I try to stay calm, and take a tentative step forward, toward the door. It mimics my motion, and takes a slow step back. Toward the door. Undaunted, I say, “Please, let us pass.” “I cannot. Ssssstop. I don't want to hurt you.” “And I don't want to be hurt. Please let us peacefully pass.” Step forward. To my dismay, the spider takes a step forward too, closing the distance between us. At this point, I will the thorn large, and it grows to its full blade size. The spider appears surprised, and skitters back. “Look, I don't want to hurt you, and I certainly don't want to be hurt. Please step aside.” I take another step, and the spider hops to avoid the blade. It moves damn fast, and it's intelligent enough to vary the distances it hops, so I can't predict in what direction or how far he's going to move. “You, of all things and people, should understand their plight, being held in control against your will as you are.” Its eight eyes gleam, inscrutable. “There isssss no choice in sssssuch mattersssss.” I take another step. “There is always a choice. If this is how the White Queen chooses to treat her subjects and her guests, then the White Queen is nothing more than a tyrant.” “Then a tyrant ssssshe ssssshall be!” And it leaps toward me now, and I'm just shocked at how fast it can move when it wants to. It seems that even before the last word he uttered has died upon the air, he is upon me, and he lands a poisonous bite on my sword arm that spreads immediately through my veins. My sword sized thorn sinks deep into his abdomen, and the spider tears the gash wider when he hops away. As he does so, I can see one of his eight legs wrapped protectively around his wound, and as he retreats, he hisses, “I'll get you…” I turn, and I run toward the door, Thrace bouncing uncomfortably against my shoulder. My flesh blackens (not unlike the effects of alkali) from the bite, rather than wells, and where it's black, I try to hack the flesh off. It slices off easily enough, and I grimace at the pain, but the blackness continues to spread. Oh, f u c k. The door looms closer, and I will the sword small and tuck it into a pocket as I reach for the key. I will the door open, and am still running toward it when I realize that the White Spider, seeing the sword gone, is coming upon me again. The jester shouts, “Keep going! I'll stop it!” Without turning back, I shout, “No!” “It's okay--she can't control me!” And she stops of her own accord, and (like, the oldest trick in the book) pulls down a massive curtain that lined the hall, tripping every so often as she does so…the heavy material covers up the spider entirely, and a good chunk of the hallway behind it. I turn my head back just once to see the roundness of the material, where the spider should be, flattening. I punch through the door, and it shuts behind me, cutting off any further vision of the Jester. I stumble as my feet suddenly hit grass, and Thrace tumbles from my shoulder to land in a groaning heap on the ground. I give my head a quick shake and then look up from the dirt, only to hear myself flatly intone, “Oh, f u c k.” Standing before me, yet again, is the beautiful Ace of Spades. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 2/28/03 8:34:18 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 175 (3/3/03 11:24 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "What's a fine person, or a beauteous face, Unless deportment gives them decent grace? Blessed with all other requisites to please, Some want the striking elegance of ease; The curious eye their awkward movement tires: They seem like puppets let about by wires." -- Charles Churchill, The Rosciad (l. 741) The Ace of Spades, calm as ever, just quirks a brow in response to my abrupt, not-so-delicate greeting, and it’s during this single moment of stillness that I’m able to get a good look at her. She appears as lovely as ever, and her air of cold sophistication still wraps around her black silk and leather clad form like a protective carapace. The white spade, which used to gleam in the evening glow of the Black Queen’s realm, now shines with life in the gentle rays of garden sunlight. Twining around the Ace’s lean body, though, is a new addition: thorny black vines coil up and around her long limbs, and quiver and whip dangerously with their own vitality. I don’t remove my eyes from her as I retrieve the thorn from my pocket, and will it large. Without a moment’s delay, it shifts to being a full blade, and I stumble to my feet. I hold it steadily in my right hand, my point ready, though the black poison continues to spread through my arm with no signs of slowing. The bite’s origin rests near my elbow, but within the few seconds that have passed, its trail has extended halfway down my forearm, to the middle of my biceps—it isn’t a pretty sight, especially since I already hacked off a chunk of my own flesh in an attempt to rid myself of the poison. I throw my wound a worried glance, but I haven’t time to worry about it. Death incarnate stands unflinchingly before me, and she commands my full attention. The Ace continues to look at me askance before she murmurs, "You don’t want to fight me with that." I’m in no mood for patronizing words, but, of course, she’s right. "Well, I know that, but I don’t really have a choice, do I?" She turns, and her words get thrown nonchalantly back at me. "Follow me." And after glancing at the naked, heaped ball that is Thrace, she adds, "And carry her." I sigh, allow the thorn to shrink, and heave Thrace over my shoulder once more. Before I follow, though, I ask, "Which way to the Red Queen?" She answers as she continues to move forward, "I’m leading you to her now." But she’s still a Black Ace…and if I follow her, and this is a machination of some sort…agh, but my arm is blackening with every passing moment, and I really don’t have a choice—Thrace, drugged as she is, obviously won’t be able to help me get anywhere. At least the Ace hasn’t killed me yet. I wonder why… "Are you lying?" This time, she turns, and her words are slow, deliberate, forceful. "I. Don’t. Lie." I sigh again, and, with Thrace over my shoulder, I follow her. The poison in my veins doesn’t pay any heed to my concerns, however. It crawls relentlessly up my flesh, and creeps toward my shoulder, and every few steps, I glance at it worriedly…nothing I can do about it now, though. As we walk, I ask the Ace somewhat timidly, "…so are you functioning now as your Rose Black role, or as your Ace of Spades role?" She doesn’t turn, and doesn’t answer. The only response I get to my question is the sound of her footsteps, dampened by the gravel along the dirt path. I accept the silence, but ask another question, this time a little more forcefully. "How is that working out for you, incidentally? Any conflicts of interest? I can’t imagine your new role to be easy—it must be difficult to protect the defenseless and the innocent, what with you being death incarnate, and all." No answer. I give up at this point, and follow her quietly, lest I goad her into changing her mind about not killing me. Eventually, we reach the Red Queen’s cottage, and the Ace of Spades opens the door, and motions me to it. I think it curious that the door opens so easily, especially since I remember what Rose Red said about walking into people’s homes uninvited. Before I set foot across the threshold, however, I peer inward, and see with a frown that it appears rather unoccupied at the moment. I call out, just in case. "Your Majesty?" The Red Queen’s voice bellows out from somewhere deep in the cottage, and she sounds vaguely irritated at the interruption. "Yeah? Chris’ina, ‘at you?" "Yes, Your Majesty. Would you come here for a moment, please? I’ve something to ask you." She sighs, and sounds like she’s getting up from a low chair. Huffing, she grumbles, "Oh, a’roight." As she approaches, I turn to the Ace, and I ask with an embarrassed smile, "So you’re just going to ignore my questions, huh?" She replies, "I wasn’t told to answer your questions." Odd. My brow arched, I ask, "What were you told, then, and by whom?" She says nothing. The Red Queen is reaching the door now, and I take this time to lean close to the Ace, and look deeply into her eyes, my own seeking understanding. Her expression remains solidly impenetrable. I give a tiny smile as I think, Ahhh, but she reminds me of someone I know… and I suppress the urge to trail a fingertip along the line of her proud, but gently sloping, jaw. My voice as soft as a whisper, but lightly teasing, I murmur, "You’re so difficult…" As expected, her response is nothing more than a hazy look of silent question. With that, I follow the Red Queen into the cottage, and shut the door. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/3/03 12:02:29 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 176 (3/3/03 11:06 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside.” -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, To an Old Danish Song-Book Revelations (Part I) “Well, Chris’ina, you’re back! And Thrace as well!” Thus I’m greeted by the Red Queen, and I begin to realize just how much I’ve missed the reassurance of her presence. I begin to gently set Thrace on the floor when I say to the Red Queen, “I’m not sure if Thrace still carries the White Queen’s enchantment, but you might want to check her for that…and she’s still drugged.” The Red Queen lightly slaps Thrace’s face a bit, until Thrace regains some semblance of consciousness again. “Oi, Thrace, you in ‘ere?” Eventually, Thrace’s eyes open, and when they do, Thrace greets the Queen, her lips curved into a smile, her voice still as slurred as before, but now not nearly so weighed down by despair. “Hullo….Yer Majes’y!” The Red Queen frowns a bit, and then hollers, “OI! Eight!” From deeper back within the cottage (though she seems to emerge from out of nowhere), another servant appears to cradle Thrace as the Red Queen thrusts her into Eight’s arms. Curious how Eight doesn’t have name… But Eight, simply accepting Thrace as she falls limply into her hands, demurely complies with the Queen’s request that she “clean Thrace up, and moike sure she’s roight proper” by the next time the Queen comes around. Eight’s cold and quiet understanding rather reminds me of the Ace of Spades, and I watch her carefully as she leads Thrace away. Now then. My arm. I raise my arm so that the full extent of the damage can be seen. The Red Queen arches a brow in surprise, and I answer her by saying, “…I got this from the White Queen’s spider. Can you cure this, or do you know of anyone who can?” She inhales sharply and grimaces in what appears to be sympathetic pain. “Well..I caun’t heal it, but I can stop its effec’s so it doesn’t get worse.” “Really?! How?” “Loike this.” She moves into the kitchen, returns with a few onion stalks and a wand. She binds the onion stalks around my upper arm, and taps it lightly with the wand. “’Ere. ‘At oughta hold it for a day or so. To get it fully healed, you’ll ‘ave t’go t’th’Manticore.” “…but what can he do that’ll get my arm healed?” If I remember my mythology correctly, he’s supposed to have wandered around India, eating people after he stuck them with his poisonous porcupine-like quills, and scorpion tail stinger thing. Not a pleasant creature by any means. “Well…lemme try t’put this in terms from th’land of th’living. You could say ‘ee’s a God of toxico’gy.” “…ahhhhh.” I think a moment. “Well, what about Snow White? Could she heal it so that I don’t have to go to the Manticore?” “Well, she moight. She at least gets some of ‘er ‘ealin’ powers through ‘im, and we ‘ave to go to ‘er ‘ouse t'get t'th'Manticore, anyway.” “Alright...and what about Thomas? Is he still alive?” She informs me that he’s doing quite well, and has gone to stay with the Red King at his cottage. When I inquire why neither of them are in this cottage, she responds that the Red King did something to piss her quite off, and she essentially kicked him out of her cottage, and demanded that he stay in his, and the Red King asked to bring Thomas along with him. Then she immediately says that I should eat something because she’s quite sure that I’m starving, and my stomach releases a loud growl in agreement. I give an embarrassed grin, and then continue to tell my story, and ask her intermittent questions as I eat. I tell her what happened to me in the White Queen’s domain, and, to my surprise, she doesn’t appear impressed. “Roight. ‘At sounds loike her. She’s into ‘at sort’ o’thing. She makes me look loike a blushin’ schoo’girl, and I’ve stabbed an’ poisoned the two who came before me, mind.” I catch that, but I don’t get a chance to interject with a question. Before I can even open my mouth, she goes on to describe the rest of the White Court, and the rest of individual members’ histories, and apparently, they’re all f u c k e d up. The White Court consists mainly of serial killers, mass murderers, rapists, and others of that caliber (the Red Queen isn’t sure if the White King is a murderer or not, but she is certain that he is a rapist), and the Court culminates with the White Queen, whose history as told by the Jester matches that of Countess Elizabeth Bathory. And the relationship between the White King and Queen is no less strained than the relations between others of the Court. The White King once had a Bishop who held that position during the previous White Queen’s reign. To put him out of power, and to place a new Bishop that would be beholden to her, the Queen killed him and appointed Edward Frakes to the Bishop’s place in his stead. According to the Red Queen, this was also a botched attempt at mending the rift between the White King and Queen, but this action only worsened the condition. The King didn’t like this new Bishop, and he was mad at the Queen for even having contemplated the action. They currently are not on speaking terms, and interact indirectly. The Red Queen doesn’t know much about the structure or history of the Black Court, but she does know that it is far less chaotic, probably because the Black Queen exerts far more control. I consider that for a moment, not quite savoring its irony, when a mental flash of the lovely Ace of Spades interrupts my thoughts. When I ask about her current situation, the Red Queen tells me that the Ace remains here because Snow White broke her of the Black Queen’s hold, and the Red Queen is keeping the Ace here (after yanking her from, and blocking the path back to the Black realm) just to piss off the Black Queen. Traditionally, the Rose Red archetype has had strong alliances with the Queen of Hearts, but this new Rose Black has not submitted to her, but being free of the Black Queen’s control, the Ace won’t be acting on her behalf, either. So, right now, the Rose Ace is free to do what she wants, when she wants, where she wants, but she is currently spending her time acclimating to her new surroundings and new role. The Red Queen also mentions that she is still the Ace of Spades, but because of her freedom from the Black Queen, she’s merely a dysfunctional Ace of Spades. I nod, though I don’t quite understand…if Snow White said that her great power over the Ace of Spades was her ability to free the Ace from her Mistress’ control, and that is forbidden, why is she still the Ace of Spades after that has come to pass? At most, then, Snow White’s power is more a minor inconvenience than a castastrophic occurrence. And I assume that the Red Queen was able to yank the Ace from the Black Realm into the Red Realm because of the ties the Rose Red archetype holds to the Queen of Hearts. If this Rose Ace hadn’t claimed that role, she could have remained in the Black Realm, where the Black Queen could easily reinstate her status as full Black Ace. And if that could happen, what’s the damn point of Snow White freeing her in the first place? This place gives me a brainache. “So…what about the Ace of Hearts? Have you found a replacement yet?” “No. We’ve b’in consi’ring Miss Mopey over ‘erre, but she needs an at’tude adjus’ment first.” I furrow my brow as I wonder just how the Queens of Hearts and Diamonds could possibly see the cold Ace of Spades fulfill the duties of seductress and lover, but I don’t mention it--perhaps they would make her the Ace of Hearts because it'd be funny in a "let's piss off the Black Queen even more!" kind of way. I remember poor, little drugged Thrace instead, and I feel a surge of pity. “So I assume that you didn’t know I had returned to the White Queen’s domain…else you would have called Thrace back.” “No, I din’t know.” “…so what are the political implications of the White Queen’s actions? I mean, she was impaling poor Thrace for the latter two days that I was undergoing torture procedures…” “Well, her an’ me are gonna ‘ave a lit’le chat, y’see. I’ll be bringin’ ol’ Bessie.” “…Bessie…?” She grins, and introduces us. “Bessie” is a long, double headed axe whose handle stands at three quarters of the Queen’s own height, and, glinting in the sun, both its curved razor edges smile and wink at me as dangerously as the Cheshire’s own pointy toothed grin. I am duly impressed, and I hear myself absently intoning, “…Hello, Bessie.” The Red Queen is suitably amused. “Roight. Bessie an’ me are goin’ t’go t’th’White Queen’s place an’ we’re smash things up a bit.” “…if…if…you see the Jester, will you let me know if she’s alright?” “You’re a bit o’a mas’chist, aren’t you?” “…What? No…It’s just…” “Y’know, if y’worry ‘bout ev’ry bleedin’ leaf, you’ll be tryin’ t’save th’whole bloody forest.” “…right. Right. I know. Nevermind. Just let me know if she is okay. I don’t want to know if she’s not.” “Roight. ‘At’s be’ttah.” I give a weary sigh and I try to will away the guilt. “Dammit, I shoulda pulled her through with me! Now everything I’ve done for her will be all for nothing! I was gonna chunk Thrace through, and then go back, but I went through, and it was too late…I should have pulled her through.” “Yeah, ‘at woulda been great. Th’White Queen’s kidnapped moy Thrace, an’ th’Black Queen’s kidnappin’ you, and I’m just sit’in’ ‘ere! Ah well. Nothin’ t’do f’it now. C’mon. I’ll bet you’re wantin’ t’see ‘at T’omas lad.” “Yeah…” I grab all the stuff I left in her domain when I went through the mirror (my bag o’ mega electronic goodies), and we head off toward the Red King’s cottage. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 179 (3/4/03 3:41 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Welcome, my old friend, Welcome to a foreign fireside." -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, To an Old Danish Song-Book Revelations (Part II) The Red Queen leads me through the winding gardens, her footfalls heavy and sure as we trace our way along the gravel paths. As we walk we chat about the incident that brought the Red King’s change in domicile, and she confides that she’s "been ra’er missin’ ‘im." But, she continues, though she can’t remember what the Red King’s offense was, she can’t rescind her command that he stay in his own cottage, because retracting such a comment would cause "’em t’walk all over you." She pauses, and then adds, "’Soides, he could be a fruit, if you know whot I mean." "…what?" "’Ubby and T’omas could be fruits!" "…pardon me, Your Majesty, but wouldn’t you know best? I mean, you did have a son with him…" "Yeah? So? ‘Ee could still be a fruit!" I smile and nod politely, and we soon reach the cottage. I glance up, and I notice that it’s the same damn cottage. In fact, now that I think about it, I believe we just walked the circumference of a big circle, and we just approached it from the other damn side. Now, I may have no sense of direction whatsoever (not completely true, though I am rather hopeless) , but I have an excellent eye for detail, especially when it comes to buildings and other structures, and it’s the same damned house. Curious to see what the Red Queen would say, I offer, "…this cottage is just as lovely as the other, Your Majesty." She shoots a glance at the cottage, looks at its surroundings, then returns her gaze to the cottage, then views the surroundings, and then back again, before finally shrugging in mild distaste. "Nah. ‘is one’s plainer. Looks loike it was built by a man." I quirk a brow at that, but am quickly forced to change my expression to jarred surprise as the Queen lands a heavy foot squarely to the face of the cottage gate in a loud, metallic clatter. "OI! I WANT IN!" My face clenches in response to her close shouting, but I’ve no choice but to bear it. The Red King, in a rather undignified manner, sticks his royal head out a window to peer down at us before calling out, "Whot d’you want?" My brow remains arched at this display, and I’m reminded of exclusive clubhouse behavior displayed by children, especially as the Red King pokes his head out, as if from amidst branches. What, is he gonna ask for a secret password or handshake, or make us eat bugs, or something? The Red Queen, still nudging the metal gate with a pointed foot, calmly and almost sweetly replies, "I want you t’come down ‘ere, and open t’gate." “But ‘oou’ve got a key, woman!” This, apparently, isn’t the Red Queen’s concern right now. “Come down, an’ open this gate f’your loving woife.” His Royal Highness appears immediately suspicious. "Why?" The impatience hasn’t yet edged its way back into the Red Queen’s cajoling voice as she coyly offers, "B’cause I was thinkin’ you could come back t’moy cot’age." His Majesty is not impressed. "…Whot if I don’t want to?" The impatience, not needing further encouragement, resurfaces. "Get. Your. Lazy. Arse. Down. ‘Ere. An’. Open. This. Gate." He still doesn’t yield, but his resistance is wearing quite thin by now. I give a small smile, and silently admire his adamancy, though I know that he is, without a doubt, positively whipped. The Red Queen (like all the Queens here, apparently) is used to getting her way, and this time isn’t going to be any different. "If you don’t come down ‘ere, I’m gonna hafto open it m’self. You don’t want me t’open t’gate myself." …I rather hate these moments of family or lovers’ spatting. I never quite know what to do with myself in these situations when I’m just some random witness… His Highness considers this for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Alroight, then." And he pulls his royal head back into the cottage, and soon shows up before us to welcome us in. He greets me as warmly as when we were first properly introduced, but he doesn’t issue any hint of emotion at my return…on the contrary, he treats me as if I were merely returning from holiday. I find out that Thomas is in the other room, having breakfast, and we go in to see him. Thomas first expresses his gladness at my return, and then immediately gives me a good yelling at for inviting the Black Queen to spirit me away. (Thomas: "What, you don’t think I can put one and one together? Red Queen: ‘I dunno how this could have happened! I made it so that this mirror fogs up! What’s this cleared patch?’ Me: ‘Hmm, what’s this towel doing RIGHT HERE?’" My first instinct is to get annoyed (I’ve rather gotten used to not getting yelled at), but he’s right, of course. In embarrassment and self-conscious laughter, I respond, "Well, I just…y’know. Shut up." Thomas’ next thing is to emit an pained sigh of concern for my blackened arm. "…What happened to your arm?" I relate the entire story, from when I was sucked into the mirror, until this moment. It takes a while. When I finish, Thomas wraps his arms around me, and I’m grateful for the hug. While we’re hugging, he adds, "…though you really should have known better, you know." I consider saying something in response, and even open my mouth to do so, but I think better of it, and then Thomas tells me what he’s been up to. 1. The Red Queen has a book of riddles that she keeps on hand because it lists answers in the back. She’s been memorizing them in case she comes across a riddle contest. 2. Riddle contests here fulfill the same function that dueling once did during the medieval age and the Renaissance in our world in terms of settling questions of honor, and the like. I release an audible, pained groan at that. I rock at 3d puzzles, but I suck some major ass at riddles. 3. There are people you can get to preside over such contests, and these people are independent archetypes that move freely between realms. The Sphinx is one listed example. 4. In talking about the different realms, Thomas tells me that this "Wonderland"y place is a gateway, and that there are other realms beyond it that’s also not the land of the living, nor the land of the dead. All the realms are grouped together by ideology, or clustered idea spaces. In all the myth that we’ve experienced, we’ve been unconsciously tapping and (re)interpreting the roles that exist here, in "Wonderland." For instance, chess as a game evolved from its function here, and its broader, more universal application in our world. Kings and Queens act as rulers, and receive guidance (Bishops) in matters of war (Knights) from their places of power (Rooks or Castles), and use various things and people to achieve their ends (Pawns). 5. Time also passes differently here. Things happen, Thomas says, as events that hit everyone simultaneously. How time passes for individuals between events will depend on what they do in the intervening interval. That is, the more people do, the more quickly time will compress, and seem to pass, and vice versa. He demonstrates this with straws and seeds. When we hold two straws and drop a seed simultaneously into each, they fall out of the straw at the same time. That’s normal. But, when Thomas takes a bunch of seeds and begins to drop them into a straw first, and then drop a single seed into the other straw after that, the first seeds that go through both straws hit the table at the same time, even though seeds were dropped into the first straw first. This would explain why two days have passed for Thomas, but about a week has passed for me. To be able to keep track of objective time, however, Thomas has fashioned a clock that counts his heartbeats, rather than the vibrations of a crystal (which is how our watches work, but have since stopped working because the crystals no longer vibrate). Again, he looks at my arm, and expresses his concern. I tell him that I’m probably going to have to go to the Manticore to get it cured, and that, yes, I know he’s not a pleasant creature to encounter, and that the Red Queen and I are going to stop at Snow White’s place before proceeding to the Manticore. Thomas asks to go along (because though I survived my past tribulations, I’m no less a ditz), and I don’t care enough to argue. I demand a nap before we go elsewhere, and I crawl into a bed, exhausted. I doze fitfully, dreaming of manticores, severed heads, seeds, apples, toothy grins, and intricate daggers before I finally fall into a deep sleep. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/5/03 12:54:10 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 182 (3/7/03 1:51 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Sleep, those little slices of death. How I loathe them." -- Edgar Allen Poe Eventually, I wake to find Thomas sitting near the bed, and Thrace beside him. I give my head a quick shake in an attempt to shed the shadowy hold of sleep, when Thrace greets me with a merry chirp. "Good afternoon, Christina." I blink slowly and stupidly, and after a moment, sleepily respond, "…hello, Thrace." And I begin to rub my still tired eyes. "You ready to go?" Thrace responds with that same unassuming manner, "I’m not going anywhere." I grin at that, and then speak in a voice that sounds soporific even (perhaps especially) to me. "No, you’re not. I was asking Thomas." Thomas nods, and then Thrace continues speaking. "While you were sleeping, I prepared these." I take the stack of sheets from her hand, and glance through them before I realize that these are exquisitely detailed maps of everywhere Thrace has been, including the whole of the Red Realm, and most of the White Realm. Without another moment’s hesitation, I wrap my arms around the simple girl, and thank her for the maps…I’m sure they’re going to be really, really handy at some point. She, in turn, thanks me for saving her. Following my normal behavior for image preservation, I snap some shots of the maps, so that I’ll still have them on hand if I lose the hardcopy, but I decide to wait before I distribute the images onto my various hard drives. Then Thomas and I leave the room to meet the Red Queen in the outer hall. Before we leave, though, the Red Queen grabs Bessie, and we’re all ready to go. I note that she brings the axe along, though it supposedly rested in the Red Queen’s cottage, and we’re now in the Red King’s cottage. I knew it’s the same damn cottage… We head off toward Snow White’s house, and I ask the Red Queen aloud why, if Snow White can travel here without aid, I wasn’t just brought here in the first place instead of being sold to the White Bishop via grendels. The Red Queen hesitates a little, and then confides that perhaps that’s her fault—she doesn’t much trust Snow White, and so often locks her out of the Red Realm. When we approach the gate, I watch her open it, and then I ask something that has been on my mind since Rose Red mentioned it. "Before I was whisked away to the Black Realm, I walked with Rose Red to her house, and I noticed that the gate appeared unlocked. She said that perhaps you had forgotten to lock it. I thought that rather unlikely, so I wasn’t sure what to make of it." The Red Queen releases a rushed answer that bursts with indignation. "I most cer’ainly did not f’get t’lock it! I caun’t!" And she demonstrates what she means—as soon as she pulls the gate shut, it locks automatically. I puzzle over that as we walk, and I think that surely Rose Red knew about the gate’s auto-locking tendency…but we soon stop in front of a cottage, and the Red Queen fairly spits out, "We’re ‘ere." Her face is grim, and her voice drips evident distaste. I look at her curiously, but before I get a chance to ask anything, she slams her foot into Snow White’s front gate. "OI! I’ve someone ‘ere who needs ‘elp! From whot I understand you’re s’posed t’ ‘elp people!" Wondering at her rather blatant hostility, I tug lightly at Her Majesty’s sleeve and whisper into her ear, "What’s wrong, Your Highness?" She whispers back, "I ‘on’t trust ‘er. She’s got ‘em shifty eyes…" And she lands her foot squarely against the gate again. "OI!" After waiting a moment, I figure that Snow White is just not going to dignify the Red Queen’s answers with any sort of response, and so I call out, "Snow White, if you’re there, I…really need your help." Almost immediately, Snow White opens the door to her house, and stands on the porch, her eyes wide. "Christina? You’re .. alive! And you’re back!" I smile and offer, "Yes, and in one piece, although not entirely…" And I hold up my arm, onion stalks and all. As she walks up, I say, "…a memento from the White Spider." Kate’s face darkens, and she comes to the gate, motions me in. Softly, she murmurs, "Come inside…" Thomas and I walk with her back up the path, and I silently note that the Red Queen remains outside the gate, with Bessie firmly lodged in her meaty, capable hands. As I walk up to Kate’s door, the Red Queen bellows, "An’ if you ‘urt ‘er, you’ll ‘ave Bessie t’answer to!" I shake my head, give the Red Queen what I hope to be an encouraging smile, and follow Kate into her house. ______________________________________________ "Why do you not get along with the Red Queen?" Kate gives a tiny smile and tilts her head just slightly. "I get along with her just fine. When she’s not moody." I chuckle at this, and then ask her seriously, "Why does the Red Queen not trust you?" "Well, I can’t answer for her, but I will hazard a guess. I’m not allied with any of the queens in this realm, by choice. And that, to them, gives them reason not to trust me." "Ah. Well then, to the purpose of our visit." I hold up my arm again. "Can you heal this…?" My voice remains slow and steady, but my eyes plead with hers. Oh, please say yes, please say yes, please say… She furrows her brow, and I can feel my heart start to sink at the grim lines creasing her porcelain face. "I can remove its effects, but the poison would still be inside your veins." She pauses, and then leans in close to give me a kiss on the cheek before she continues. As before, the same intense cold followed by the same healing warmth spreads through my body. "The farther you go from me, and from this house, the weaker my power will become, until it’s no longer there. Then the poison will begin to spread again, and at the same rate. In this realm, there are three poisons that are generally considered incurable. The White Queen’s Spider’s is one.’ I blink, and try to calm myself from my physical reaction to her words: my heart feels like it just dropped to the floor and leapt into my throat at the same time. "…so there’s nothing we can do, not even if we go to the Manticore?" "The Manticore? Well, yes, you can see him, but there’s no guarantee that he’d heal you…And his methods of healing are rather painful." "How painful?" She describes the effects of pain, and general disease pain, and I shrug in response before telling her of some of the Bishop’s torture I endured. She balks, and replies, "Well, perhaps in comparison to that, the manticore’s methods wouldn’t be that bad." She pauses, and looks thoughtful. "Another option is getting the White Spider to retract his poison." "How does that work?" "He would simply take back the energy he puts into poisoning you, and when he does that, the poison would lose its effect, and it would fade. We’d have to convince him to do that, however." I think about this for a moment, and recall the almost-kindness that draped over the Bishop’s words the last time I was with him. "Well, I think I might have left the Bishop with a decent impression of me, and so the Bishop might be able to convince the spider…." And now remembering now that Snow White doesn’t have any idea what happened to me after I left her company, I tell her of everything that I was captured by the grendels only to be sold to the White Bishop, who bought me as a favor to the Old Crone. She frowns, and then asks why I had to go through the torture if he bought me in the first place, and I explain that I voluntarily offered myself in the Jester’s place, because her punishment was simply too cruel and unfair. She studies me for a moment, her eyes betraying no hint of her thoughts, before she responds, "Well, at least it was for a noble cause." Thinking back to the spider, I ask after a moment, "…although, if the Bishop talks to the Spider, won’t the White Queen know? I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, since she’s pretty mad at me right now." Kate quirks a brow at this and studies me with curiosity for a moment. "…why would the White Queen be angry with you?" "Oh, I rescued Thrace and the Jester when the White Queen demanded that they stay. I brought Thrace back with me here, to the Red Queen’s realm, while the Jester, of her own accord, stayed behind to delay the White Spider." Kate’s eyes now widen in surprise, and as the abruptness of her voice reinforces her shock, she seems mightily impressed. "Oh, so you thwarted her! I have thwarted her a few times myself, and she’s always threatened to send her spider after me, but I’ve never been bitten by it." "Yeah, I shoulda pulled the Jester through with me, but I didn’t think about it until it was too late. I feel kinda bad for the spider though—it really didn’t seem like it wanted to hurt me, and even tried to talk me down from what I was doing. Then it leapt at me…after I called the White Queen a tyrant." And here I stick out just the tip of my tongue in an amused, not-so-embarrassed, not-so-genuine gesture of shame. "Oopsies." Kate merely arches a silently condemning brow before saying solemnly and definitively, "The Manticore it is, then." Despite her grave expression, I merely look at her with a merry grin. She doesn't respond to that, exactly, but after a moment’s pause, she says, "The Manticore resides in the Realm of Nightmares. To get there, you must first fall asleep. I will be sending you there directly." I nod, and Thomas asks, "Can you send me along, too?" Kate nods, and after we both lie down, I shut my eyes, and yield to the surrounding darkness. After a brief moment, I can feel Kate gently land a soft fingertip to my temple, and I fall into a deep sleep. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/7/03 3:23:16 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 185 (3/10/03 10:37 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "I had a dream, which was not all a dream." - Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron), Darkness I blink as I awaken to find both Thomas and myself standing on a vast, grassy green plain. The sun’s rays land gently and warmly on my face as I lean slightly into the faint breeze that stirs my hair and the verdant blades at my feet. My eyes flutter shut momentarily, and I vaguely wonder, This is the land of nightmares…? A sudden voice from behind disturbs me from my reverie, however, and my eyes open at the slow, deep, majestic timbre that commands immediate respect and humility. "WHO…DARES ENTER…MY REALM?" I turn after Thomas turns, and my jaw sort of drops open at what I see. He’s of an amazing size, with a lion’s body, a human face that’s about three feet across, and jutting from his entire body are sturdy quills with thick stems that taper smoothly down to sharp points, like those of large gauge needles. His tail isn’t like that of a scorpion, but those gargantuan quills cover its entire length, right down to the tip. I’m so impressed at what I see that I forget to speak. He leans closer, and that’s when my eyes widen at the way he moves—he doesn’t exactly move in the way that I see motion; he merely stretches, and his body seems to thin where his flesh pulls, and suddenly he’s moved. He comes close now, his face, his quills, his lion’s frame dangerously near. "WHAT…ARE YOU…DOING…IN THE REALM…OF NIGHTMARES?" I mentally stumble until I find my voice, now so small and timid next to the sonic resonance of this ancient, mythological creature. "...Snow White sent us here…" "SHE WAS…VERY KIND…TO SEND ME…SUCH…TASTY MORSELS. TWO…VIRGIN SOULS, EVEN." …morsels? Uh, no. "We were sent here so that we could ask for your aid in a matter…" "ON HER…BEHALF…OR…YOUR OWN?" "My own." He says nothing for a moment, and I take this as an opportunity to explain myself. I hold up my arm, and say, "I got bitten by the White Queen’s spider, and was told that the bite is incurable by all means currently available to me. Snow White healed the effects of the bite, but the poison still runs through my veins, and the further I go from her and her influence, the more the poison’s effects will resume. Some said that you have the ability to cure it, and I came to ask if you would." "…THE WHITE QUEEN’S…SPIDER?" I describe it to him, and he asks, "TELL ME…LITTLE…VIRGIN SOUL…DID HE…BITE…OF HIS OWN…WILL?" My brow furrows at this as I attempt to remember. "I don’t think so…" Lest I say something inaccurate, however, I follow that by simply relay the whole of our interaction with him to the Manticore, and allow him to sift through the Spider’s words to find what he’s looking for. Apparently, he does. "HOW…FORTUNATE…FOR YOU…THAT HE…DID NOT…BITE…OF HIS OWN…WILL." And his face, before so completely impassive, softens a little as his voice continues to cause the very ground to rumble. "HOW FAR…HE HAS…FALLEN." "…fallen?" I wonder at this constant use of words that carry rather gothic connotations of the struggles and gods and angels, and straying from divine paths. "THERE ARE…THREE…POISONS…WHICH ARE…INCURABLE…BY NORMAL…MEANS. MINE IS ONE…THE POISON…OF THE…WORLD’S SERPENT…IS…ANOTHER…THIS SPIDER’S…THE LAST. HE WAS ONCE…A MIGHTY…GOD…WHO HELD…MANY NAMES…BONE BANE…AMONG…OTHERS. HE LIVED…AS A GOD…OF POISON…OF SPIDERS…IN A REALM…CLOAKED…IN DARKNESS…ON WEBS…OF SILKEN…STRANDS…ALL STRUNG…WITH PEARLS." He pauses and blinks in apparent mourning before he continues. "I HAD NOT…KNOWN…THAT HE…HAS FALLEN…TO THE…WHITE QUEEN’S…CONTROL." "…quite some time ago, I’ve been told." "I WILL…HEAL…YOU…LITTLE…VIRGIN SOUL. BUT YOU…WILL HAVE…A DANGEROUSLY…HIGH FEVER…AND BE…RACKED…WITH PAIN. MY POISON…IS TOXIC…ENOUGH…TO KILL ALL…LESSER…POISONS. I WILL…CLEANSE YOU…OF…HIS…POISON…WITH MY OWN…AND WILL…WITHDRAW…MY POISON…JUST BEFORE…YOU DIE." "Thank you…" "TAKE…A QUILL, MORSEL. INSERT…THE TIP…INTO…WHERE YOU…WERE BITTEN." I go toward him, and close my eyes as I pluck a sharp quill from his lion’s body (it’s not easy, especially since the quill itself is about as long as my forearm), and do as bade. Everything he predicted comes to pass, and as my mind shuts down, and as my body convulses from flashes of simultaneous hot and cold, I lose myself in my delirium. ______________________________________________ Eventually, I regain some sense of controlled consciousness, and I wake to find my arm still stuck with the Manticore’s quill, and I pluck it gingerly from my flesh. I inhale deeply, enjoying the sweet, earthy scent of the grass around me, and notice that I feel genuinely clean, as if nothing but my own essence, free of any taint, fills my every pore. As I savor these sensations, the Manticore’s booming voice once more fills the air around me. "THE OTHER…MORSEL…TELLS ME…THAT YOU…ARE BEING…CHASED…BY THE…BLACK QUEEN." "That’s correct." "CONSUMING…VIRGIN…SOULS…IS NOT…WITHIN…HER PURVIEW. TAKE…THE QUILL. IN RETURN…FOR HEALING YOU…IF…YOU SEE…HER…IN THE FLESH…STAB HER…WITH IT." "…alright." A moment more, and I find myself lying blinking and confused in Snow White’s bed. My arm has returned to normal, and as proof of my encounter with the mystical being, I hold in my hand a long, thick stemmed quill. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/13/03 9:08:38 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 186 (3/10/03 2:31 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are." -- Oscar Wilde Disclosure (Part I) Beside me, Thomas also stirs. I greet him with a lopsided grin, and say, "…well, that wasn’t so terrible, was it?" Thomas rubs his forehead and then rolls his eyes in answer. "Ugh, speak for yourself. You only had to promise something that you would’ve done anyway. To decide if he was gonna eat me or not, he injected me with poison, and I had to win a riddle contest with him while he held it at bay. That sucked." I blink. "Yeah…" I pause a moment, and then merrily chirp, "Welp, glad ya won!" And I give him a hearty slap on the back. I do feel bad that he had to endure that (surely I wouldn’t have survived), but I’m more delighted that my arm is back in working order, and he won the contest, anyway. After a little bit, Snow White comes back in, and she smiles as she sees us both awake, alive, even talking. She approaches us, and murmurs, "I see he chose to heal you…" and her gaze falls upon the quill at my side, and her eyes widen slightly. "...is that one of his quills?" "…yes. He told me to take it, and to use it on the Black Queen if I ever saw her in person, because ‘consuming virgin souls is outside her purview,’ whatever that means. What’s a ‘virgin soul,’ anyway?" "I’m not sure what he means by that, but I will guess that he means a soul belonging to a body that hasn’t died yet, or a soul that hasn’t experienced some other thing that those who come to this realm normally experience." And then I enter my usual barrage of random questioning—I figure that Kate is a good person to ask, simply because she gives me straight answers, even if they’re not true. (I can always compare her answers with those of others later, and where the information overlaps, and where various holes correspond, is what I’ll take as truth.) She’s not sure why the Ace of Spades wears an inverted, white spade, and she’s also not sure if the Ace of Spades is acting the way she is because of machinations on behalf of the Black Queen. When told further of the White Queen’s reason for torture of her Bishop, Kate says that that behavior of "tainting" pieces seems typical of the Black Queen, but not the White Queen. When I remind her of the Jester’s pleas ("She’s waiting to see what you do, and if you do what she wants, she’ll have a hold over you"), she merely answers that she doesn’t know. I tell her of the Red Queen and King’s separate and distinct cottages, and she answers placidly, "Why is that so hard to believe? From what it sounds like, they are, indeed, two separate houses. Why can they not occupy the same space?" My hands fly to the sides of my head, and I release a pathetic cry, lest my brains spill outward in a fit of overwhelming confusion. "GAH! How can that be? That space, which is finite, has already been taken up! And they can’t be separate places! Bessie was in the Red Queen’s cottage, but before we left the Red King’s cottage to come here, she grabbed it!" Then, as patiently as a schoolteacher who’s tutoring the slowest child in the class, she says, "Well, that would be an example of one object existing in two separate places. Take this house, for example. Well, it exists in more than two places, really, but it exists here, in the Red Realm, but also in the domain of the Black Queen. It’s still the same house." My lips curl into an ugly grimace, and I mutter, "My brain hurts. What strange spatial and temporal laws you people have!" While Kate regards me curiously, Thomas merely laughs at me before saying, "Chris, you’re thinking too hard about it. Don’t worry about the ‘why,’ just accept that it is. I’ve come up with weirder laws for my games. And that space can still be finite, it’s just … a more flexible kind of finite." I shoot him an angry glare and say petulantly. "Oh, shut up." I release my head at the same time that a sigh flow past my lips. "Alright, I’m just not gonna think about it. I don’t care, I don’t care. It just is." After a pause, I murmur, "Okay, I think I’m over it. But damn, that’s weird. Okay, not gonna think about it." Back to Ace of Spades, and how people pick their archetypes. I tell her about my confusion about the Ace of Spades, and how she’s supposed to uphold the archetypal Rose Red role of defending the innocent when she’s also death incarnate. Kate blesses me with a slow smile and merely agrees that, no, the Ace of Spades isn’t well suited to her new role, but whatever further happens to the role is solely up to the Ace of Spades. Sometimes the archetype picks you (as was the case with Kate), and sometimes you simply have to grab it (which is what the Ace of Spades has done with the Rose Red archetype). Using herself as an example, Kate tells me that when she came here, she met with the previous Snow White, and their souls simply joined, so well suited was she to the Snow White role. At this point, I run out of questions, but I do tell her that Thomas (and I give him another slap on the back) won a riddle contest with the Manticore, and Kate’s eyes widen. "That is impressive." "…why did he challenge Thomas to one, anyway? I mean, he was just standing there, not wanting anything from the Manticore himself. Why would…?" "Well, the Manticore will always demand something in return for his favor. Perhaps it wasn’t so wise to send Thomas along with you, after all." I frown deeply. "Well then, why didn’t you just say that in the first place?" She looks at me quietly, her face as calm as ever. "Because I didn’t know before that it would be dangerous to send him also." I quirk a brow at that, but I begin to get ready to leave. Kate offers to walk me back to the Red Queen’s cottage when I tell her that Her Majesty is waiting outside to walk me back. She gives a slow smile at this, and says gently, "Then I hope you don’t mind if I don’t accompany you." I grin, shake my head, and open the door to find the Red Queen standing outside the gate with Bessie hefted over one rounded shoulder. Thomas and I approach her, and I smile and say, "All healed up and ready to go." Her Majesty gives a curt nod, and says, "Roight then," and we head off. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/12/03 8:28:35 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 191 (3/12/03 8:33 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are." -- Oscar Wilde Disclosure (Part II) We begin to wind our way back through the forest, and I cast my eyes toward the Red Queen’s grim face every so often, wondering at the quietness of her sullen mood. In an attempt to bring her out of her mood, I venture, "So…you’ve just been standing here all this time? I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Your Majesty." "’S’alroight. Been keepin’ busy, hackin’ up things ‘at think ‘at a Red Queen standin’ in t’forest would be easy prey." I furrow my brow slightly at this, because I don’t remember seeing any physical remains of any hacked up pieces of anything. When I express this to the Red Queen, she scrunches up her round face a little and responds, "Alroight, I was exag’era’ing. I’ve been puntin’ ‘em ‘round t’teach ‘em a lesson f’the few hours you were in ‘erre with ‘er." "Hours? God, I thought I was out for like 20 or 30 minutes." "Felt loike hours t’me." And she throws a glance back at Snow White’s house, now growing smaller and smaller against the horizon as we walk from it. "’Er an’ ‘at spoider. Bloody nuisances." "What? Why?" "Because ‘ey are! Beginn’ not t’trust anythin’ wi’the word "whoite" in’t." I ask her about alliances, and voice my suspicion that one can’t obtain alliances without first being in a position of power, since power seems to be the commodity that’s most readily bartered here. The only transaction I’ve witnessed is my own purchase, from the Grendel King to the White Bishop. And when I mention that to the Red Queen, she informs me that that coin wasn’t money, but a token of favor from the White King. "It means ‘at th’Grendel King can r’deem ‘at f’a favor from th’Whoite King. Not too bad a price, consi’ering some o’th’things the Whoite King ‘as done as favors. Still, a young, pretty thing loike you, I’d have paid foive or six tokens, at least." She pauses here and thinks about that. "Well, maybe not, since it’s th’Grendel King. No idea whot things’re worth. I could give ‘im some o’my belly lint, an’ ‘ee’d be ‘appy. ‘Course, my belly lint’s got doimonds in’t." I fall silent for a moment, before I ask, "…I’m sorry, Your Highness, but how are you able to see the Ace of Spades fulfill the responsibilities of the Ace of Hearts? It seems a little incongruous…" "Well, it’d take a bit o’trainin’, o’course. Red Queen really and truly believes that the Ace of Spades would decently perform the duties of the Ace of Hearts. The Ace of Heart’s role, aside from lover and seductress, "espi’nages people," as Her Highness puts it. Or, rather, the Ace of Hearts uses her capabilities as lover and seductress to effectively complete acts of espionage. The Red Queen claims that the Ace of Spades could do it well, with a little training. I worry, though, that the combination of Ace positions would wreak more havok than do good—while it is true that the Red Queen would have a hold on one of the top servants of the Black Queen, the Black Queen would also have the ability to compromise the Red Queen in the Red Realm, especially since the Aces are picked for qualities of loyalty, and the Ace of Spades would have been the Ace of Spades before she became the Ace of Hearts, and I freely voice my concern. Without hesitation, she expresses her desire to see the Black Queen use the Ace of Hearts against the Red Realm—all the Aces are loyal, but their hearts are always their own, and this is particularly true of the Ace of Hearts. The other Queen’s don’t know how the Black Queen got the Ace to be so docile, but they suspect that something in her head was broken when the new Black Queen came to power. I start to ask something else, but she pauses in her walk, and tilts her head slightly towards me, and though her tone is teasing, the warning is clear. "I am th’Red Queen. I’m not ac’ustom’d t’ ‘avin’ my mo’ivations questioned ‘is way." I begin to say something, immediately think better of it, and supplant those words with others that will hopefully placate her rising temper. "Forgive my impertinence, Your Majesty." It doesn’t take much, apparently, to appease her. Her lips curve into a wide smile, and she fairly preens like a bird of paradise. "Oh, I do loike when y’say ‘at." And we amble along in a moments of silence before I learn from her that though the Ace of Spades doesn’t have a set schedule, exactly, she does stop by every morning at the Red Queen’s cottage for tea, simply because the Red Queen stated that she should. I nod, and murmur that I’d actually like to talk to her, and the Red Queen gives me a sly smile and a knowing look. "Well, ‘en she stops boy t’morrow morn’ng, I’ll be sure t’go give th’Whoite Queen a visit, and leave you two alone." My cheeks start to flush a bit, the heat in my cheeks belying my rising embarrassment, and yet I’m also vaguely annoyed at Her Majesty’s presumptuousness—whether or not I have a crush (and I probably do) has nothing to do with anything, and it’s certainly not something I’m going to rashly act on, if I act on it at all. We return to the Red Queen’s cottage, and eventually get ready for bed. Before we fall asleep, however, Her Highness leaves Bessie against one of the walls in our room, and she assures us that no one besides her and the two of us can enter the room we’re staying in. We crawl into bed, and we fall asleep. ______________________________________________ A little time passes, and some innate sense of danger rouses me from my dreamless sleep. The first thing I notice is that my surrounding area is, indeed, dark. To my right, past the edge of the bed, the moonlight shines in through the window, and just past the panes of glass, are scores of large, unblinking yellow eyes. And the owners of those eyes are steadily wedging the window upward. I nudge Thomas harshly, and wait for him to wake. He does, and pretty quickly. I whisper for him to look at the window, and he immediately reaches for something to attack with. We sit quietly, watching and waiting. As we watch, however, in the span of milliseconds, the faces part neatly between the eyes where the nose bridges would rest, as though precise hands slipped and slid sharp edged knives through bone and flesh. Thomas and I continue to merely sit, dumbfounded, as the faces slowly drag their way down, down, down past the window sill, as if they had never even existed. I shoot Bessie a glance, and note that it’s still sitting against the wall, and hasn’t moved at all since being placed there. I tell Thomas about these things called "Breathstealers," which are little creatures that try to kill you (by feeding on you, I think) by slipping in through glass windows, and also inform him that that’s why Snow White’s house doesn’t have windows, but that that seems to be a Black Realm thing. And that’s when a horrible thought strikes—what if, in the same way that the White Queen’s room can transport us elsewhere, we’ve now been transported to the Black Realm? Nervously, I step cautiously toward the window, and look outside as much as I can without opening the window. Strangely enough, they appear shredded as they did the first night we received protection from Rose Red when we stayed in this very room. Thomas and I look at each other for a few moments in silence before I pad lightly over the door, open it tentatively, and loudly whisper, "Your Majesty…?!" She stumbles out of her bedroom after a brief moment, her bare feet slapping against the floor as she goes, her hands rubbing at sleepy eyes. "Whot?" My lungs release a sigh of relief before I even realize that I was holding my breath. "Your Majesty, I think something just tried to attack us…" Instantly, she perks up, and grabs Bessie as she enters our room. She approaches the window, lifts it, sticks an arm out, and rather ungracefully retrieves several strips of those somethings from the flowerbed beneath. One of these strips still has an eye attached to it, and she gives it a few unladylike squeezes, rhythmically bulging the yellow orb. "Well, don’t look loike Bessie did it." I follow the Red Queen out to the front, where the remains litter the ground, and that’s when I see four perfect petals in a trailed line. I stoop down to pick one up, and run my fingertips against the velvety softness before murmurring, "…Rose Black…" The Red Queen doesn’t bother marvelling—she’s already anticipating future acts. "Well, I caun’t say I mind ‘avin’ a pro’ector ‘round agayn." I give a silent frown. Protector? But if she’s acting in her Black Ace role, does this…? Her Highness tromps tiredly back into the house, and I follow her in, my mind awhirl with thoughts that I’m simply too tired to process right now. I’m going to ask her about that…tomorrow. Right now, sleep. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 192 (3/12/03 12:42 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are." -- Oscar Wilde Disclosure (Part III) Unfortunately, I don’t sleep that well. The minutes stretch into hours, and those hours drive me nearly insane with mere hints of sleep, the edges of which constantly elude me as the night wears on. I awake groggy and bleary eyed, and take a moment to force the half formed dreams away. What a way to start a day when one has to meet Death incarnate…Thomas and I discuss the plan briefly, and we decide that he’s going to simply watch us from afar while keeping himself hidden. I can feel my head nod in answer, though I’m not sure I’m the one that willed that to happen—I regard everything around me with that sense of disconnectedness that accompanies sleep deprivation. My mental state doesn’t get any better as I plod into the cozy dining room, where the Red Queen and I are supposed to meet the Ace of Spades for tea. I slip quietly into a seat, and cup my heavy head in my hands. "Now, she stops boy b’cause I moike a damned foine tea." The Red Queen pauses at this, and then whispers conspiratorially, "Well, not really. My tea’s ‘orrible. She comes boy b’cause I told ‘er she ought to. But when you ‘ave th’tea, you’d bet’er comp’iment it." Soon after Her Highness gives me the helpful hint that I should phrase my questions to her not as questions, but as persuasive arguments for why she should or shouldn’t do something, we hear a knock at the door. Her Majesty throws me a meaningful look (or, at least, I think it’s supposed to be meaningful…unfortunately, I deliberately don’t catch it), and pulls the door open to reveal the Ace of Spades. Despite my usual sense of morning unpleasantness, I allow my lips to curve into a small smile as I see her standing—so patiently and so unassuming!—at the door. She steps in after the Red Queen waves her to a seat, and the Ace’s eyes light upon me, her expression, as always, enigmatic. The Red Queen fairly sings out, "’Erre. ‘Ave a seat. I’ll bring you your tea." And then, pointedly, "An’ you should always finish your tea." The Ace—so imposing and out of place in this realm of red with her almost solid black raiment—merely watches the Queen before offering her answer. "Alright." As my mind processes her simple answer, I lift my tired head from my hands, and blink. Well, that was easy… And my eyes follow the Ace’s movements as she sits in a chair opposite me, and I watch in thinly veiled admiration the precision of her long, lean limbs. When she’s seated, she fixes her impenetrable eyes upon me, and I meet her gaze, my own now resolute, though I do give her a small, lopsided grin. She doesn’t respond in kind…hell, she doesn’t respond at all. The Red Queen pours us both some tea into the teacups that sit before us, and the Ace and I take simultaneous sips. I have to fight to keep a grimace from marring my expression, and it’s hard. The lukewarm tea swirls around in my unsuspecting mouth, and its peculiar bitterness slides smoothly against the surface of my tongue as it makes its way to the back of my throat. As I swallow, I have to inhale deeply to keep from focusing on the foul taste that vaguely reminds me of mildew and mold. I glance at Her Majesty now, who returns my gaze, her own expectant. Oh, right, the compliment… I stumble for words, and try not to think about the remnants of flavor against the side of my mouth. "Well, Your Majesty, this tea is quite unlike anything I’ve ever had before…!" My comment pleases her, and she gives a wide smile. The Ace now offers a comment of her own. "This is quite like what I had yesterday." I look back at the lovely Ace, that familiar pity swelling against my ribs. I wonder how she can drink this so calmly…god, I hope this tea doesn’t kick my stomach into any weird bouts of strangeness… And as I watch the beautiful woman before me, my eyes widen as she once more lifts the delicate teacup to her lips, and voluntarily sips once more. My observation of her gets interrupted now by the Red Queen’s strident Cockney, obviously directed at the Ace. "Alroight ‘en, ‘s’time for my lit’l visit. Now, while ‘oou’re ‘ere, I don’t want you ‘urtin’ Chris’ina. ‘At understood?" The Black Ace blinks her dark eyes once, and her behavior now still doesn’t yield any more information than her last response. She answers now with that same precision and coolness of voice that hides so much ambiguity behind it, and without moving her eyes from me, she intones, "Alright." I can’t help it…I furrow my brow in frustration, and once the Red Queen leaves, I’m left alone with the lovely Ace of Spades, who keeps her eyes on me as she noiselessly sips her tea. Now leaning an elbow against the table, I prop my head up against my open palm, and I merely watch her. For a few moments, the only sounds exchanged between us are the faint clinks of the porcelain as she sets her teacup against its saucer. She watches me as intently and wordlessly as I watch her, and though my body sits in a much more relaxed position, she appears much less unnerved by my stare than I am by hers. Gently now, I say to her with a smile, "…thank you…for your aid last night." She arches a fine brow, and with a voice that is neither surprised, nor sarcastic, neither humble, nor boasting, she asks, "Did that aid you?" I nod, and she merely releases her voice in a soft sound of careful deliberation. Unwilling to let the conversation die so quickly, I respond with, "…so, those intruders, were they breath stealers?" "No. They’ve many names, but they are not breath stealers. In terms that you would understand, they’re likely called ‘goblins.’" And with that answered, we fall into silence again. Eventually, I ask her the question that’s been on my mind for so long now. "…so tell me. Why do you wear a white spade?" She sips quietly, and looks contemplative. Thinking that perhaps she is considering whether or not she wishes to answer, I fall quiet, allowing her time to decide. The seconds drag on…and on…until finally I murmur, "You know, it’s rather rude to remain silent when someone asks a question…even if you don’t answer the question directly, you ought to at least acknowledge that you heard it." Then we begin. She sets her now empty teacup on the saucer, and without thinking, I reflexively give her an immediate refill (comes from years of training in Chinese serving etiquette). She glances down at it, and it’s only then that I realize what I’ve subjected her to, when my own teacup remains untouched. Her expression, not surprisingly, doesn’t change. We start our conversation in earnest now, and we develop a tense give and take that results in many re-phrasings on my part in response to her consistently evasive answers. I eventually find out that because she is death incarnate, she wears symbols of her position, and white is the color associated with death. She tells me that since her freedom from the Black Queen, she has become lost and confused. At that, I gingerly reach out a hand, and place it gently but warmly atop hers, and express my sympathy. She expresses confusion over my sympathy, and I tell her that because of all my experiences over the past few days, I definitely know what it’s like to be alone and lost. She responds by looking at me curiously. At least right now, I figure to myself that it wouldn’t hurt to gain her trust by being a friend. She glances at my hand with that characteristic coldness, but doesn’t do anything else. Taking her inaction as encouragement, I merely let my hand rest there for a moment longer, my thumb tracing idle paths across the tops of her soft palm and well formed knuckles, before pulling away. This is when she tells me that she feels she lost her sense of purpose, and she’s currently adjusting in the Red Realm to find a purpose best suited to her. Her confusion stems from internal conflict to which she is unaccustomed, and the confusion developed when she tore off Rose Red’s head, and it’s grown steadily since then. As the Ace of Spades, she cannot lie, and while she hasn’t lied outright, she certainly has made decisions that wouldn’t have stemmed from a past version of herself, and she omitted information regarding me when she conversed with the Black Queen. "The thorn. Did Rose Red have it in her mouth?" I hesitate, but I answer, seeing that it doesn’t make a difference now whether she knows or not. "Yes, she did." And, unbidden, remembrance of our kiss comes to mind, and I have to set my jaw and look away momentarily to fight off the flush that threatens to creep into my cheeks. She nods as she watches me, her eyes ever those of an experienced huntress. "Hmm. Rose Red was very clever." When she tore Rose Red’s head, she didn’t consume her essence right away, though she was supposed to. And no one told the Ace to bring the head to me, and though she still doesn’t know why she did it, she did it anyway. When I eluded capture from her three times, my escape each time only occurred because she didn’t pursue nearly as rigorously as she usually does. She consumed more of Rose Red’s essence when she arrived at her house in the Black Queen’s domain, but even then, she didn’t get it all, as some of it rests with me. Vaguely, I wonder if she means that it’s within me, or with the thorn (and I think she means that it’s just in the thorn), but I don’t want to interrupt her flow of words, and end up stopping up the information prematurely. In return for her words, I tell her what she wishes to know about Rose Red. I give her what little history I know, after warning her that all the information I have is second-hand, and may be inaccurate. She nods in understanding, and I tell her that Rose Red’s original role was that of a protector of the defenseless and innocent, and only after she lost guidance (I didn’t say from whom) a great many years ago did her archetypal role shift to include being an assassin for hire. Still, something in me triggered her return to that role, and her desire to return to the original role was so potent that I believe that that’s why whatever’s left of her essence is still influencing events. I finish talking, and as I recall Rose Red’s beautiful face mercilessly gagged and embedded within the trunk of the grendel tree, my final words come as a rush of sound, as if perhaps, in speaking them quickly, I can wash myself free of the memory. Finally, my last syllable fades, and I feel drained. The Ace nods, says she has to think carefully on all this, and rises to leave. I remain seated, and watch her as she goes. As the Black Ace steps past the threshold and pulls the door shut behind her, I sigh, and feel my lips curve into a small, tired grin. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 193 (3/13/03 5:56 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Prudence is the knowledge of things to be sought, and those to be shunned.” -- Cicero, De Officis (I, 43) Interlude I blink sleepily at the door, the blank grin still playing upon my lips as I do so. As I sit slumped in my chair, my head still propped up by a lazy arm, the Red Queen strides in with Bessie thrown casually over one shoulder. Somewhere in the back of my head I marvel at her sense of timing, but that thought quickly gets displaced by others…the Red Queen draws near, and only then do I realize that my smile still displays itself upon my mouth. Her Majesty wastes no time as she begins with her questioning, her own lips now pulled into an eager smile of their own. “Didja ‘ave a noice chat?” I nod absently. “An’ didja foind out if she’s a doike?” Unprepared, I sit sharply upright at that. “…what?” She repeats the question, and her eyes narrow as her smile loosens into a sly grin of implication. “Well, no. Anyway, that wasn’t something I was looking to learn, exactly.” I fix my gaze upon her now, determined to appear righteous…or something. She doesn’t seem convinced. “Besides, I don’t think she’s gay or straight or anything at all. Just one of those indeterminate ‘nothing’s in that sense, I guess.” And then, more to myself than to anyone else, I softly murmur, “…and that’s such a shame…” “Codswal’op! One caun’t look ‘at good, an’ be nuthin’!” I reward Her Majesty with a smile in silent agreement before she says, “She din’t finish ‘er tea!” Now glancing at the half full teacup, I say, “Oh, she drank a cup of it…I gave her a refill, and that’s what she didn’t finish.” Her eyes widen in evident surprise, and her voice lilts in delight. “Oh, so she finish’d a ‘ole cup, did she?” My brow furrows in evident confusion. “Well, yes. Why’s that surprise you? I mean, you did tell her to…” She shrugs happily and merely puts the kettle of tea away. And by “put away,” I mean just that—she places it, tea and all, onto a high shelf in a cupboard, without washing it out or even rinsing it. My face involuntarily pulls into an unhappy grimace as I watch, and suddenly it becomes clear to me just why the tea tastes so damned horrible, and reminds me of mildew and mold. Now excusing myself from her presence and from the dining room, I duck quickly into the room in which Thomas is hiding, and without much pause or hesitation, he shares his impressions with me, and I’m grateful for his insight. Firstly, we both agree that it’s not really wise to completely trust Snow White, though Thomas has more misgivings about trusting her than I do. Because she’s her own power without political allegiances here, he thinks that that makes her suspect to the Queens here, but should also give me some reason for concern. Unlike Rose Red, whose role dictates protection of the innocent, Snow White’s role has no such stipulations in regard to me. Also, her stories and explanations to me about various things seem to have holes in them. The Red royals we can trust to a certain extent, we both think, although we both understand and expect omission of information from them, as they need to protect their own interests as well. At the very least, their stories match up pretty well, and make consistent sense, unlike Snow White’s. After moment, Thmas specifies that actually, we can trust the Queen of Diamonds to a certain extent. I agree, and let him know that I don't trust the Queen of Hearts at all, since she can watch me indirectly through the Queen of Diamonds, but I still know nothing about her. Thomas doesn’t quite trust Matthew the Monk, either, because of the way he’s being so flexible with his vow of silence. I laugh in response, and reply that actually, he’s taking the vow very inflexibly—so inflexibly, in fact, that the word “silence” is taken in a very literal sense. That, and I also don’t believe that he’s high enough along the hierarchy of power to really have interests to protect, or really worry about the events he influences. Next, I voice my idea that the Cheshire may be the only person I can truly trust in this realm, because he certainly isn’t against me, even if he proves useless for anything else. It's one of the reasons, I think, that all his words are roundabout in such a way that most of what he says is rendered meaningless, unless you put them back together again correctly. Lastly, I say that the Ace of Spades is someone to be wary of, but, at least for now, she’s not actively against me. Thomas and I nod in mutual agreement, and before he turns away, I grin faintly again as I breathily intone, “…isn’t she pretty…?” Thomas, of course, only arches a coldly curious brow before flatly offering, “Uh…huh. Yeah.” The “whatever” he leaves unsaid, but its presence remains evident in his voice. We enjoy the momentary lull in our conversation before we continue on. Thomas shares that he’s also been playing around with ideas about mirrors, and the puzzle behind them. His ideas, he claims, are currently only half formed, although they do seem to fit with my own ideas about them, and my experiences with them so far reinforce our theories. We discuss the various mythologies of mirrors, because so far it seems to be how the world works, and others have told us as much: all our various stories and myths that we’re familiar with in our own world come from an unconscious tapping of what actually goes on here. Perhaps some of those urban legends, or tales we merely dismissed as fanciful nonsense, carry more weight than we realized. Another possiblity is that they’re used to see around “corners,” but in a dimensional sense. I mention the compass that I used while I was with the rabbits, and that when first thinking about it, I likened it to a periscope combined with a gateway or transport device of some kind. And in thinking about gateways, I bring up again the breath stealers and how they only travel through windows, and tell him about the shards of glass resting on the top ledge of the old crone’s stone wall. Back when I was thinking about it, I thought that that was to trap breath stealers and other creatures that would be wandering around, looking to use the glass as a way of getting around. After all that I've been through, I haven't completely thought that out, either. Thomas concurs with the possibility, and again warns me that these are ideas are inconclusive at best, and some experimentation with mirrors would need to be done in order to confirm anything. Then I wonder aloud at the old crone’s description of the wall (she said it was only 3 feet high, but it was more like 12), when Thomas interjects with the notion that perhaps it was only 3 feet high, but it seemed 12 to me because I could have shrunk. I blink, now thoroughly disturbed. “Well, yeah, but…I mean…Well, I was small after the Cheshire took back the kitty coat, but my clothes were still the same size, and I grew back into them, and now they fit the way they did before. If we’re a different size now, why didn’t the clothing change with me then?” He looks at me as blankly as I look at him, and we both decide to question the Red King. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/13/03 6:15:48 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 195 (3/14/03 3:44 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Questions are never indiscreet. Answers sometimes are." -- Oscar Wilde Disclosure (Part IV) Thomas and I scribble a quick note detailing our plan to visit the Red King, and before we go, I decide to flip through the numbered maps Thrace made to get an idea just how this "two structures occupying the same space" theory works. To my chagrin and minor annoyance, I see that Thrace actually did put them on the map, only where one path would lead elsewhere, she meticulously wrote, "Reference map. . ." and a number. As I continue to flip madly through the ream of maps Thrace left me, referencing various sheets with still other sheets, my sense of annoyance is assuaged only with the knowledge that at least now I won’t be wandering around paths, wondering where the hell I am. When I’m certain that we can get there without any trouble (and we shouldn’t, since we only have to follow a garden path, rather than venture beyond the Red Queen’s gates), we head out. ______________________________________________ Eventually, we approach the Red King’s cottage, and, suddenly, epiphany strikes. It is the same cottage, but not quite—it’s a damned mirror image! Every stone, every budding flower rests where it’s supposed to relative to the structure itself, but in comparison to the Red Queen’s cottage, everything’s exactly opposite of where they are there. That vague sense of annoyance at the world in general feels more familiar to me now than mother’s milk ever did, and I breathe a sigh, and try not to think about it as the Red King greets us with a warm and booming voice. Not wanting to waste any time, I begin to question him on all sorts of things, and he seems more than willing to share with us what he knows. In answer to my questions about size, he displays definite knowledge and understanding of our units of measurement, but he does tell us that some realms will shift sizes, and that animate and inanimate things may shift, but not always at the same rate. In the Red Realm, things are pretty close to absolute, in the sense that we're familiar with from our world. Thus, it may be possible that that wall in the Old Crone's orchard was an absolute 3 feet, but I could have shifted sizes myself. I am disappointed at this bit of information (that seems a little too flexible for me to wrap my brain around), but I persist in my questioning. Generally, I only have to ask one question on any given topic, and he will go off on his own, supplying information on that topic in general. He fills my head to bursting, and what I learn remains a tiny fraction of the knowledge he gained from his 11,000 years of existence. 1. The position of the Red King is one archetype, and can be described best as "The Bloody Tyrant." The positions of power that I’m familiar with, the Kings of Hearts (passions) and Diamonds (power) are mere facets of the one greater, Bloody Tyrant archetype. He will occasionally allow others to take one role or the other, but he always remains the Red King. In keeping with the archetype of consuming his power base, he has eaten people before, but he only does so when they threaten to take over his position. So, at least in that sense, he only does it for self-defense, rather than to broaden his abilities, or for sustenance, the way the Black Queen does. 2. The Black King of cards, however, is a wholly different archetype—he is "The Absent King," or "The King of Madness." His goals and focus are narrow, and possesses tendencies to act and deliver commands as a visionary. 3. This may or may not be true of the Black King of chess. Chess operates on an entirely different system of rules that always revolves around the use of deception. (The Red King emphasizes here that both he and his wife may leave out information, but that’s as far as they go. They’re both rotten at lying, and so don’t get involved with chess issues.) Chess Kings serve various purposes, but they act alternately as trophies and prizes, or liabilities and vulnerabilities. 4. With the history he’s familiar with, there have been 7 or 8 times where the Kings have been won, and the most recent time has been with the ascendancy of the current Black Queen. That win resulted not only in a new Queen, but the beginning of an alliance with the White Queen. 5. The White Queen helped put the new Black Queen into power, but apparently didn’t expect the new Black Queen to be as good at deception and maneuvering as she is. A good example of her skill lies in the fact that no one has heard from or even seen the Black King since the new Black Queen claimed power, and the game can’t end unless the King is taken. 6. Seeing now that the game doesn’t ever end, I ask about the point of it, and he says that it’s partially for territory, and partially because of a compulsion on the part of those who play to strategize, to "win," even if there’s no real end goal. He illustrates this by using the former Queen of Diamonds as an example. "She used t’alwoys pick up coins if she saw ‘em. Always. She ’ad to; couldn’t ‘elp it, even if she troied. Sometimes I’d trap ‘er ‘at way, if I ‘ad something I needed t’do, an’ she was opposed. I’d leave trails o’coins f’miles an’ miles, and by th’toime she was done pickin’ it all up, I’d be done. The current Queen o’ Diamonds can say ‘no’ now, though, but th’ compulsion’s still ‘erre." Also, he informs me that the White Queen never wastes moves. She may seem like she underestimates people, or seem like she’s acting rather airheaded, but really she’s using that deception as a ploy to distract attention from a stratagem. 7. The effects of the actions of various archetypes also affect those around them. The White King, for example, uses others to hide behind. A better example, though, is Snow White. The current Snow White, I’m told, was burned as a witch, and when she first entered this realm, she was quite a mess. By extreme luck, she happened upon Snow White’s place, and she was healed. So well did they hit it off, however, that the two souls merged, thus further developing and empowering the Snow White archetype. And though she only strengthened the Snow White part of the archetype, Kate’s melding affected the development of the Old Crone, as well. 8. Snow White and the Old Crone have a cyclic relationship—anyone who is healed by Snow White will eventually be poisoned by the Old Crone, and vice versa. The Red King suggests that the apple I have won’t actually be of any use, since all it ensures is healing from Snow White. He also suggests that the White Queen, knowing that I’ve been healed by Snow White, perhaps had me bitten by the White Spider so that she could break the cycle of being healed by her again. The only way to release the poison is to go the Manticore. 9. Other archetypes are purely archetypes, without much at stake in the political fields and machinations of others. The White Spider, before he fell to the White Queen, was one. The World’s Serpent is another, though this once pure archetype has been taken on by a living "person" about 1200 years ago. The person who took it over is Loki of Norse myth, and when I mention that Loki’s a God, the Red King responds that "’ee may think ‘ee’s a god, but ‘ee’s still really just a livin’ person." The last one in this category is the Manticore, who is not evil, but is the purest representation of Poison—poisoned emotions, poisoned hearts, poisoned dreams and hopes, poisoned Spirit. 10. In seeing the Manticore, my chances of seeing him again are also increased. One of the ways that this world works is by a certain set of relationship rules—the more dealings you have with someone, the more likely you will be to meet them again later. This is when the Red King tells me, "Th’Whoite Queen din’t ‘ave a purpose f’Thrace, but she kept ‘er a while longer anyway. You moight do well t’think on ‘at." And he also implies that in doing what I did for her Jester, and having had the dealings with the Bishop that I’ve had, I’ve created more ties to the White Queen than I realized. But those relationship rules can work in my favor, seeing as how often I’ve been in the company of the Red King and Queen. "I wouldn’t worry too much about ’t’all too much. Now ‘at we’ve ‘ad this noice lit’l chat, I’ll prob’ly be seein’ more o’ you soon." 11. I wonder aloud at all my recent dealings with the Ace of Spades, and then mention in passing the idea that, in addition to her adoption of the Rose Red role, she might be taking the role of the Ace of Hearts as well. The Red King heaves a sigh at this before saying that the Red Queen’s been entertaining lots of ideas that he hopes she doesn’t follow through with. The Rose Red role, he tells me, was the chivalric knight of innocence, but he doesn’t know much about the Ace of Hearts, because she’s the Queen of Heart’s personal seductress. He avoided her in the past, because he didn’t want to be compromised in any way by her. 12. Aces are always hand picked by every Queen, because they are best at what the archetype demands. Because they are hand picked, they tend to be extremely loyal to the wishes of their Queens, and the Ace position must be given to someone by that Suite’s Queen; one can’t just attempt to take it. Killing an Ace would only ensure that the current Ace wouldn’t be one anymore. 13. As an interesting factoid, the position of Ace of Clubs, for example, is actually two combined archetypes: the Ogre and Pain. They melded 5000 years ago into the single position of the Ace of Clubs, and no one has ever attempted to strip the current Ace of Clubs of that position to give to someone else. She is so completely masterful at what she does that she has easily outlived 10 to 15 Black Queens, and the same person has been the Ace of Clubs since the archetype’s inception. It is said, the Red King tells me, that the Ace of Clubs trained all the greatest sadists my world has ever known. Elizabeth Bathory is one such trained by her. Supposedly the Ace of Clubs disguised herself as the servant whom Elizabeth struck to discover the possibilities of immortal life through bathing and drinking the blood of other young women, and later the Ace appeared to Elizabeth as an older relative, and taught her the ways of sadism. 14. As further counter examples to the "kill and take" methods of archetype usurpation, he says that essences tend to linger until the actions have been completed. In chess, one can kill the Queen, but one must still take the King in order for the taking to be complete. Otherwise, the game isn’t over, and the Queen is merely waiting for her next chance to rise. Sometimes, even when the act of taking is complete, the essences linger anyway, as is the case with the Red Queen. The current Red Queen killed both the former Queens of Diamonds and Hearts, but the Queen of Hearts remains within the Red Queen herself. So, in that sense, sometimes the personality traits get adopted as a result., and that’s how those people persist. The Red King himself has eaten quite a few people in his day, and that’s how he seems more living and vibrant than a pure archetype—he adopts some of their personality traits. At this point, my head swims, and I wave for the discussion to stop. Before we go, though, Thomas and I get a portable mirror to take with us—and a cloth to cover it with in case something bad happens—before we walk back to the Red Queen’s cottage. The Red King walks us back, thanks us for the company, and then Thomas, with the exuberant enthusiasm of a schoolboy, begins his experimentation with the mirror. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/14/03 3:51:44 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 196 (3/16/03 8:33 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “A theory can be proved by experiment; but no path leads from experiment to the birth of a theory.” -- Albert Einstein Thomas begins by unwrapping the small mirror from its folded cloth holder, and turns so that his back faces the Red Queen’s cottage. I stand beside him, watching as he goes about setting up angles, and such. Eventually, he holds the mirror at eye level, and in a tense, but excited whisper, he tells me to look into it. Because of my former experiences with mirrors, my eyes involuntarily give it the briefest of cursory glances before I realize just what it is I’m looking at. There, in the mirror, strides the Red King up along the gravel garden path…to his door…with a hand on the doorknob…before he finally enters the house and shuts the door behind him. My body whips around now, seemingly of its own accord, and I study wildly the structure standing behind me. Without doubt, I recognize it as the Red Queen’s cottage, and Thomas says, “Okay, now if it works the way I think it does, we have to visualize being there, and then we should find ourselves at the Red King’s cottage. Ready?” I nod, and and visualize myself and Thomas standing outside the Red King’s cottage…a moment more, and I hear Thomas beside say me, “…turn around.” I turn, and there we are, standing in front of the Red King’s cottage. I breathe a sigh, impressed. “Amazing…” “Okay, now let’s see if we can get back.” We repeat the process, and we’re standing in front of the Red Queen’s cottage again, at the same spot from which we started. Thomas looks at me excitedly, his eyes and smile more vibrant and alive than I’ve seen since we first stumbled upon this rabbit hole. “You know what this means? If we can get back to the point we were at before we met the White Queen, we can get home!” My lips curve into only a cautious smile, as I dare not hope that it will actually be that easy. “Yeah, in theory…” I nod then in encouragement and force my smile to widen until I actually feel it, and somewhere in the back of my head, I stuff a dark hunch back further into its closet. I do hope that’ll be all we hafta do, but still, that just seems too easy… “Yeah. We’ve still gotta try, though—we won’t know anything for sure until we try.” I nod again in silent agreement, and then we both head back to our room. Her Majesty is still out doing whatever she was doing from this morning, and so we start going through Thrace’s maps without fear of interruption or discovery. The Red Queen lives in a cottage, but she actually owns a massive castle she uses to impress people (and the Red King told me as much before). It’s during this time of intense study that I realize that the castle itself is even more awe inspiring than one would normally expect from the Queen of Diamonds, who controls the archetype of power and wealth. Impressive, indeed. The maps of the White Queen’s realm, however, reflects the schematics of a complicated, but carefully designed fortress, and I’m amazed at the girl’s fastidiousness. Thrace actually has a map for the White Queen’s orphanage (and it is, conveniently enough, labeled “The White Queen’s Orphanage”), and there does, indeed, exist a pathway from the Red Realm to the area of land just in front of the orphanage. Within the orphanage itself are spaces that Thrace left out, presumably because she’s not been there. Land here apparently develops relationship links with the people who own them in a way similar to the relationship rules between people. Thus, all the rooms Thrace detailed are rooms over which the White Queen has control. The blank areas (one of which is the area containing the pews of the original structure in Staten Island) belong to, or are controlled by, someone else. And because of space that held the pews isn’t within the White Queen’s jurisdiction, I assume it belongs the Black Queen. I furrow my brow in slight puzzlement as I wonder how Thrace would know to call it “The Orphanage,” since it that space is no longer one, neither in our world, nor in this one. She comes into the room right after I call for her, and her face remains so obviously pure and guileless that I find myself involuntarily giving her a warm smile at her as walks in. In answer to my questions, she tells me in that characteristic, simple manner of hers that she calls it that because the Bishop used those words in describing it. In addition, she knows about the origins and destinations of various unmarked pathways in the White Realm because the Bishop also told her where they go. Thomas and I don’t react too well to that. Our first instincts are not to trust the Bishop’s maps, but if we wish to continue our experiments, and possibly get home, we don’t really have a choice. Besides, I remember Matthew telling me that the Bishop, being an irrepressible gossip, likes to talk quite a bit when he thinks no one of import is listening. If we are to conduct our experiments, however, we have to make sure that we’re not caught by the White Queen first (especially since I’m sure at this point that she’d love to get my ass back on the rack for her amusement indefinitely). I know that the orphanage leads to the dining hall, and know that the White Queen always uses her dining hall during mealtimes, and remember that the only time I’ve seen it deserted was sometime in the afternoon while the Jester and Thrace were chained up. After enduring many circles of questions and answers, I learn that there is a time difference between the Red Realm and the White one, and Thrace agrees to let us know when it’s about 3 pm over there. Now we have nothing to do except wait. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 197 (3/16/03 9:39 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and, instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” -- Samuel Johnson, Piozzi's Johnsoniana (154) We don’t do much besides wait, and after what feels like an interminable period of time, Thrace comes in to let us know that it’s 3 pm within the White Realm. We thank her, and I grab all my crap, and we’re off. As we walk, I say, “…if we do get to go home…it’s just…I feel really bad about leaving Father MacHaggerty behind…” Thomas quirks a brow at that, and I retell for him my encounter with the grendel tree. His rather mild response (because really, what can one say to such a tale?) is, “…damn, that’s…really…depressing.” I nod, and we simply continue in silence. Thomas and I follow Thrace’s map closely, and eventually come to a gate that I’ve never seen before. It stands taller than I do, and two sculpted sentinels, women carved in the style of a Greek relief, stand guard at either side of the elegantly barred exit. I watch them closely as I approach, noting that for some unfathomable reason, they remind of Goddess Athena in their expressions…I ponder that for a moment before deciding that it has to do with the fact that they guard the entrance to and exit from a realm, and their pose and demeanor reflect that placid, but cold and calculating fierceness that Athena embodies. With my eyes still on them, I slip my fingers into my pocket until the tips touch upon the metallic key. I can hear the lock click open, and once we draw near, my eyes bulge as I watch one of the women (not a relief carving, but more a caryatid independent of the stone behind her) slides down and steps forward until she stands in front of us, effectively blocking the door. We blink, and stop short. In a calm and precise voice, she slowly pronounces, “You do not have the authority to pass.” I tilt my head as I look steadily into her unseeing stone eyes. “…so who does?” A droning recitation of the same line serves as my response. “You do not have the authority to pass.” I frown, and then turn to Thomas as he tugs lightly at my sleeve. He silently shakes his head, turns around, and begins to walk a few steps away from the gate, and the caryatid resumes her place against the stone wall. I’m about to open my mouth when I see that he immediately starts walking backwards toward the gate. I grin, catching on, and follow suit. As we draw nearer and nearer, the stone carving remains stock still against the stone, and we begin to move more quickly. Finally, as we get to a point where we’re closer to the door than we’ve yet been, the statue begins to slide down again. Now, Thomas just shouts, “Now! Go!” and we both turn so that we’re facing the gate, and we both punch through it without giving the statue any time to react. Once we’re on the other side, we throw a quick look back just in time to see the stone woman casting slow glances about, as if seeking. Then, delighted at our triumph, we face forward again, and I breathe long and deep to ease the pumping of my heart in my ears once I see the structure we’ve reached. Before us, looming ominously against the horizon, stands the unmistakable orphanage, and I take a good look at it before we settle into our positions. Against the warm afternoon sunlight, its walls and features appear charred and eaten away, and I recognize the damage as the effects of the conflagration that originally ravaged the structure in Staten Island. The faces of timber and the edges of stone alike bear black spikes that serve as testament to the hungry tongues of flame that licked its way across the building, and the once soft gleam of the stained glass remains hardened and dulled by the soot that’s now caked on as a result of years and years of inattention and disrepair. “Here! I got it! Look at it this way…” Thomas’ voice pulls me back to our task, and I cast the sad structure one last glance before I take my place next to Thomas, and look into the mirror. Thomas holds our mirror before me, and the reflection shows the barren hill, quietly sitting among aged trees, below a sky full of night stars. It’s home! I give a wide, involuntary smile, and immediately will myself there. Almost instantaneously, I don’t see any reflection in front of me—just a line of trees and a driveway—and I turn around to the hill behind me, hoping against hope. The sight that greets my eyes, though, is most welcome—it is exactly as the reflection showed: the same structureless hill, against the same trees, beneath the same night sky. I’m home. My legs kick out from underneath in an unconscious little hop of joy, and I merely stand there, grinnin’ like a fool, as I await Thomas’ return as well. To my surprise, only a quickly scribbled note in Thomas’ handwriting appears to face my expectation, and my jaw drops open at how it reads. “Hope you’re there, safe. I’ll do what I can about the grendel tree.” Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 199 (3/17/03 9:55 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Underneath the reality in which we live and have our being, another altogether different reality lies concealed.” -- Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche For a moment, I can do nothing more than blink in shock at the hastily penned missive in my hand. My first thought is to hop back into the White Queen’s realm when I realize that Thomas was holding the only mirror we had…so there’s nothing I can do if it involves returning to Wonderland. Heaving a heavy sigh, I check on all my toys from Wonderland, and I’m relieved to see that I still have them with me, and to see that Rose Red’s thorn still grows and shrinks at my will. With nervously quivering lips, I plant upon it a tender kiss, and I try to calm the many emotions that now war within me. Try as I might, they still rage: anger at Thomas for doing something so dangerous, it’s stupid (even I was at least a little armed when I got sucked into the Black Queen’s domain; he has nothing); joy for at least being back home; sorrow for those who sacrificed their lives for my well being; guilt at leaving behind another compatriot in an altogether foreign world. This isn’t really any time to mourn, though…more than anything else, I need to plan, and think, and grab a mirror and get back. I glance at my cell phone, and see that its digital clock has just ticked the passing of a minute, and the time now reads 10:32 pm, just one minute after I left Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide that first night. I quirk a brow at that, and begin shuffle the dirt a bit, and stack some rocks unobtrusively to mark the exact spot at which I arrived. Then I begin my walk back up the driveway, and back to the train station that will lead me back into the city, and to my hotel room. ______________________________________________ I make my way over to the concierge, and I ask him to send up a late edition Times to my room. Curiously, he just goes right on shuffling the papers behind the counter, as if he either doesn’t care one whit for my request, or he didn’t hear me. I wave my hand in front of his face, and I still get no response. My lips pull low against my cheeks in a deep frown of annoyance, and I call out, “Hey!” just as I slap an angry palm against the hard wood of the countertop. The guy, who wears a white shirt starched so stiffly that one would think that those anal retentive qualities would lead him to be more attentive to paying guests, looks up and glances about in my general direction, but then goes back to what he’s doing. At this point, I’m both thoroughly annoyed, and thoroughly perturbed, and I wave an impatient hand in front of his goddamned face to show it. “Hey!” He pays no attention, and I stalk off to find a paper in the waiting area of the lobby. I happen to catch a glance at a paper that a guy holds as he waits, presumably, for his date to arrive. And I blink at what I read. All the News That’s Fit to Print. The New York Times, Late Edition. New York. Saturday, January 18, 2003. A whole seven days after my first meeting with Elizabeth. I head over to the elevators, my vision hazy, my head awhirl. What’s going on? I punch the up button, and while I can feel it push inward, nothing happens. Dammit, you’d think they’d at least put an ‘out of order’ sign on here, or something…! But when another hotel guest pushes the up button, it lights up in greeting and delivers a merry electronic chirp besides. Oh. I’m dead…well, maybe not, but I’m a spirit now, anyway. And once I accept that hypothesis (and I think it as calmly and collectedly as someone who’s merely thinking, “I need to stop at the grocery store to get milk and bread later”), things seem to fall a bit more into place. On the way here, I merely assumed that the lack of attention paid to me simply reflected the coldness of New Yorkers in general, that they can’t be bothered enough to care about strangers. I didn’t know that it stems from my being completely frickin’ invisible. The man beside me steps onto the elevator, and I follow suit. His floor is only two higher than my floor, and I get off with him, and use the stairs to get to my floor. Once I get to my room, I slide the keycard into the door, but, of course, nothing happens. I sigh, and touch my magic key until I hear the lock click and see the little light above the knob blink green. I slip quietly inside, and flop down on the bed, drained. ______________________________________________ I just stare at the ceiling for a while…and then I eventually sit back up when my stomach releases a rumble that reminds me of my neglect of it. I pick up the phone, and try to dial room service, but nothing happens when I push the number keys down, and I growl at the dialtone before grabbing the pencil on the nightstand beside the phone. I start pushing down on the keys with it, but I realize, as I’m looking at the night table, that though I have the pencil in my hand, it also still remains sitting quietly on the table, as if I haven’t even touched it. At this point, I go to the bathroom, and look into the mirror. I can see myself just as I was before I left New York, right down to the bangs that haven’t become unruly yet, but one can see that they will soon be in desperate need of a trim. Nothing else in the mirror, however, is as I see it. The reflection of the room around me shows the skeleton of the building as if it were still under construction—that is, the room around me is not yet a room, but a collection of studs, girders, and such. But, past them, stand other walls that seem completely finished, with wallpaper, curtains, and the whole bit. I turn around, and the room looks as it always looks. I sigh, and pick up the rest of my stuff from the easy chair by the dresser (or, rather, that cabinet that looks like a dresser, but actually holds a TV), and, as with the pencil, I’ve got my duffel in my hands, and I have it, but it also remains sitting on the chair. At this point, I just assume that I affect the spirit of whatever I’m attempting to carry or bring with me (even though everything feels solid to me), but the physical things remain as they are, where they are. I cast the physical remains of my things one last glance, and I leave the room, shutting the door with a definitive clack as the electronic lock catches. ______________________________________________ My stomach rumbles loudly now, and though apparently no one else can hear it, it annoys me, and so I make a beeline toward the hotel’s kitchen. Since I’m dead (or something) and no one can see me, and since I can’t effect any lasting physical change, I have no qualms about simply taking what I need without regard for any consequence. With my first wide grin since I got here, I feast, grabbing bits of everything from various room service trays as I pass: well toasted, well buttered croissants; a divinely seasoned pork chop; a choice wine from an excellent vintage; a handful of snap beans, so crunchy that—if it weren’t for the pepper and butter—they taste freshly picked from the vine; and some exquisitely created chocolate mousse that bears just enough mint to make my mouth feel fresh and clean. Despite the culinary delights laid out before me, I have several other disturbing experiences during my time in the kitchen. This being a kitchen in a busy hotel in the middle of Manhattan, every chef and server rushes here, there and everywhere in a mad attempt to get everything picture perfect for his guests, and amidst the hurried scuffling of uniformed bodies, the harsh clatter of dropped silverware and the sizzling of countless pots and pans, I almost miss the images that subtly wink and play with my vision from every reflective surface around. (And many surround me, from the blades of knives, to the tines of forks, the steel countertops and shelves…) As with the room upstairs, the illusion of the kitchen being structurally incomplete persists—the reflection of the kitchen looks like it’s still under construction as well. The hotel staff members bustle about as they would normally, but their reflections don’t always show them are they seem to the unaided eye—one staffer seems happy to be participating in the activities, to be contributing to the success of the hotel as a whole, but the reflection shows him bearing a grimace of the bitterest resentment. As a more extreme example, one preparer goes about his routine as normal, but against the metallic countertop, I see his face contorted in anguish, while a creature that could only be described as demon rests perched on the human’s shoulder, while his demonic claws dig relentlessly into his quarry’s flesh. I stare for a moment in silence, but the demon thing doesn’t appear to notice my presence. Nothing I can really do about it, anyway. Might as well try to grab a mirror from somewhere, and try to get back to Wonderland. I nod to myself, and resolve to follow this plan of action (embryonic plan though it may be). ______________________________________________ Assaulting my ears are endless peals of garish laughter, intermittent wails of sirens, barked shouts, two tone horns as cars skid to stops near each other, and they all blend together to form the backdrop of harsh city song. Every individual musical measure is familiar to me, and its rhythm (unified, if you listen closely) pulses through my veins. Step after plodding step, I wander the streets of New York, along with countless others who find solace within the anonymity of this urban lyric, and we, together, form the order of the sleepless within the city that never sleeps. Without a doubt, I am home. As I pass through the more touristy spots, I encounter some problems with this whole “grab a mirror and return to Wonderland” idea. Upon first clasping a compact, thinking that any mirror will do, I notice that the mirror darkens and turns a matte black at my touch…and, curiously, the same thing happens to any reflective surface that I touch. I take hold of an impressive knife from the back of a display case, and the brilliantly polished blade darkens as if an indelible shadow had traveled along its length. I frown at that, but loosen my laces and tuck it (sheathed) into my boot anyway, since I plan to have it available as a weapon, rather than a makeshift mirror. The same thing happens with a metallic canister of mace (or pepper spray, if you wanna be technical about it), and a heavy silver pendant. I snoop around until I find a store owner with a gun hidden somewhere, using my magic key whenever necessary, and I’m lucky enough to find a pistol and some ammo for it that I just grab (hey, once again, I’ve no qualms about doing so, since the physical item remains right where it originally was anyway). At this point, I’m loaded up on weapons that are light enough for me to travel with, and so I continue to simply stroll. As I walk, I continue to see strange things in the reflections around me. Since I’m in such a major tourist spot (around Times Square; normally I hate this area because it’s so filled with tourists, but Thomas hadn’t ever seen it prior to this trip, and so I figured I’d take him to the most “quintessential” New York spot before I took him to the quiet nooks and crannies that really make New York special), all the buildings are impressively modern, with high resolution screens of all shapes and sizes flashing programs and ads (god, the ads!) at slack jawed passersby below. Along one mirror-walled building, however, I see something that I would have thought came right out of a movie, except that I know better. The reflection shows me New York as it looms around me—the same tall buildings, the same high res screens, yellow taxis aplenty—except that all the buildings are aflame; the streets deserted, where they aren’t littered with bodies; the restless taxis for once immobilized, crushed by the debris fallen from the buildings surrounding them. I blink at this, and whirl around, just to check and make sure that’s not really what’s happening. Of course, it’s not. The further I walk, the more odd things occur, but by now my shield of native-New-Yorker-mode has engaged, and I begin to regard these scenes with a greater sense of cold disinterest, as if I watch as an outsider with no emotions or ties to my surroundings, or any care for anything if these scenes should come to pass. As I stare impassively forward, now adopting the age old New Yorker habit of not making eye contact with anyone, I see a middle aged man rise from the ground, and I can feel my eyes involuntarily widening. He must be a spirit, too…! Despite this realization, I do nothing, say nothing, and keep walking forward. A minute or so later, however, a resounding gunshot pierces even the din of 42nd St., and I turn around to see the cause, my stomach already clenched in unhappy anticipation. The same middle aged man who came out of the ground just a moment before now lies curled up in the fetal position at the feet of two young hoodlums, who are both dressed in that ugly, early 90s grunge fashion. They don’t seem to notice my attention, because they immediately shoot the man once more before stripping him of his valuables. The two hoodlums run off, leaving the man in a pool of his own blood…a moment more, and all three figures fade from sight, as if they’d never existed. I blink, harden my heart against my imminent callousness, and think, There’s nothing I can do, so I won’t even try. I can’t—he was already dead… ______________________________________________ Pretty soon, I find myself walking east toward Grand Central. Obviously, I can’t get back on my own, and no one can really help me, being in the spirit state as I am, so I might as well go straight to the woman who got me involved in this crap in the first place. After pulling out Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide’s letter, and glancing at the address once more just to be sure, I nod, and decide to take the Metro-North train to White Plains in Westchester County. I catch the last train running the Harlem line of the MNRR, board, and ride it for about 50 minutes before I get into White Plains. Once the stop is announced, I pluck the teardrop earbuds from my ears, stop the CD player, and struggle to find Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide’s house. Eventually, I do (and it takes a damn long while), and how it looks doesn’t at all surprise me. When I first received her letter, and had a general idea of her net worth, I was a little surprised that she chose to have a home so far away from the city, but after meeting her, I completely understand her rationale. The front gate encompasses an impressive lot (well, by New York standards, at least...no lot in any state can compare to the size of Texas ranches), and there are so many trees surrounding the house that one would think oneself in the middle of untamed wilderness, if it weren’t for the house itself, and the (very) occasional blinking lights of planes way, way up in the sky. The house itself seems exceptionally well suited to nighttime darkness, as the shadows seem to swirl around it almost protectively. There is one aspect of the house that I wasn’t expecting, however, but once that little detail is taken into account, the melding of the shadows don’t come as such a surprise. Against the back of the house, stands a tall, tall, majestic spire, made of simple black stone. And immediately I hear Rodentus’ voice in my mind, murmuring the name, “The Big Stone Tree.” Its familiarity to me causes an unconsciously sharp inhalation of sudden breath, and I immediately start to turn around to walk away, when I bump into someone. He’s a striking person, as he wears dark 17th century clothes, and stands nearly seven feet tall. Like the White King… I blink, and discover that I have trouble finding my voice. He merely looks at me in return, his own face veiled in shadow. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/17/03 10:14:10 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 200 (3/19/03 2:54 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Light seeking light doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes." -- Berowne, from William Shakespeare’s Love's Labor's Lost (I, i) The man tilts his head slightly, thus angling his hat enough to allow several moonbeams to illuminate his aquiline features. Some streaks of silver light follow the line of his nose, curving as it does, others land squarely on his high cheekbones to cast pearlescent diamonds upon his skin there, while darkness enshrouds the rest of his face. And for some unknown reason, I think, I shall call you harlequin… He reacts first, and when he speaks, his voice is polished, his words smoothly clipped, and his manner pleasing. All these details come together to create an air of gentle, European birth. "Pardon me, miss. Really, I wasn’t a’tall watching where I was going." He gives a kindly, embarrassed smile that pulls one from me also, and relaxes my demeanor somewhat besides. And, at the perfect enunciation of the Queen’s English (or, rather, what one fancies "Queen’s English" to be, since not even the Queen speaks the Queen’s English anymore), my smile widens into a friendly grin. "Oh, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it…" He responds to my softening with a twinkle in his eyes that can rival even the most brightly glinting stars. "I’m glad my blunder has been forgiven." I just continue to smile, as I begin to wonder, What the hell is he doing in front of Elizabeth’s house, in the middle of White Plains? The thought pauses for the briefest of moments before it shifts into something altogether different. In a happy voice, I mentally sing to myself, I found the Black King, I found the Black King! Nyah nyah nyah nyah nyaaaaaaaah nyah! But before I can act on this thought, he interrupts with that thoroughly British voice, and the stresses of his accented words remind me of the leisurely, trotting clip clop of horses’ hooves. "I do beg your pardon, but might I ask if you’re lost? Perhaps I can help you find your way." The moonlight helps him here now, lighting his face with a warm glow, accentuating the gentle, merry twinkling in his eyes. Funny, I was just about to ask him the same thing. Damn, he beat me to it. I scramble for an answer, and I come up with, I think, a clever, if contrived, response. "Well, I was, ah, looking for the theatre where Cats is currently playing." I know that Cats played at the Wintergarden, and I know exactly where that is…except that Cats closed down (finally! I hated that musical…) a while ago. Too bad it’s now home to Mamma Mia (why the hell would anyone make a musical based on Abba songs?*) At this, he furrows his aristocratic brow, and I pray that he won’t call me on my bluff—we are, like, 20 miles outside of Manhattan, and even if I were Ryoga-kun of Ranma fame**, I wouldn’t have wandered that far away from my target. His frown deepens the already present lines of middle age, and he sounds both thoughtful and apologetic when he answers. "I’m terribly sorry…I don’t know where that is, either." And he gives an amused chuckle that fills the quiet space between us. I pounce at this pause, and offer with a smile, "Why do you ask? Is there someplace you’re looking to find as well? I am native New Yorker, but I’m returning after an absence. Perhaps I can help you in your search...well, so long you’re not also looking for a place that shifts with the caprices of theatre seasons." He seems pleased, and his answer is immediate. "Well, I was rather hoping to find a jewelry shop." Well, that was a curveball. "Oh. Uhm. Well, okay…but they’re not going to be open now, you know…" I glance at my watch, and nod, seeing that it’s almost 4 am. "Well, unless you go to a pawn shop, or something, but those are sorta shady…" "Oh, no, I’m looking for a place that prides itself on the quality of its products…Perhaps, if you know of one, you could bring me there, and I’ll check on it later, when it is open." "There’s Tiffany’s, if you want high end stuff…Do you want to start there?" We walk back toward the train station and take the first train back to Manhattan. There is a Tiffany’s in White Plains (this being yuppieville where the average income is about 85K and the majority of inhabitants make well beyond that), but I decide to bring him to the Tiffany’s on 5th Ave., because I get to talk to him more that way, and because I’ll be closer to my own hotel. We catch the first train back into the city, and no one else joins us on our ride, as this is 6 am Sunday morning. The train lurches forward, and, as we travel, I learn that his name is Dr. Michael Ostrog, and he is a newcomer to New York, having been here for all of a day. He is originally from London, but wishes to set up a medical office here, in New York. He hopes to meet Elizabeth so that he could convince her to become an investor in his endeavor, and he was referred to Elizabeth by someone, oddly enough, he doesn’t wish to name. When asked what kind of medicine he practices, he answers, "You could say I’m mostly an alchemist and apothecary." I quirk a brow, take note (once more) of his clothes, but I don’t interrupt. I further learn that he left England because he meddled in medical affairs that he oughtn’t have meddled in, and ended up saving the life of a boy. While that in itself wasn’t so terrible, the boy’s family very deeply cherished their privacy and so the doctor left, lest there be further complications to the situation. Then he offers me the position of his assistant, and despite my warnings that I don’t know anything about the biomed industry, we agree to a one week trial employment period. The train screeches to a stop, and I look up and glance around as an electronic female voice clearly and brightly enunciates that we’ve reached the last stop, and asks us to please take our belongings with us. Well, that’s a nice way of kicking people off, I guess… The minutes flew by on this little journey, and we’ve already reached Grand Central. I give a smile to my charming companion and then say, "Ready to walk some more?" With a small sweep of his arm, he motions for me to lead, and we’re on our way. *Email me for a review of Mamma Mia. **Ryoga is a character from the manga Ranma, and his running joke is that he's constantly getting totally lost because he has no absolutely sense of direction. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 202 (3/20/03 1:31 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare . . . ." -- William Wordsworth, Sonnet From Grand Central, we take a subway to Fifth Ave., even though we’ve so much time to kill. And as I think that, I giggle, remembering the Mad Hatter’s claim that he was nearly decapitated because, as the Queen of Hearts bellowed, "He’s murdering the time! Off with his head!" I show him the Tiffany store, and he offers to buy me something from there later, since, curiously, he states matter of factly that I obviously have piercings that haven’t held jewelry in a while. I quirk a brow at that, decline politely, and reassure him that I intend to rectify that now. We part ways after agreeing to meet at this spot at dawn. When I’m alone, I hit all the trendy shops in the East Village that carry body jewelry, and I load back up on body wear. First, I get a chain similar to the one I owned before, and string it through the magic key that Matthew fashioned for me. Next, for my tragus piercing, a small gauge captive bead to which I attach the artifact key. I put regular circular barbells back into my cartilage piercings, but I choose purple acrylic barbells that keep their color when I touch them. I get a stainless steel straight barbell for my tongue, but over the head of the topside, I attach a red silicone rose. (just because it looks cool, but also because it amuses me to know that it also works marvelously as a, ahem, "tickler.") Lastly, I find enameled pins of the four suits of cards, and just to be an ass, I pin them to the strap of my bag. As it’s almost time for my dawn meeting, I find an unoccupied bathroom, change quickly into some nicer clothes (and about time, too, as I’d been wearing my previous outfit for a week, apparently. Ick!), and thank god for my habit of always bringing at least two or three sets of nice clothes whenever I travel. In preparation for our meeting with Elizabeth, I put on a dark gray silk shirt, black slacks, and a black jacket. I put my old stuff in my duffel, and begin my walk back. On the way, I spot a flower shop that’s now opening its doors, despite the ungodly hour. And, though its flowers aren’t yet on display, I pick a small red rose that has just started to bloom and hasn’t yet had its thorns removed, and pin it to my lapel. ______________________________________________ I meet Dr. Ostrog at our appointed spot, and after a quick study of my new accoutrements, he says approvingly in that clipped voice, "Very tasteful." Quietly we stroll through the streets, and without the usual rush of traffic and completed transactions in this capital of consumption, even our gentle footfalls seem to echo in the stillness. I admire various things in various windows, but mostly I find myself entranced by the calmness blanketing the wide streets, where even the boughs of sleeping trees are quilted with misty drops of dew. As the morning drags on, life begins to stir again, and eventually even the sun awakens to peek its face through the clouds, and to bathe the dark avenues in gentle streams of warm, orange light. By now, more shops have opened, but Tiffany doesn’t open until noon, so I take him to a local Borders to get some brunch and kill more time. As soon as we walk in, though, he declares in an impressed voice, "A book shop with a café! How sensible!" I look at him askance, and am unable to tone down the suspicion in my voice. "…don’t you have these in London?" He blinks in surprise. "Well, no." Okay, in my eyes, this is weirder than the alchemist/apothecary thing. "How is that possible? This is a chain store, with locations all over the world, including England, with several locations in London specifically. And they have cafes in them. Barnes and Noble does the same thing." He raises a defensive brow at this. "Well, I’ve never seen them." How very odd. I know he’s only been in New York for a day, and, granted, he dresses kinda funny, but still. Here’s a guy who showed no shock at the trains, cars, planes, high res screens (their drool-worthiness does impress me, and I’m not completely displaced in time) flashing things at him in a blur of motion and color, but he’s overwhelmed with delight at the thought of a book store café. I don’t say anything else, though, for fear of possibly offending my only means of contact with the "living," and it is a thing of considerable concern, as he’s very obviously British, and thus likely particularly susceptible to all kinds of unintended affronts that we Americans in our brusqueness simply accept. We stand by the counter for a few silent seconds, and he idly fiddles with an elegantly cut cuff as he looks at the menuboard, perplexed. Quietly, he murmurs to me as if daunted, "Get whatever you like. I will simply have the same things you’re having..." The guy behind the counter casts a harshly appraising look over the tall and refined form of my companion, and then asks flatly, "…May I help you?" The doctor motions toward me, and then says, "This young lady will order for both of us. Whatever she orders is what I’ll also have." And the college aged wage slave turns expectantly towards me, his hooded eyes still glazed with the effects of the X from the party a few hours before. He can see me…! My voice quavering with uncertain surprise, I manage to stutter, "…oh. Uhm…a venti caramel macchiato, and…uhm, a plain scone and a bagel with cream cheese." The counter clerk barely stifles a yawn as he punches the order into the register with an extended middle finger. He intones the amount, and I watch as the doctor removes a large money clip filled with Benjamins. He pays the guy, who just continues to give him a look that more expresses his annoyance at having to go get change, rather than showing that he registers the clip full of cash. We take our food and drinks, and take our seats in a cozy corner away from other wandering patrons. The doctor marvels at the lid on our cups, and without hesitation, I murmur, "Yeah, ‘s’plastic." We eat and sip in silence for a while, and then I give my characteristic non sequitur. "…so…you can see me. I kind of expected that…" And here I rake my eyes over his anachronistic clothing, "…and they can see you, which I can accept. But how was the clerk able to see me?" And at that question, he lifts his gaze towards me, his eyes now curiously hawkish in the early morning sun. "Ah. So…you know you are a spirit, then." I nod, and he continues, but only briefly. "Well, I am a rather skilled mesmerist. I charmed the clerk into believing that he did, indeed, see someone standing beside me." "Oh." He looks at me as if he expects me to say more, but what can I say to that? I nibble absently at bits of my scone until it’s time to go. And when we get up, I notice that though I’ve eaten, the food is actually still whole as it’s being chunked against the wooden "THANK YOU" swinging flap of the garbage receptacle. ______________________________________________ Our time at Tiffany doesn’t go very well…I wish he told me beforehand what he was looking for, as I could have saved us some trouble, and avoided getting kicked out in a rather embarrassing manner. What I do learn about what he’s looking for, I glean from the exchange between the doctor and the manager of the store. It’s interesting to watch them face off that way, with the manager sticking his nose so far into the air that one would think he’s intending for everyone around to see up his nostrils, except that the doctor himself is nearly seven feet tall, and simply towers over the stiff, white collar that struggles to keep his superiority intact. And, haloed by the sun before the height and strange look of the doctor, the manager’s carefully cultivated look of control begins to fray in the warm light. And here, I remember an AbFab episode where Eddy goes into an art gallery to purchase some art and says to an arrogant clerk, "You can take that look off your face, you know. You still do only work in a shop." The doctor is attempting to find fine diamond chips that have been polished into lenses, and diamond scalpels, and the like, and is more than willing to purchase a few pretty, but essentially useless, trinkets from the store if that will make the manager more inclined to create these pieces. As soon as this information comes out, I smack my forehead with a palm, immediately thinking, Oh god… I don’t even have to witness the manager’s reaction to know that he considers the doctor insane. In that supercilious tone peculiar to those in middle management, he "asks" us to leave, and we do. The doctor is plainly distressed, and I shake my head at his sometimes impressive cluelessness. In a voice sharp with annoyance and impatience, he says, "But I don’t understand—why won’t they create them? It’s the same process!" "Well, they don’t custom make anything, I don’t think. They get artists to design pieces, and then they produce them, using ‘only the finest materials,’ and then sell them. They’re not artisans, they’re distributors." "But I can’t open a practice without my tools!" And his normally collected British voice holds just a touch of frenzy to it. "If you need medical supplies, you have to find a medical supply store…" We head over to the nearest library (which amazes him, and causes him to lament the illiteracy rates in his home country), where I can access the net, and walk him through the process of using a search engine. He searches, and while he does, I go to the newspaper section and begin skimming headlines. In the Metro section of a week old copy of the Times (a section where local NYC news is printed), I catch a blurb that begins with, "Adding to the tragic history of the Mount Loretto Orphanage, three bodies were found earlier today. . . ." My family plans to hold my funeral sometime next week. Well, damn, that's depressing...I guess there can be no question about it now—I'm dead. And, dejected, I plod back over to where the doctor busily taptaptaps the keyboard. What he’s looking for, ain’t nobody got. And now the distress is clearly written on the tension in his face. "Well, it’s about time to meet with Elizabeth anyway, and she runs an antique shop. I’d think that if anyone can get you what you need, she would be the one." ______________________________________________ By about 1:30 pm, we arrive at Elizabeth’s house, and the first thing I notice is that, like the home’s mistress, the house itself remains every bit as intimidating during the day as it does at night. But, because of the darkness last night, I couldn’t really tell where the house started and ended. This time, the house’s outline is crisp, exact, with no unpredictable lines—and no winding spire. I frown at that, and think upon it as the doctor rings at the gate. We are answered by a mild mannered butler who seems familiar to me somehow, and who calmly states in no uncertain terms that Elizabeth isn’t currently in, but will return during the late afternoon, if the doctor still chooses to see her at that time (since he apparently doesn’t see me). And, in that time, I note with a grin that Elizabeth’s close people and belongings resonate well with her…the butler, too, phrases questions very carefully, and gives soft spoken statements that are really commands that don’t allow further questioning. We agree to return later, and after we thank him and turn from the face of the house to walk back towards the train station, the butler closes the gate once more, and only its resounding metallic clack follows the crunch of our footsteps. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/21/03 3:15:44 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 204 (3/20/03 9:44 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in With gently smiling jaws!” -- Lewis Carroll, “How Doth the Little Crocodile,” Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland The Lion’s Den (Part I) For the next few hours, we wander around the downtown area of White Plains, window shopping, strolling, and chatting. At a comfortable point in our conversation, he actually hands me a hundred dollar bill. I try to refuse it, but he insists that I take it, saying that it’s my pay for assisting him thus far. Finally, I give in, thinking, What does it matter? It’s not like I can use it for anything, anyway. He’s happy that I accept it, and we continue down the avenue. It’s also during this time that I learn that he’s from the 1600s sometime, and merely “slept” until now. I arch a suspicious brow, but try very hard not to question him too hard, so that I might instead allow him to share as much or as little as he chooses, and I try to trust in the fact that he will share more with me when he’s ready. My efforts work…for about four seconds, if even that long. “What do you mean, you slept?” He looks at me placidly, bearing with grace the brazen afternoon sun that sets his pale face faintly aglow. “I mean just that. I simply slept.” I’m aghast. “But that doesn’t just happen!” Man, in fiction, Rip Van Winkle did something like that, but he at least met up with wine swillin’ goblin louts who loved to bowl, or something, before anything like that transpired. And even then, he only slept for a hundred years, not four hundred. The doctor doesn’t give my shock much sympathy. Rather, in a somewhat hurt but still defensive voice, he claims, “Nevertheless, that’s what happened.” And that’s the end of that. How very British of him. I sigh, defeated. “Well, do you at least know what year it is?” “Yes.” “It’s 2003.” “Yes.” “…and you look like you’re going to a costume party. And either a weird one, or a Ren Faire themed one, at that.” “I beg your pardon?” I motion to his clothes. “…we need to get you a new outfit.” He glances down at himself, outstretching his arms as he does so. It takes a moment to sink in, apparently, but when it does, he gives a childlike pout. “Oh…I rather thought I was doing a good job of fitting in.” “Well, you certainly don’t talk like you’re from the 1600s, and you’ve a British accent, so people are probably more likely to ignore or forgive your eccentricities, but those clothes have got to go.” He considers this for a moment before answering, “Well, if what I was told about her can be trusted, I think Elizabeth will respond better to me if I keep the clothes I have.” I give a short chuckle before answering. “Yeah, probably. She’s another weirdo.” ______________________________________________ The butler leads us quietly past the gate, and onto the grounds, and I marvel at the house as it sits proudly against its backdrop of majestic trees. And now, because it’s getting on to early evening, the setting sun bestows its final parting beams upon us, the house and our surroundings, washing the structures of man and nature both in waves of bronze. As we approach the house, the sky darkens, and our shadows grow longer and longer to herald the coming night. The butler opens the door, and we step inside. Elizabeth greets us at the entrance hall, and leads the doctor up to a different room. The foyer area is completely 19th century looking, and while I look around quite curiously, Dr. Ostrog doesn’t seem to be any more or less at ease than he did at Tiffany, even though he caused a minor ruckus that quite discomfited the employees. I have a bad feeling about this… I think, but it’s already too late. I cast a glance back at the door, only to see it already shut, and in a mirror by the door, I catch a glimpse of Dr. Ostrog, and myself as we climb up the stairs, and each thudding footfall sounds more ominous than the last. But nothing bad happens. I keep waiting and waiting, my body tensed and ready, but nothing happens. Elizabeth leads the doctor into a room, and I follow closely but silently on his heels, warily eyeing the slightly older woman as I do. She doesn’t seem to see me, and she appears unchanged from the last time I saw her…even without speaking, and despite moments of what appears to be vague discomfort, she appears completely in control. Currently, we are guests in her home, and though I get the feeling that she will very competently play the role of hostess, there can be no mistaking anyone else for the mistress of this house. And, actually, now that I think about it, there are a few changes worth noting. Though she has professed a dislike of the Catholic Church, her own lifestyle, though comfortable, seems and feels as restrained as one who has devoted oneself to religion, or some other moral righteousness. Her clothes, for example, have so far been black, white, or both; she doesn’t wear any color, and she vaguely reminds me of a Puritan, so austere is her sense of dress. She doesn’t smile too much, either, I think with a grin. Despite what I think of her, though, she does seem friendlier to Dr. Ostrog than she has yet been with me…after they exchange greetings, Dr. Ostrog doesn’t wait long before launching into his pitch, and she responds with interested questions, and reassurances that she’s aware of his impeccable references and reputation. At one point he mentions that he will have someone in the office to assist him, and I notice that he fiddles with his cuff again as he says that. (I notice this because he rarely fidgets when he speaks…it appears to either be a nervous tic or something, or his cuff has something to do with the way he mesmerizes people, I think.) He pauses a moment, and when her expression doesn’t change, he seems a little puzzled, but he continues describing his plan. She eventually agrees to invest in his skills, and also tells him that she has a friend who would be able to set him up with everything he needs to get started. If he will return tomorrow at around the same time, her friend will be by, and she will introduce them. Dr. Ostrog is, of course, delighted, and the butler escorts us back out to the gate. I am happy for the doctor, but somewhere in my head, I’m thinking, Nut-uh. That was just a little too easy… And, from behind, the gate locks shut with the same definitive clack. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 206 (3/21/03 11:36 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "How cheerfully he seems to grin, How neatly spreads his claws, And welcomes little fishes in With gently smiling jaws!" -- Lewis Carroll, "How Doth the Little Crocodile," Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland The Lion’s Den (Part II) As we ride the train back into the city, a sudden thought strikes, and I wonder why I didn’t see it before—the butler seemed familiar to me because I’ve seen him twice now…as the cabbie who ferried Elizabeth to and from the property in Staten Island! Though this little fact is irksome, it’s not completely surprising… To Dr. Ostrog, I calmly mention, "Y’know, if I am to be your assistant, I’d like for some trust to develop between us." And he looks at me with that same friendly warmth. ‘Yes." "…and that can’t happen unless you tell me some things about yourself." And now he gives a weary sigh, and his face looks older than it has thus far. (which, actually, is pretty amazing, considering he’s over four hundred years old…) "I suppose I can see how that would pose a problem. Alright, then." His story is stranger than strange, but, with everything that I’ve experienced thus far, who can say just what normal is anymore? He uses the word hibernation, and mentions that since I am a spirit, I must know that there is more to the spirit realm than first meets the eye. I nod, and he adds, "The same is true of the realm of the living." And he begins the same way he did last time, telling me of the boy whose life he saved…but in saving the boy’s life, he realized that the boy literally lived on the blood of others in order to survive. And this is why the family so deeply cherished their privacy in a winkwink-nudgenudge, "sleepin’ wid’a’fishes" kinda way. To make sure that their secret was safe, they brought the doctor into their fold. "And when I realized what had been done to me, well, I was outraged." His words ring out strongly, but his voice sounds heavy and tired. "I decided to avenge my loss, and I murdered the boy first, as I knew his habits and weaknesses, you see…and from there I spiraled outward, until I’d gotten his immediate family, and a few members of the extended family as well." He sighs. "Well, eventually, the other members of the family caught me, and staked me with the utmost satisfaction. And I remained where they had left me, decomposing steadily…until one day, my body had rotted away so much that there was no longer much flesh to even hold the stake in place. It fell out, and immediately my body began to heal itself. And now I am as you see me." And with a jaunty grin, he stretches his arms outward, palms up, as if to say, "ta da!" I merely nod…but after a moment, I say, "Since we’re sharing, then, I was supposed to meet Elizabeth last week, but," and here I gesture to my spirit self, "some things have happened to me since Saturday of last week, and so I missed my appointment with her. She deeded a piece of property over to me, and she owes me some things retrieved from the land. As I can’t ask her myself, I was wondering if you could ask her about them, since you’re going to meet with her again anyway." He furrows his fine brow, and in the dull gleam of the train’s fluorescent lights, which makes everything around look waxen or plastic, he appears like a slightly perplexed dressing window mannequin. "But will that sound strange, coming from me? Will she even know what I’m talking about?" "…if you call them ‘artifacts from the Staten Island orphanage,’ I’m sure she’ll know exactly what you’re referring to." "Alright. I will ask on your behalf, then." "Cool, thanks." And my usual non-seqitur. "Hey, d’you know if I get a picture of you?" And just as I’m thinking, Oops, he doesn’t know what a camera is, since that didn’t come along ‘til WAY later, he says, "Alright…" I shrug, pull out my digital camera and prepare a shot. He exclaims, "Amazing! It’s like a miniaturized version of a camera!" Casually, I toss back, "Nah, there are others way tinier than this one, but I like the features that this one has over the slick looks and sizes of others." He performs a little ritual that looks kinda like the catholic crossing of oneself before he allows me to take his picture. "To protect my soul from being taken away, you see," he explains. Riiiiight. I show him the shot, and go through the others in slide show mode. "Amazing…a spirit who projects images." "No…they’re in the camera. In the card. Look." Gently, then, he says, "No, it’s a part of you—you’re projecting those images." I frown, and my voice is defiant and almost angry. "No I’m not! It’s in the camera! It’s not part of me…!" He gives his head a charming tilt, and offers a gentle smile to appease the mood that so suddenly erupted. "Alright…" I continue to frown, and put my camera away. After moment, I dig both it and my laptop out again…and I see that despite their heavy usage recently, their batteries still appear fully charged. ______________________________________________ Once more, the butler leads us into the impressive house, and as he does so, I wonder, So, what, do you just moonlight as a midnight cabbie? even though at this point, I think the cab, and possibly the two lawyers were merely illusions. Elizabeth greets the doctor the same way she did before, and leads him again to a different room upstairs. As we climb the stairs, though, I catch in the mirror by the door a glimpse of us as we climb the stairs once more, Elizabeth first, the doctor next, and finally, me. And that’s when I realize with sudden, cold shock that yesterday, Elizabeth was missing a reflection. I pull in a shallow breath as I shoot a glance at Elizabeth’s back, which moves with such grace and complete surety that it gives me goosebumps. She leads the doctor into a different room this time, and she apologizes for her friend, as this person isn’t here yet. The doctor assures her that this isn’t a problem, and he is more than willing to wait. "In the meantime, though, I would like ask on a friend’s behalf for several items which I’m told you owe her. Some artifacts, apparently, from a property on Staten Island." And, for once, a tiny hint of a smile graces her normally tight lips. "Artifacts? Well, if you choose to call them that." And after a brief pause, the smile widens just a little, rounding the curve of her mouth to display the hidden fullness of her lips. "What is your friend’s name?" I quirk a brow at that, and am just about to open my mouth when the doctor blurts out, "Christina. Christina…Tsao, I think." A very brief moment of silence ensues, and I could swear that though her head doesn’t turn from the doctor to me, her dark, dark eyes shift to me for just a split second. As I process that, though, she calmly and precisely says, "Excuse me a moment while I go get them, then." The doctor inclines his head forward in a small bow, and Elizabeth leaves the room. While she was here, I was so focused on her that I didn’t get a chance to look around at the room surrounding us. I do now, though, and it’s disturbing. The room is as 19th century feeling as the rest of the house, but this study/reading room has one wall covered with mirrors, and, as expected, I see the reflections of both the doctor and myself…but also of two others who aren’t in the room. I nudge the doctor gently in the side, and I whisper, "…are you, ahm, seeing anything out of the ordinary?" He glances around, his eyes nonchalant. "No…why?" What? "…well, when we walked up here today and yesterday, did you notice anything missing from the landscape that was present during the first night we met?" He frowns, and while his answers are sure, his face belies the growing sense of unease that my words are bringing him. "…no…why…?" "You didn’t see the tower when we first got here?" "I’m sorry, tower? I didn’t see one, no…" "…and you’re not seeing anything bizarre now?" He shakes his head with some vigor now, and fixes his sharp eyes on me in silent question. I dig out my digital camera and click a shot of the room around us, making sure to capture the reflections of those two who stand very near us, and though they seem to keep a sharp eye on what the doctor and I do, they don’t do or say anything…How weird, I think, they look kinda like Elizabeth… I show Dr. Ostrog the picture, and his already pale face seems to pale even more. With the brusqueness that’s so uncharacteristic of him, he suddenly mutters, "I’m sorry; I must go." I chunk the camera back into the bag, and am just getting ready to call out, "Hey, wait!" when he almost strides into Elizabeth just as she returns with a small chest clasped in one dainty hand. Elizabeth merely arches a dark, well formed brow as she remains standing in the doctor’s path. He, of course, gives a polished, apologetic smile as he offers, "I’m terribly sorry…I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve really got to go…" And before he even finishes his explanation, she gives an entrancing smile of her own, displaying fine teeth whiter than pearls, that sit so prettily upon those red lips, and contrast so starkly with her dark hair and clothing. "Oh, I don’t mind at all." In a flash, the reflections of the two unknowns become solid. Better than an on stage magic performance, these two people appear out of nowhere, as if someone had just pulled Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak off them both. And without wasting a moment, Elizabeth steps aside, and the two grab hold of the doctor’s arms, and drag him kicking and screaming from the room. As they do, I hear one say softly, "We missed you the first time around, but we won’t this time." I start to follow when Elizabeth approaches me directly, her face once more withdrawn, her intentions still hidden behind the veil of her dark, dark eyes. Wordlessly, she extends toward me the tiny chest. I give it a glance, but instead I demand, "Where are you taking him?" She arches a brow, and regards me with coldly dignified curiosity. "It’s none of your concern." That forces a quick inhalation of breath, and her words hit me as a slap to the face. My fists start to clench and unclench at my sides, and my torso begins to slightly lean forward in an unconscious urge to hit back. Angrily, I burst, "It is!" I throw a glance past Elizabeth’s shoulder at the doctor as he continues to be dragged down a long hallway. Then, more gently, I add, "He’s almost a friend to me at this point…" With careful enunciation, then, she responds, "He doesn’t make a good ally." I frown at that, as the words begin to dance around in my head, infuriating me. Friends and allies, friends and allies, friends an… Once more, I ask forcefully, "Where are you taking him?" She gives a sigh, and now her eyes seem to glint with vague impatience. "We’re going to attempt to convert him. If he refuses, he will die." My eyes widen in surprise at her bluntness. "What? What do you mean, convert? It’s not like you’re the leader of some religion, or something." She doesn’t answer that, but before I can say anything else, she thrusts the small chest at me, mildly intoning, "He asked for this on your behalf. Are you going to take it, or will I have to take it back?" I glance at it in distaste, but return my eyes to hers to ask, "…Who are you…?" She leans in closer now, her eyes alight, her lips curved once more in that disarming smile. In a velvet voice that glides along the air like gently dropped rose petals, she answers softly, "You can call me Elizabeth." Good to know. But. "No. Who are you really?" Her eyes don’t shift from mine. "Are you going to take this, or not? And, really, my business with him doesn’t concern you." Without moving my own gaze, I snatch the chest from her hand, and then snarl, "It does. You’re the one who fuckin’ dragged me into this mess, an’ you went an’ got me fuckin’ killed. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t even fuckin’ be here!" She just looks at me for a moment, and blinks, presumably at the sudden coarseness of my language. When she next speaks, her voice drips with distaste. "I merely provided you with the tools necessary to ensure your survival. I am not responsible for the events that followed. Now, I must ask you to leave the premises. I have other matters to attend to." And with that, I’m dismissed. I, of course, don’t accept that. "What do you mean, you’re not responsible?! Of course you’re responsible!" She interrupts my tirade with four smoothly spoken words. "Get off my property." From nowhere, it seems, the butler appears, and Elizabeth hands a compact, which he tries to hold before my eyes. I avoid it by twisting in random directions, and alternately ducking and standing on tip toe. It doesn’t look very dignified, but it works. The butler’s voice is as smooth as Elizabeth’s. "Milady, she’s resisting." As I continue to rant about her responsibility, she merely takes the compact in hand, and holds it so close to my face that it’s directly in front of my eyes. I do what first comes to mind, although in hindsight, that might not have been such a good idea. I squeeze my eyes shut, and am surrounded by sudden silence. I open my eyes in surprise, but all I see is all encompassing darkness, darkness without form or break. "What the hell…?" And from the darkness itself, Elizabeth’s voice rolls over my entire consciousness, and the sound of it rides my flesh like an cold, unending sheet of passing silk. "It’s a minor spirit trap, for stubborn ones…like you." "What? God, you’re worse than the Ace of Spades!" A brief pause, and then she purrs, "Oh, so you have met her…" "Well, of course, since you’re the one who set her after—" I hear a shattering sound, and I’m standing outside Elizabeth’s gate, compact on the ground, shards of mirrored glass crunching beneath my boots. I glance around in surprise, and see the butler shutting the gate before me. I finish my sentence just as the gate locks with that unnaturally loud metallic clack. "—set her after my ass…" Without further acknowledging my presence or existence, the butler silently returns to the house. Now, alone against the dying sunlight, I look at the small, wooden chest I hold within my hand. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 212 (3/24/03 10:15 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Would you tell me please, which way I ought to go from here?" "That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said the Cat. "I don't care much where--" said Alice. "Then it doesn't matter which way you go," said the Cat. --Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass I’m back to square one. Like a mangy dog, I’ve just been kicked to the curb, off the property of one of New York’s wealthier inhabitants. While that doesn’t bother me so much, after all the abuses I’ve endured thus far, I am beginning to rather feel like a used up piece of gum. And I’ve lost the only person with whom I’ve made contact for the past few days, and I’ve no idea where to go from here. Now, abject and almost broken, I slump my back against the metal bars of Elizabeth’s gate, and I let it support me for a few moments as I consider my next moves. I glance dejectedly at the small wooden chest again, and I open it without much hope that perhaps I’m holding the next piece of the puzzle. I listen for the squeaks of assuredly aged hinges, but none come, and I giggle slightly as I wonder if this is what Pandora rather felt like when she was confronted with Zeus’ boxed vengeance. The contents don’t offer immediate answers, but as the first few moonbeams of the night illuminate the inside of the chest, I momentarily lose myself in the wonder of the items. The first item to catch my attention is a small, silver knife that looks like it might be best used in paring a fruit. A patina of age dulls its shine and mottles its surface, however, so using it for any preparation of food seems unappealing, even though its edge and point have been kept very, very sharp. On its base are the letters “W.R.” engraved in gothic font. Underneath it rest, oddly enough, two chess pieces apparently made either of obsidian or ebony. I run my fingertips over them (the Bishop first, and then the Knight) marveling at the precision of the work: all the edges run smooth, and both pieces feel nicely solid in my hand, and carry a pleasant weight. Next to them lies a pewter dragon, which appears to be a paperweight of some sort…I turn this piece over and over in my hands to study it carefully. It’s a European dragon with exaggerated face and features, and folded wings. It looks asleep, and I give a small smile as I gaze upon it…I can almost imagine little smoke rings coming from its little snoring mouth and nostrils… Lastly, at the bottom of the chest, rests the item that takes up the most space. It looks like a travel journal, or something, except judging by its size, I would guess that it belonged to a child (unless the adult was really, really into miniaturization). Its leather cover bears scorch marks that seem to have sunk into it like teeth, and even the pages have been eaten away at the edges. Curiously, though, the fires it seems to have suffered left the locked clasp entirely unmarred, and in clear working order. When I first glance at it, the lock appeares to be one of those easily picked and broken cheap things, but, when tilted toward the light, I can just barely make out several complex gears that spin and spin when pushed or moved. The back cover seems to have borne gilded letters at one point, but they have since been burnt off. What really gets my goat (where does that phrase come from, anyway? Why do goats have to be “gotten”?), though, is that the lock doesn’t respond at all to my artifact key. I take another look at the wooden chest, unremarkable in all aspects except for the fact that it comfortably and securely houses these unique artifacts, with no more or less room to spare. The lid connects with the rest of the chest with a small lock that looks like it was made for my artifact key—they are exactly the same size and shape. After glancing around for a bit, and realizing that I still stand outside Elizabeth’s house, I place the items back into the box, and for no good reason at all other than that I’ve no idea what else to do, I decide to head back toward towards Staten Island. I don’t actually intend to go back to the Orphanage (because what good would it do, anyway? I haven’t any reflective surfaces on me…), but to the church from which Father MacHaggerty first came. At the very least, I could match the scaled maps Thrace gave me with my newfound knowledge of the area, and see if I recognize any patterns. Okay, so...so far, I know that the Orphanage has links to the White Queen’s Banquet Hall, and the Church rests over the heart of the Bishop’s place of influence. I wonder if I can place the Black Tower over some other map, and see if I can triangulate something…or see if the lines of power are straight lines by longitude or latitude, or something. If I assume the Black Tower is the Rook, and Rooks rest at the edges of the board, shouldn’t I be able, then, to determine the boundaries of their domains? But that's only if I assume that the Rooks haven't moved...and I doubt that, but I can try to find out, I guess… And I could do this from the safety of a place where Elizabeth wouldn’t be watching me from her window if she chooses. With squared shoulders, I head off, resolute. And I feel more confident than I have in the past several hours, even as I trust in nothing more than the power of my own resolution. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 213 (3/25/03 12:47 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Your messages I hear, but faith has not been given. . . ." -- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust (I, 1, 413) I breathe a sigh as I approach the church, and even though it’s one of the city’s smaller gothic styled churches, its majesty still awes, and as its warm glow of light spills over into the wooded area beyond it, its glimmer stands indomitable against the darkness. And now, standing before the warm golden sheen, I begin to realize just how much a vagabond I’ve been—not just recently, but always. I’ve been a rootless nomad wandering hither and thither with the slightest shifting of the winds. I left my family behind in New York, and I didn’t tell them I was leaving until I’d already left. Chinese families are almost never, I find, held together by love, but rather with responsibility. I have my own issues with abandonment, and yet, in what seems like nothing more than a hypocritical fit, I deserted them. An ex has claimed before (and still does) that I’ve a "whim of steel," and it’s an apt description, and seems to fit here. Granted, I thought at the time (and still do, and will stand by my decision) that it was for the best. Despite good intentions, however, my actions still resulted in shunned responsibility, and I feel a swell of remorse for my stubbornness, my immaturity, my perhaps unwarranted audacity. And I have not become so immersed in western culture that I’ve forgotten how it feels to have forced my family to endure the loss of face in the presence of friends and extended family. Unbidden, an image of my father during the first confrontation after my unwarned departure comes to mind…and I see the confusion, the anger, but most of all, I see the hurt. "Forgive me, Father…" I recall the face of Father MacHaggerty, and remember then the look of humble forgiveness and acceptance that softened features hardened by decades of trial in this age of modern secular living. Though I don’t trust organized religion—least of all Catholicism—I move toward the church as if being called toward it, and suddenly the expanse of the church’s face appears as majestic arms of hewn stone, open to welcome the repentant prodigal. As I set foot under the vaulted archways of the nave, I shut my eyes for a moment to bask in the candlelight, which makes everything appear otherworldly, and still so serene. Vaguely, I find myself wondering, I wonder if I’ll sizzle and burn if I touch the holy water… Off toward the side of the chancel, two priests stand conversing with each other, and as I stand and watch them, they both turn toward my general direction, and cross themselves before moving away to some other spot. In a sudden burst of mischievous self-satisfaction, I give a little giggle as I watch them scurry forward past me, heads bowed in a vague sense of fear. And as I watch, my eyes land upon another figure, bowed humbly before the triptychs of various saints, tending to the lit candles. Despite the show of penitence beneath the serenity of those watchful saints, I recognize him as the priest from the White Realm who mercilessly dragged a silent altar boy off to an unseen room while all the other monks struggled to remain hidden from the priest’s stern sight. I watch him now, and my gaze steadily bears into him until he turns to face me, his own eyes set devilishly alight by the flickering flames around him. For a moment, we say nothing, and he merely studies me. In this silence, his face belies his sense of familiarity with me, though we have never spoken…and, facing his calm, the church has lost its magic for me. Now, my illusion distorted, I greet him with a touch of mockery to my voice. "Hello, Father." He seems to catch the subtle challenge, but he doesn’t allow it to disturb his show of peace. "Hello, my child." And he gives a slow smile that reminds me immediately of the White Queen, except that where the Queen’s held visible amounts of teasing and vague contempt, his carries something deeper, far more profound…and I suppress a shudder that threatens to break across my skin. To distract myself from my growing sense of unease, I ask, "So obviously you can see and hear me just fine. Just now, there were two other priests, who—" "Yes," he interrupts, "I allow myself to see you. Others don’t choose to." Despite the rudeness of his interjection, his voice remains as serene as the painted faces on the walls. "And you seem to be a bit lost…or, at the very least, having some trouble passing on. I can help you, should you wish it." And here, the concern and shining beneficence so evident in his voice dies just before reaching his eyes. Uhm, no, thanks. "I’m not sure how much help you can give me, as I’ve long since lost touch with religion, and I’ve never had anything to do with the Catholic sect." "That doesn’t matter. There are many among us who have lost faith." He pauses for a moment. "But that doesn’t keep us from helping them when they need it." I offer him a pointed look, remembering the Bishop’s Book of Life. "Oh. Because, y’know, I was about to say that what you said sounded almost heretical." He doesn’t answer that directly, but does give another painted smile. "Take your time to think about it. If you wish, you may stay here for a bit, as it’s safer within the church." "Safer? From what?" "Well, as I’m sure you know, there are many layers to the spirit realm, and there are demons about to test those who would pass on." I quirk a doubtful brow, and right now, all I want to do is leave this accursed place. "So…? Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, every faith requires some amount of self examination that comes about through testing, no matter who brings it. Isn’t that one of the supposed hallmarks of religion, providing the strength to endure spiritual trial?" He blinks at me then, his eyes still sharply focused on mine. "Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that they are disgruntled, and wish to make others as unhappy as they are, and it takes no small amount of preparation to meet with their challenges." "…and how, pray tell, do you know so much about these wanderers from other realms? One would think you've been there, yourself!" And here I offer a few little chuckles. His own smile widens a little into a more generous curve. "Well, no. Unlike you, I'm not dead." My chuckles fade into a deadened smile, and I say, "Right…" A pause, and then, "And how does one prepare for such an encounter, anyway?" "One prepares with careful contemplation and reflection." He glances at his watch. "I can help you with this, but I’ve a mass in an hour, and after that I will be free." "How will I contact you?" And then he leads me to his room, and instructs me to knock on it whenever I require his assistance, and then he leads me to the door of his office. There, I receive a card from him with his contact information, and a communion wafer. He explains to me that as a spirit, I must be given my sustenance, and that’s what makes the wafers ideal. Because I don’t depend upon the crude matter, I’m more taking what’s available from the person who gave it to me. The wafers are from God, whose ability to give is infinite. He wraps it in saran wrap after I tell him that I’ve nowhere to put it, and I tuck it into a pocket, and thank him for his time. "Well, I guess I’ll go wander around a bit more, since I’m not ready to sit through a mass just yet. Maybe I’ll see you later." And with his eyes still watching me carefully, I take my leave. As I exit the church, and burst once more into the nighttime darkness, I inhale a deep breath of air, and feeling suddenly freed as the sudden constrictions upon me loosen. I glance back at the holy place of sanctuary, which still shines so invitingly against the dark sky. Curiously, I think, And I just lived through what I’ve always thought about religion—it looks attractive from afar, and can maybe even bluff its way past your first defenses, but once you’re in, it tries to choke you… I give my jumbled head a quick shake, and without another glance back, I head back toward the city. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/25/03 8:50:04 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 215 (3/25/03 11:11 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Those who play the game do not see it as clearly as those who watch.” -- Chinese Proverb By now it’s getting to be the late dinner rush, and I decide to go and hit a few psychics to see if any of them can help me…with the advent of all these new agey philosophies, surely one psychic outta the plethora has to be the real deal, and can help me out. I spend an hour or two pushing my way from the East Village downtown, through Little Italy, until I finally hit Chinatown. I spend only a few minutes in each marked parlor, figuring that if the psychic could actually see or sense my presence, I would at least have found someone with whom I can communicate. I don’t have much luck—every person I’ve encountered so far has demonstrated blithe ignorance of my existence. Sighing now, I decide that this next psychic shop is going to be the last, and I head toward the sign that essentially reads “Fortunes Told, Psychic Here” in both English and Chinese. On the way, though, I catch the scent of some absolutely divine fried dumplings from one of those street stands that sell their wares for a dollar. They might be unsanitary, but they’re cheap, and sometimes they’re really good! Sometimes the owners of those little carts develop such a devoted following that they earn enough to eventually start their own restaurants, and at a time when storefront rents are so high, that’s no small feat. (There was a little old lady in Flushing who did that, and the same of a youngish guy in Japan whose fame and devoted customers earned him a contestant’s position on Iron Chef!) I turn to look almost longingly at the little kiosk (and I think once more that every time I leave New York, I find that I miss the food the most) when I catch the dead on stare from the little middle aged lady running the cart. As soon as she realizes that I’ve met her gaze, she goes back to stirring her dumplings around, pointedly not looking at me at all. Well, it’s about damn time! I stride toward her now, my eyes and face now carrying that look of friendly question. At this point, she’s run out of stuff to do—since the dumplings merely have to sit—but she stares unceasingly at the pan. Thinking that perhaps she just needs some time to get accustomed to seeing me, I stand there silently for a moment and cast jittery glances about, displaying plainly that I’m suffering from the same discomfort she is. She doesn’t look up in sympathy, and merely continues to stare at the pan, her eyes wide with fright. Sighing now, I softly intone, “…they look good…” and when she doesn’t answer, I continue, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need some help…” At which point she releases a little cry of terror and starts dialing on her cell phone with trembling fingers. When she speaks, her words are a haze until I realize that she’s rushing through stuttered Cantonese. I can understand Cantonese, but I’m better at understanding Mandarin, especially when the Cantonese is faster than I can catch with ears now so out of practice, and certainly when it’s as rushed as this woman now speaks it, while stuttering with excitement along the way. The snippets I catch cause a spear of alarm to push through my chest. “Something…I don’t know…haunting” something-something “my stand…now” something-something. “You…” some indefinite pronoun…something-something. Her words fly by in a blur of cacophonous sound, and her eyes now dart wildly to every spot in the street that doesn’t contain any of me, and she no longer pays attention to the dumplings that now sizzle and blacken in fury at their neglect. Jesus, I hope this woman doesn’t have a heart attack, or something…! My eyes now as full of terror and frustration as hers, I wave my arms furiously in a vain attempt to appease her madness. “Look, never mind! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” And I begin to take big steps away from her cart. “See? I’m leaving! I’m sorry!” My shoulders slump as I tread nervously away, and warily eye the woman as she continues to gesture vainly at and into the phone. Well, that didn’t go very well… In hindsight, it probably wasn’t a good idea to continue speaking to her in English, but I wasn’t thinking very clearly at that point—I just wanted to make the woman calm down, and because of my overexerted efforts, I got worked up myself and lost all good sense. I make my way back up to the “Fortunes Told, Psychic Here” sign, only to see a doorway shaded by a dilapidated awning. I am fortunate enough to step into the interior at the same time as a young woman and man, and they glance about until their eyes finally land upon the old man who sits placidly behind an elaborate counter. The Caucasian couple seems to be impressed with his stern expression, with the long white beard that gives him an air of plausible erudition. As they visually ooh and ah over their surroundings, I roll my eyes at their reaction and then take my own quick look around…and when I do, my lips ease into a genuine lopsided grin. People of other races (but whites particularly) tend to consider Asians the model minority, and, at least to me, it isn’t difficult to see why. Asians by nature are much more in-group oriented, and so they don’t tend to make a big ruckus in outside politics that would affect the existing balance of power. They are seen as being very diligent and industrious, and I think that for the most part that’s true. Asians tend to sit quietly outside the lines of politics because they’re already far too busy going quietly about their own businesses, amassing little piles of wealth any way they can. This bearded gentleman is no exception. He’s got the traditional Chinese occult emblems and tools, but he’s got some stuff sitting out for no reason other than that it looks “Chinesey”—tai ji* swords that are clearly mass produced replicas (they’re still shiny and new, so they can’t possibly be family heirlooms); opera masks (and he prolly got those from a fellow store owner at a discounted price); bonsai trees (some of them visibly fake beneath a thin layer of dust); ink paintings (and while this is Chinatown, I’ve seen that exact print being sold at Ikea for thirty bucks, for Christ’s sake!). And while that’s not unexpected, what really makes me smile about this guy is that he’s a total opportunist. Hidden against other parts of the wall rest other tools ready to be pulled into use, should a customer call for them: icons of catholic saints, various tarot decks, even some Santeria paraphernalia!** I find myself struggling to keep a derisive snort to myself, when a spoken question interrupts my thoughts. “So…you can speak with the dead…?” the young man asks, voice hushed with respect and reverential awe. The man nods gravely, but his eyes are kind as he speaks in his expectedly broken, accented English. “Oh, yes. Many here. I listen, they give me message.” And here he sweeps his old arms wide, gesturing to the whole of the room, while remaining blissfully unaware of my presence, even as I give a lame, halfhearted wave to catch his attention. I shake my head and grin, and so delighted am I with the old man that I almost want to reach over and pinch his cheeks in reward. Gullible tourists: zip. Money-grubbing old bastard: one. And as they begin to talk and bargain, I leave, still grinning at that the fact that in this current culture of consumerism, the immigrants themselves are more American than they realize. Outside the rent-a-psychic place, I notice that the lady from the dumpling kiosk is gone. In her stead stand two young, muscular bruisers who would look much more at home standing at the elbow of a DaiLo*** than standing quietly and obediently before a pan of dumplings. What’s more surprising, however, is the young slip of a girl who stands resolutely beside them. She’s about nineteen or twenty, and wears a slick, dark two piece dress suit (and who wears that in Chinatown besides interlopers from the financial district?) with such clean lines that it can’t help but flatter her femininity, but I don’t spot that at first. The darkness of the suit mingles with the darkness of her hair, which pulls my gaze to the proud slop of her jaw, up to her high cheekbones, and finally to her dark eyes, which gaze stonily outward in their determination. At first, I’m taken aback by the eyes that seem so firmly steeled by eons of experience that she could not possibly have borne. And somewhere in the back of my head, I wonder why the dress suit seems so familiar…when I realize that the darkness of it reminds me of the Ace of Spades—the fabric takes on the same silken gleam in the dull glow of the streetlights that the Ace of Spades’ clothing does in the moonlight. And how long ago that seems now! Well, if the cart is doing that well, no wonder mom’s not opened a restaurant yet—all the money’s going to clothe Princess over there… I start walking back the way I came (which is to say, back toward the cart, and past it) when I’m overcome by a stench that reeks of week old fish mixed with sludge and garlic (for some reason). And as I quail against this olfactory assault, I notice through squinted eyes that sticks of incense burn in front of the trio, and the girl aims those steely eyes directly at me, and she gauges my reaction. Now I’m irritated. “Alright, LOOK! I’m sorry I ever bothered you! I thought maybe you could give me some help, but I’M SORRY I EVER BOTHERED YOU. God, I leaving. I hope your business does well!” For a moment, I wave my hand furiously before my nose, hoping to lessen the attack, but I succeed only in sending more wafts of it further up my reluctant nostrils. “Oh, god…!” It’s a good thing I’ve not eaten since this morning, or I would surely have vomited it back up. And as I stumble away, I can hear the young girl intone in Chinese to the two guys, “I’ll be right back.” She moves directly for me, and doesn’t move her eyes from my form even once. As I attempt to look at least a little dignified as she approaches, I can’t help but notice how graceful she is: she moves slowly and deliberately, but at the same time, appears to cut through space; her limbs are long and supple, and her movements, if one watches carefully enough, appear as intricate steps to some unknown dance…I’ve never felt like I belong with other Chinese people, and though I’m not clumsy (as I’m something of a minor jock, and I always have been), and though I’m dressed rather nicely (in silk that flatters my own curves, mind), next to this Chinese Terpischore, I clench my jaw at my own lumbering, brutish clumsiness. And as she approaches, she once again reminds me of the Ace of Spades, for she speaks without preamble, and certainly with no hint of apology. Her voice is soft, but firm, and her English curiously accented. “Follow me.” In response to such a command from so fresh faced a youth, I find that I’m too surprised to do anything but obey. After we go about a mere foot away from the spot where I felt so overpowered by the stench, it fades completely. I glance about in surprise at that, and that’s when I happen to realize that this young lady must have quite a story to tell. In the mirrored glass of a passing building, I find the cause for my hostess’ unspeakable grace. In the glass, her green scales blur in a smooth flow of motion, and they shine like leaves during the first burst of morning sunlight. In the glass, I realize with a dropped jaw, shine the brilliance and splendor of a full Chinese dragon. *Tai ji is the pinyin transliteration of the word more commonly spelled "tai chi." **In case you're getting ready to throw some disparaging remarks my way, I am Chinese myself, and so I know and have seen first hand the results of that kind of diligence and hard work. I know that most Chinese, at least when it comes to work, aren't like this guy, but there are some that are. He would certainly be quite an individual in Chinatown, but I was trying to make a point. ***A Cantonese term for the leader of a street gang. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/27/03 3:19:57 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 216 (3/26/03 12:48 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Vicious as a tigress can be, she never eats her own cubs." -- Chinese Proverb The dragon leads me back to the old charlatan’s parlor, where she strides directly to the old man’s side, interrupting the words of the rapt couple. As soon as there is some pause with her arrival, she speaks to the old man, her whole manner assuming that her needs with be attended to without question or doubt. In Chinese, then, she calmly declares, "I need a room. For privacy." The old man waves one apologetic hand to the young couple while the other passes a well worn key to the young girl. She takes it, and without another word moves past the counter into a dark hallway, and marches down it until she finds her room. She enters without ceremony, and I follow her in. It’s a small, dingy space, housing a table, two chairs, and a tiny bed (and calling it that is using the word liberally), lit by only one light that dangles precariously from the ceiling. She begins to take a seat, and I follow suit. She carries herself with the same surety of presence that reminds me of Mr. White, and she also seems perfectly comfortable with her surroundings, like Dr. Ostrog. How weird… But not nearly as weird as what follows. She takes out a small knife, and runs its edge against her palm. As the blood begins to flow, she lands her broken skin over the dirty wooden door, and smears the word for courage across its face. Her calligraphy, as expected, is as flowingly graceful and smooth as the rest of her motions. Then she turns, and wipes her hand down as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. Once we’re settled, I blurt out, "So…who are you?" Another command in return, this time in Chinese. "Please speak properly." I quirk a brow at that, and then repeat the question, in Chinese this time, after first apologizing for my lack of fluency due to years of disuse. As I say that, though, my words feel more familiar to me than they ever have, and actually sound like natural products of my mother tongue, rather than phrases formed from forced practice. They flow from my lips now as easily as water in a stream, and I begin to play a little with the phrasing, tentatively testing the poetic limits of my ability. All the while, I speak to the girl with the form of address that uses and displays the utmost respect.* My efforts seem to appease her a little. "You may call me Lin Zhi Ming."** "While I appreciate the ability to use your given name, I saw your reflection in a passing pane of glass, and…" I wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her face does now indeed become sterner than before, and as she fixes those sharp eyes upon mine once again, I have to fight the urge to squirm uncomfortably. "You are recently dead, then." I nod in answer, and she continues. "Which means that you are also recently so young." I nod again, and then my eyes widen at the forcefulness of her disgust so evident in her next words. "You saw my reflection, and yet still question my identity, so you are about as ignorant as a pig of your own people’s legacy and heritage!" I think to say something in rebuttal, and even open my mouth to do so, when I realize that she’s right, and I am forced to miserably agree. But dammit, it isn’t my fault that I was born and raised here, and attended schools here, and thus learned about Romans and Greeks instead of about Chinese people. Heedless of my issues with her words, she continues and her voice carries the lofty pride of many an ancient dynasty. "The people here know me as Lin Zhi Ming. They don’t know much about me, but they do know to fear and respect me. I am the Messenger of the East Wind, and I have come to ensure the survival of our people and our ways in these new lands, for the westerners taint everything they touch." Here her eyes move pointedly over me in cold estimation, her expression plainly betraying her dislike and distaste. I bear her study as well as I can until, to my relief, she begins to set up some incense sticks on the table between us. As she does so, I think …I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t say out loud that I’ve compared her to a Greek muse… Suddenly, that raw stench of fish, sewage and garlic assaults me again, and my nostrils give an involuntary crinkle, though I don’t allow myself to show further discomfort. "Pardon me, but…is this…is this really necessary?" She glances back at me, the glints in her hard eyes like shards of ice. "I am purifying the air." She takes another two sticks, lights those, and stands them beside the first two in the little potted holder. "There. That should make the air a little more tolerable to you." Amazingly, the stench simply fades into nothing as quickly as it rose. Now mumbling in Chinese to myself (which is odd, since I tend to think in English, unless I’m reciting multiplication tables…those I still do in Chinese. It’s bizarre, I know.), "I suppose it would make sense that I should encounter you; you just reside in different idea spaces." Zhi Ming says nothing, but merely arches a haughty brow in a silent question that expects, undoubtedly, to be answered. I comply. "From what I know of the realms of the dead, it’s split into different areas of ideas or belief…or what the living would call ideas or beliefs. I’ve only been to one realm of belief so far, but it was based almost entirely on European ideology and tradition." She merely watches me as I speak, plainly absorbing, but without displaying any hint of opinion. Taking this as reluctant encouragement, I press forward. "How much do you know of European myth and lore?" Now the opinion shines as plainly as a reflection in the placid pool of her proud face, and her tender lips curl into a harsh sneer. "As little as possible." "Ah. Well then." I fall silent at this momentary impasse before a sudden thought strikes. "Well, then, do you know a Mister White?" Her response is the same coldly arched brow, and that’s when I realize my error. I repeat the question, this time replacing "Mister White" with the Chinese name given to me by Mr. White himself the first night we met. Zhi Ming’s brow remains arched, but she doesn’t quite manage to hide the widening of her eyes at this unexpected bit of information. Cautiously, then, she says, "Yes…he’s one of ours, but we’ve lost contact with him quite some time ago." She pauses, and then her eyes begin to gleam more out of careful curiosity than anything else. "Have you a link to him through speech or touch?" I think about this a moment, and then answer, "Well, I’ve spoken with him a handful of times, but we also shook hands last week." She nods, and then stands up. "I need to get something. Stay here. That," and she motions to the bloody door, "will protect you." And she leaves me alone in the dingy room, and I just blink and stare at the door that slips shut behind her. A few seconds pass when I’m greeted by a rapping at the window, and, startled, I jerk around to face it. As soon as I meet its gaze, I realize that it’s a bird of some kind, and it continues its rapping to get my attention. I blink, but don’t move. Well, she told me to stay here, and she didn’t warn me of ‘visitors,’ so I think I’ll just sit my ass right here until she comes back. The bird turns its head now, so that one eye presses against the opaque window that’s covered with cheap, smeared paint that’s peeling in some places, and even that’s below a thin layer of dust and grime. It seems to peer in as best as it can, and then taps against the window once more. I blink again, placidly, and continue to merely sit. The bird waits just a moment longer, and then flies off. Zhi Ming returns shortly thereafter with a few sticks more of incense and a bundle of something. As she gets ready to set up whatever it is she has in mind, I begin to ask her a few questions. I tell her about the bird, and ask if I should have let it in, if it was an acquaintance of hers. She responds that it was no acquaintance of hers, and that birds are usually of no consequence. I quirk a brow...I didn't get a good look at it, so I don't know what bird it was, but it doesn't surprise me that she wouldn't spare birds any more thought than is necessary, since dragons are reputed to enjoy roasted swallows, and since the Chinese don't believe as westerners do that ravens and crows are harbingers of death... To the picture of Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide, Zhi Ming replies that she doesn’t know much about her, but does know that she’s very powerful in terms of raw ability, and spiritual prowess. "Were she born to our race instead of her own, she would be of my stature—one step away from the very Winds." Remembering now that there are others who can freely roam the different idea spaces, I show her the picture of the Cheshire, and she calmly says that she doesn’t recognize him at all. By now, she’s ready, and she instructs me to get as comfortable as I can. I frown a little, and she offers a pre-emptive answer. "We’re going to get him back." "What, just like that?…Is that…possible?" She graces me with a smile then, and merely repeats her order to get comfortable. I sigh, remove my jacket, and place it on the table. She gives me two sticks of incense to hold a certain distance apart from each other, and then she tells me to visualize him as well as I can. "You may feel a great deal of pain, but no matter what you feel, you must maintain your concentration." And with that to serve as my only warning, we begin. * The Chinese language has varying degrees of politeness that one employs when speaking to others of varying ranks, although the system isn’t as "refined" (cumbersome?) as the Japanese method. The most notable difference between the two languages is that the respect displayed in Chinese usually has to do with age, or differing ranks of expertise in a particular field (as exemplified through the use of certain pronouns or titles), whereas Japanese hierarchy is evident in everything, including some verb forms. ** The name sounds pretty and is rather auspicious, as it combines words for "ambition" and "will" with "bright," or "understanding." The two words ("zhi" [fourth tone] and "ming" [second tone]) are extremely common, being within the top seven words parents choose for their kids. The surname, Lin, is also extremely common. Basically, this name, though pretty and promising, can belong to any regular old joe schmoe. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/27/03 3:24:27 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 218 (3/26/03 3:06 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Virtue is not left to stand alone. He who practices it will have neighbors." - Confucius, Analects (bk. IV, ch. XXV) I do as bade with the incense sticks, and then I release a slow breath as I envision Mr. White to the best of my ability. I start with the haze of his clothing until I finally work my way to the finer details of his features, mannerisms, demeanor… At about the point that I remember the alluring smile he gave that so reminded me of the White Queen, I can feel Zhi Ming place a tender hand just below my collarbone, above my breasts…only to yank at the flesh there until a shape begins to form. Slowly, dark hair gets pulled from me, followed by a face…and by the time the chin comes through, Zhi Ming starts to forcibly pull the rest of him out by grabbing hold of the skull. Mr. White is a small guy, being about 5’2", but still, he’s damned bulky. As his shoulders begin to force its way through and past my ribs, I have to clench my jaw to keep from crying out…and, as I watch, I can just barely make out the shapes of two dainty, white hands struggling to keep their hold on Mr. White’s torso, even as Zhi Ming pulls him out of their reach. The two hands eventually fade back into my chest, and it’s at this point that Zhi Ming growls, "Keep your concentration!" I shut my eyes, and return to my visualization, shoving the pain back as I do (I didn’t notice it before because I was simply too taken with what I was seeing to notice or care). Really, though, I don’t think that what I’m experiencing now could possibly be as bad as what the Bishop put me through, and so I endure, and before I know it, it’s over, and Zhi Ming signals the procedure’s end by murmuring a gentle expression of thanks. My eyes flutter open just in time to see Zhi Ming cradle the little, naked form, carry him to the bed, and begin to dress him. I release a slow breath at the miracle before me, and glance down just long enough to see one of my favorite shirts in tatters, and notice that my bra is now useless, since its front clasp has long since snapped. I pull the ends of the shirt closely over my skin and peer over Zhi Ming’s shoulder to glance at the prone form. "…is he okay?" "He is fine, and will regain consciousness in a few moments." She finishes dressing him, and turns to face me fully. "Thank you." "Oh, you’re welcome…" A pause, and then, "But is he free of his captor’s hold? That is, the White Queen—she was his captor—has a power that allows her to control whatever’s in her direct line of sight, and he was one of two who she constantly watched over. Is he free from her watch, as well?" Calmly, then, she responds, "All his ties to her have been severed. And you have a new scar." And she nods toward me. I glance down at my chest, and allow some of the bunched silk to fall enough away to expose the top of my left breast, where there rests a scar that’s about the size of one of those 50 cent coins. As I gaze upon it, she says, "That’s where his captor’s eye followed, and that’s where I gouged it to free him." Lovely. And since Mr. White is still unconscious at this point, I take this opportunity to change bras and shirts (since Zhi Ming probably couldn’t care less about what I look like shirtless). Unfortunately, I’m on my second gray silk shirt, and the gray of this one carries a sheen that isn’t as subdued as the last one. I sigh as I stuff the remnants of the first shirt and bra into my pack, and pull on the jacket again. At this point, Mr. White awakens to see me and Zhi Ming standing before him. He blinks, and Zhi Ming speaks first. "Welcome back." Mr. White, apparently, knows exactly who this woman is, because he bows his head low, and utters with great respect, "Thank you, for the welcome and for retrieving me." Zhi Ming now inclines her head toward me as she speaks, and—can this be?—her eyes no longer seem to harbor the same amount of contempt (although there is some there, but I think it’s an innate dragon quality), and actually appear to soften a little now as she regards me. "I did only the minimum necessary. Rui Wen* was the one who provided the link, and the concentration that brought you back to us." And he arches a brow at me then, his eyes full of unspoken surprise. "Thank you…" I blush a little, and attempt to brush it off as nothing, even though these two impressive personages are the ones now showing me such gratitude. Zhi Ming now hands Mr. White a small envelope (over the top of which extends the end of a keycard), and says, "I have procured lodgings for you for this evening, but I apologize in advance for its humility." He nods, thanks her, speaks the necessary, ritualized words about how accepting any room from her, no matter how humble, would be an honor, blah blah blah. Then she turns to me, her face still as impassive as ever, but her eyes shine with something I can’t quite identify. "For this service you have provided, I will give you something in return. What is it you would wish of me?" I blink, shocked. Wow, a dragon owes me a favor! Stumbling, I say, "…well, uhm, I’m not sure I can answer that now…" She nods, and then responds, "I understand. Think about it, and let me know." "How will I contact you?" Zhi Ming nods toward the keycard that Mr. White now holds, and says enigmatically, "I will be by." I nod. "Now, if you’ll excuse me." Mr. White and I both bow our heads, and she leaves us. And when the door slides shut, I just look at Mr. White with a jaunty grin. He blinks at me, and I offer, "We’re in Chinatown!" With a small smile then, he says, "…I see that." And I begin my barrage of filling in information, except that it all comes out rather a jumble, since I’m tired, and have not slept in days. We make our way over to the place that Zhi Ming reserved for him, and I realize as we get closer that it’s the damned Plaza Hotel.** Apologize for its humility, indeed. Humble because it’s not the frickin’ Forbidden City…? But we enter the room, and I do make some things clear. I offer him a letter I’d written entirely in Chinese, since I expected to meet with him the second time I met with Elizabeth. The letter basically tells of what I’d done in the White Realm, and he says that though he wasn’t told of my actions, he observed the changes that occurred as a result of my actions. The letter also has a line directed at the White Queen which reads, "White Queen, if you can read this, yes, I’m still alive—quit waiting for me to die." He chuckles at that. I tell him also that I met with Elizabeth again earlier today, and she "asked me to leave" her property after I exchanged some choice words with her (and he just looks at me fondly, and chuckles again). He, too, suspects that she’s the Black Queen (although he has no direct proof), and also confirms that he’s seen the Black Tower, and that both she and her butler are vampires. The fact that they are vampires, though, is the most major glitch to the idea that she’s the Black Queen—that is, Elizabeth’s history goes back further than the Black Queen’s does. It’s at this point that I let him in on another idea I have. "What if she’s the board?" He arches a brow, and then murmurs that, "I’ve never really stopped thinking about the role of the board, but I never considered that she might be it. It would make sense, though." "Yeah, because she was the one who lured me into all this…the Black Tower’s by her house, but she also owned the property to which the White Queen also has ties. If she’s a vampire and the chess board, maybe the alliance between the White and Black Queens has caused a stalemate…and the board is happy so long as there’s conflict, especially if she’s a vampire who requires sustenance from blood spilt from either side. At this point, perhaps I’m just some pebble that she’s skittered across the board just to make the pieces move to cause conflict." He nods. I also mention that I saw the priest over at the church, and I show him the business card that the priest gave me. He emphasizes that I’m free to do as I wish, but he does advise that I not see him anymore, and suggests that the sacrament wafer thing has possibly been tampered with. And those words only further confirm suspicions that I’ve already had. He’s going to pay the priest a visit tomorrow morning, and though I wish to also go, he suggests that I stay away. Puzzled, I ask, "But why?" "Because I’m going to kill him." And he says this as matter of factly as one saying, "That’s a nice watch." I begin to ask if this has anything to do with the "relationship rules" that the Red King told me about, and he answers that that’s actually pretty close to the truth, even though it’s a simplified way of looking at it. It more has to do with "push and pull." His archetype, for example, has a weak pull because his role usually shows up in time to save, and then he moves on. The White Queen, though, has a very, very strong pull if one meets her within her domain. While things seem to work coincidentally, as the Red King put it, an individual's will does come into play here. Willing against meeting the White Queen will serve as an individual's "pull" in the opposite direction of the Queen, but that intention will usually have to play tug of war with the will of the Queen, which is great, particularly when the meeting occurs within places she rules. Idly, I wonder about my continued connection with the Black Queen, especially now that I’ve encountered Elizabeth again willingly, if she is the Black Queen herself. I remind him that, according to others, I was lured into the other realm in the first place because the Black Queen wishes to consume me. He answers, "If that’s true, then that’s something to definitely consider. You mustn’t underestimate the powers you hold within you, especially if the Black Queen needs you for her purposes. She doesn’t waste time or effort." He pauses, and then leans in close to say softly, "Something that I've always kept hidden from the White Queen, and kept very close to my heart, is the fact that the previous Black Queen lost the war to the current Black Queen willingly and deliberately." I blink. "Wow. That's some loyalty...but I don't think it's something the White Queen would get, anyway. She doesn't appear to hold that kind of loyalty to anyone but herself." He smiles. "She doesn't quite understand sacrifice ploys, no." After another moment of pause, I tell him about Dr. Ostrog, as well, although I don't give him any names...I show him the picture of the doctor that I took, and Mr. White tells me with a grin that he knows who he is, and knowing that Elizabeth took him into her "care" gives him another bit of knowledge and insight into her family and history. "Four hundred years' worth of history, to be more exact...though I would never have guessed that she's Italian." "...what? Elizabeth's Italian...? I always thought she was English." He gives a conspiratorial grin now, and his eyes shine with no small amount of humor. "She comes from an old family of Italian vampires. That she seems English to you is believable, since she and her family relocated to England some time after they were chased out of Italy, and they remained there for about a hundred years. And Michael himself has quite some history behind him as well." "Why do you say that? Who is he?" "...I can't remember his archetypal name...it was some western god of fire..." "Prometheus?" His eyes widen as he lightly claps his hands to accentuate the moment of the name's capture. "Yes! That's it!" I give him a crinkled brow in answer, and when he asks about my response, I merely reply, "I don't know...it's just...he just doesn't seem very 'Prometheus-y.'" At some point, I tell him about Rose Red’s death, and he asks to see the thorn she left me. He holds it in his hand, and it shifts into a massive bladed thing that draws an impressed gasp from me. "Why’s it turn so big for you…?" With a grin, he answers, "Because it’s the kind of blade I’m accustomed to fighting with." He wills it small, and returns it to me, telling me that it’s a weapon with a spirit of its own, and that it’s quite an impressive gift, whether it holds Rose Red’s essence or not. I tell him about the Ace of Spades, and how she has become the new "Rose Black," and I wonder aloud if the name change has occured to show the shift in the archetype's role within the realm. He merely replies that Rose Red used to turn to him for guidance because she didn't have a very strong moral compass. Her actions suffered because she was prone to second guessing herself, and that condition worsened after he fell to the White Queen's control, and could no longer advise her for fear of bringing the White Queen's influence to Rose Red as well. She had many facets to her archetype...though she was most clearly noted as being the Defender of the Innocent, she also personified Just Violence, Revenge for Innocence Lost, and Passion, among others. Face grave, he tells me slowly and purposefully, "Though she was not noted for always thinking things through, her intuition was excellent when she trusted it enough to set things in motion. She didn't die without a purpose, and I'm sure that the thorn you hold that shows such affinity for you has something to do with that, and I'm sure that her severed head, her headless body, and even the new Rose Black have something to do with that as well." My eyes widen, and despite the fatigue that threatens to catch up with me, my heart starts to pound, and a flush of hope starts to spread over my cheeks as I breathe, "So...we'll see her again...?" He blinks once as he studies me before answering. "We'll see her archetype again, certainly." With these last words, I shake my head to clear it of its current jumble of thoughts, and I murmur, "I’m tired…" and as he gives me that fond smile again, I crawl into one of the beds (there are two, one in each bedroom), and collapse on top of it in a tired heap. *Rui Wen: the two characters of my given Chinese name. **Click here for the most lavish humility on earth. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 3/27/03 10:41:43 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 223 (4/3/03 1:01 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said, ‘To talk of many things: Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- Of cabbages--and kings-- And why the sea is boiling hot-- And whether pigs have wings.’” -- Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass (ch. IV) Thin beams of sunlight burst forth from beneath and around the curtains, through crevices where the heavy drapes don’t meet the wall or the floor, and their brightness stirs me awake. After glancing at the digital clock on my nightstand, and seeing that it’s already almost 9:30 am, I push myself up from the comfy bed with a soft, sleep induced grunt of effort. I patter out of the room, yawning hugely as I go, and I can hear the shower going in the bathroom. This morning seems to carry all sorts of happy promise until I remember that today is the day of Mr. White’s “appointment” with the priest, and I simply wander around our suite, waiting…and waiting…and waiting. The sounding of running water goes on for about an hour before I lose patience, and I vaguely wonder if he’s even in there. Now moving toward the closed door, I give a tentative knock, and to my sort of-surprise, I actually get a response back. “Yes?” Somewhat terse, but I guess I am bothering him while he’s all taking a shower and stuff. And at least I got an answer. “Oh, uhm…When you’re done, I’ve got some questions for you is all.” “Alright.” And after that single word, I can hear nothing but the constant streaming of water as it hits the tub and the tiled wall around it. Finally, at 11:00 am, the door to the bathroom opens, and Mr. White emerges, his body already clothed, his face serene. “You had questions for me?” I blink at his rather sudden approach, and I have to struggle to focus my attention on him, as my eyelids are still weighed down by the remnants of interrupted sleep. He looks at me with quiet anticipation, and I greet his expectation with nothing more than a gaping yawn. He smiles, and I finally realize and remember that he’s actually addressing me. “What? Oh. Right.” Another yawn…but this time, I remember (although more as an afterthought) to demurely cover my mouth with a dutiful hand. “Since it seems that you’re wanting to make your appointment with the priest before breakfast, I’ll try to make this short. Although, really, it’s time more for brunch than breakfast.” “…what?” “Brunch. Not breakfast, but not lunch. In between. It’s kinda a social, Sunday, white people thing, one where I imagine the participants eating little, pretty things; and drinking water and light, white wines; and amusing each other, with obscure facts about forgotten literature, with useless knowledge and witty dialogue in general; and where they indulge each other in empty laughter.” And I release yet another yawn that I don’t even bother to suppress as I recall the snobbish, nasal “Ah ha-hah” that plagues some literary circles. “Eh. Not really my thing—it reminds me of ironically painful happy hours for the ‘upwardly mobile,’ and remains too suspiciously like work to be enjoyable. Anyway.” Mr. White gives me a blank stare before murmuring humbly, “…but I already have…” “Have? Have what? Why do you want to kill him, anyway?” Admirably, he attempts to keep him with my rushing train of thought, and he blinks a few quick times before he catches up. “He was an evil man, who had done much wrong. Such wrongs do not go unpunished.” I quirk a brow at this rather god-like declaration, but another thought strikes. “Waitaminnit. The priest was there in the White realm, and he’s here also…alive, even though he claims to have never been to the realm of the dead.” Mr. White gives a quick, decisive shake of the head to accompany his strong words. “He lied.” “Right, but what I’m saying is, is the priest the White Queen’s connection to the land of the living? That is, I thought that maybe Elizabeth couldn’t be the Black Queen, because she’s here, in New York, so much. But if she’s a vampire, and here in New York at night, then she could be in Wonderland during the day. So she is her own connection to both worlds. The White Queen doesn’t seem to venture out of Wonderland ever, even though she has connections to this world, so I wonder if the Priest serves as her line of connection to New York.” “The White Queen thought that about Elizabeth as well, and so I was sent here to befriend her, and see what I could find out. I am not sure if that is the case, however.” He pauses, and furrows his brow. I look at the creases on his face, and arch my own brow in thought. The White Queen thought that about Elizabeth, and yet when I asked about her, the White Queen merely replied with, ‘My dear, I don’t think so.’ Curiouser and curiouser. Unaware of my thoughts, he continues after a moment of quiet. “To my knowledge, though, the priest did not serve such a function.” “When I was in the White Realm, the priest was dragging an altar boy along by the ear. Why is it that that altar boy remains the only child I’ve seen thus far in that realm? Well, other than the ghost girl, but I don’t really count her, since she’s all, y’know, dead. Well, I’m dead, but not in that way.” He looks at me hard now, and his voice, normally so patient and gentle, sounds as stony as his eyes look. “That altar boy was probably brought there by the priest himself. Children generally pass through quickly and painlessly through that realm to move onto their final destination.” “Oh.” I think a moment, and then, “And why does that ghost girl look that way, anyway? I mean, I’m dead, but in Wonderland I don’t look it. The ghost girl does. Why is that?” His face blanks, as though he’s surprised by the question. “Well…I don’t know. Perhaps it’s a function of her will. Maybe she chooses to look like that…” I blink, and try very, very hard to remember exactly what I saw of her after I got sucked into the other realm. She was ghostly while I was in Staten Island, and after I got sucked in, I think she looked whole. Or did she? I can’t remember… I find that every time I try to remember what she looked like before she ran into the orphanage, the image of her ghostly face as it was captured on camera superimposes itself, clear and unbidden, onto the image I’m attempting to sharpen. I shiver involuntarily, and am just about to follow her thoughts about her image when another stray thought leads me elsewhere. “Ah. And, speaking of other functions, I wonder how you are able to exist in separate idea spaces…from Zhi Ming’s reaction, I’m led to believe that the higher ups in the Chinese mythologies would be eager to keep themselves completely apart from western ideology, and I don’t know of any Chinese archetypes that go about rescuing ‘damsels in distress.’” He nods, and then he tells me, “I am a junzi* within the Chinese hierarchy, and the archetypes are similar.” “Ahh. Okay. By the way, if you don’t mind, I’m going to start addressing you by your Chinese name…I have certain…issues…with names, and I’m a little uncomfortable calling you ‘Mr. White’ when it signals to me the White Queen’s influence.” “It doesn’t matter to me which name you use, but if you’re more comfortable with one over the other, that’s fine.” “Okay. So, Zhong Huang,”** and I giggle a bit, feeling somewhat silly, switching languages mid-sentence, “how long have you been at your archetype?” He smiles then, and once again, the curve reminds me of the one wielded by the White Queen. In the brief moment that follows, I decide that one makes me think of the other because both he and the White Queen use their smiles the way one might use a string of pearls to decorate a beautiful neck…the smiles themselves are so naturally graceful and alluring that one can’t help but be drawn into them, and be enveloped in the easy arches of their mouths. “…at least two or three centuries. I can’t quite tell which, or really for how long, since time passes differently for everyone.” I answer his winning smile with a deep frown. “Yes…I already learned about that. That realm has peculiar spatial and temporal laws…and speaking of time, you’d better get going, unless you plan to show off the witnesses that will surely be milling about.” He blinks once, and then gives his head a charming tilt. “No, that’s what I meant earlier—it’s already done.” “What? Oh! I thought you mean that you’ve already had breakfast!” I laugh. “Although, it seems rather obvious in hindsight…especially since you kept referring to the priest in the past tense. Well, how about some brunch, then?” He laughingly agrees, and we get some brunchy things delivered to our room. As we eat, I (as usual), continue in my barrage of questioning. “So when’s the next time Zhi Ming’s gonna show up?” “I would say…on the morning of the third day, as the number three is an important number in general, and morning because that will be when the east wind will blow, this being a northeastern coastal city. And because she feels she owes you something, she will come sooner rather than later, since the next important day will be one full week from yesterday.” “Uhm…okay. That makes sense, I guess.” I frown slightly as I hold my glass of water toward the sunlit window and absently watch the shards of rainbow light that spill from it. “What exactly can she do? I mean, she’s wanting me to request something of her, but I don’t know what to ask for. I was going to ask that she bring Thomas and Father MacHaggerty back, since they really had no reason to be there, but I’m not sure that I can ask that…” With an arched brow, he asks, “Why don’t you ask Zhi Ming to bring you fully back from the other realm?” “Well, because Thomas and MacHaggerty had no business being there in the first place.” And I fill him in on how Thomas and Father MacHaggerty were sucked in with me. He blinks as he answers, “You had no business being there…” “No, I did…because Elizabeth lured me in with that property gift. I had the choice to refuse, but I didn’t. Thomas and the priest…were more just innocent bystanders that I dragged in by accident.” He is quiet for a moment as he studies me, and once he has satisfied himself with whatever thoughts occupy his head, he answers, “Well, from what I remember of Zhi Ming, bringing people back from other realms was something that she could manage without much thought, although she did tell me that bringing me back this last time proved very difficult, so I don’t know if her power has diminished or not.” My eyes glaze a bit and my voice sounds far away even to me as I answer, “Yeah, but Zhi Ming had to contend with the will of the White Queen this last time, and I can’t imagine that game of tug of war to be an easy one.” And I remember the two dainty, white, delicately long fingered hands that faded into the dark recesses of my torn chest as Zhi Ming pulled Zhong Huang from me. He blinks at me again, this time with a vague look of surprise on his face. “…that’s a very valid point…” My eyes move from their point of focus along the far wall long just long enough toss an odd glance, and I shrug. After a moment, I add, “Y’know, I had a thought that I discussed with Thomas some time ago, about a position that I could carve for myself if I could. I was thinking about the Queens, and eventually, I hit upon the thought of ‘Queen of Queens,’ which would be fitting as a double pun, as I’m from the borough of Queens within New York City. Taken more seriously, a Queen of queens could be seen as an Empress, and I thought of the tarot. The Empress of the tarot deck is very highly ranked, and her abilities mostly have to do with the act of balancing. I thought this very fitting politically, because, really, the only unbalanced queen is the Black Queen, since she rules over more than the others.” I pause long enough to see the surprise on his face spread, and to see the smile grace his lips once more. “I don’t know if I can do that, though, since one may already exist.” The smile broadens still more in startled revelation. “To my knowledge, there isn’t one, but that doesn’t mean that one doesn’t exist.” A pause. “But perhaps you could ask Zhi Ming to set you up that way, and you can then bring Thomas and the priest back with your own power.” “…it’s something to keep in mind, I guess.” A few moments pass, and then I show him the chest of artifacts that I received from Elizabeth. “So…I trust you.” I look at him pointedly, and he answers with a grave nod. “And when I showed the White Queen the other artifacts I got from Elizabeth, she immediately knew what they were, so I’m hoping that perhaps you can help me out here. The other day, I went to Elizabeth’s place, as you know, and I got these additional artifacts from her.” And I pass him the chest. “Any ideas?” He studies them all very carefully for a few moments before breathing in disappointment, “…no. Unfortunately, I don’t.” “See, what I don’t get is that, if she really is the Black Queen, and she’s trying to consume me, she’s had two chances so far to do so, and she hasn’t done it yet. Why not? And why give me these artifacts at all? I thought of two reasons, neither of which is very appealing. The first I thought of because she said that she gave these things to ensure my survival. Maybe she’s waiting for me to grow in power before she consumes, or something.” His voice gently cuts mine short. I’m grateful for the interruption, though, because my own voice was beginning to speed out of control with unpleasant thoughts. “That’s very unlikely, as souls weaken and lose power universally with time, unless that soul feeds. This is why the Black Queen has to feed at all. The White Queen does something similar: she takes ‘tithes’ from her subjects, so that whenever her subjects feed, she does also, indirectly.” I release a breath that I didn’t even know was held. “…well, that’s unhappy. The other thing I was thinking is that perhaps she needs a willing victim. The priest kinda confirmed this for me when he offered me the sacrament wafer and told me about the spirit needing to feed on something that’s given. And, if Elizabeth is the Black Queen and a vampire to boot, that makes that requirement doubly necessary. There are myths tell about vampires needing to be invited into a house before they can enter it, and stuff like that.” He nods slowly. “That would make sense…Another thing to consider is that perhaps she is waiting to have a proper hold over you, and such a thing could be done through gifting. First the property, the first set of artifacts, and now these new ones...” I blink. Oh, crap. With my heart now at my ankles, and my skin feeling very, very cold, I answer in a rush, "But...but...but no! By its very definition a gift doesn't incur any sense of indebtedness...!" I know this to be untrue, particularly in gifting cultures, but I don't really care, and I panic. And when I panic, I tend to rationalize. Zhong Huang, however, nods in agreement at this, although I think he's more agreeing because Elizabeth's white, and thus doesn't have the same idea of the "proper" way to do things. We puzzle over this for a few minutes until rapping at our window interrupts us. We simultaneously turn our heads in time to see a bird perched on the sill, and I recognize it as the raven that tried to get my attention last night. Quickly, I fill Zhong Huang in on my reaction to the bird the first time I saw it, and he advises me to have the thorn out. “It would be wise to be prepared. I’m going to let it in.” I gulp, and slip my fingers into and out my pocket quickly. And as Zhong Huang unlatches the window to let the creature in, I roll my fingertips over the familiar curves of the small thorn in anticipation. *More commonly spelled "chun tzu" in wade-giles. Click here to see a blurb thing about it. I like this one because it uses actual chinese characters, rather than on inaccurate transliterations. Or go here for excerpts of Confucius' Analects. Lastly, use this link for general info on the class. **His full name: Tang2 Zhong1 Huang2. Tang: sort of dynastic. Zhong: loyal, faithful, devoted. Huang: having to do with kings, and other royalty. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/3/03 8:31:01 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 227 (4/7/03 10:33 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun's uprise?" -- Titus, from William Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus (III, i) The window lifts with only a small amount of effort on Zhong Huang’s part, and the rather sizable bird hops in without ceremony. He looks around, unimpressive and unimpressed, until he catches sight of the thorn I hold. As soon as the creature has set foot into our space, my thorn extends to a full blade and aims itself directly at the harmless looking bird. I blink at the sudden reaction from it, as it’s been a long while since it shifted sizes on its own. The bird appears to actually frown as it casts its eerie glance my way…and now his voice begins to slowly float and hang upon the air, its sound as otherworldly as its owner. "Well now, that’s rather rude." I lift my gaze to meet the bird’s now, and my own face shines blank with surprise. Evidently not caring about the concern that presents itself so plainly on my face, the bird appears to relax on a little spot of floor as he begins to speak. His voice reminds me of leather, creaky enough to sound comfortably worn, but not old, really. "My, but you’ve been a pain to find." And, as an afterthought, he leans his little birdie head closer to me before intoning mildly, "And I mean that in the nicest possible way." My blankness clears just enough to bring back just enough presence of mind. "Find? Who are you, and why were you seeking me?" "Name’s Morimer. And I’ve been looking for you because that’s my job. You died. I’m supposed to guide souls to where they’re supposed to be, only you weren’t where you were supposed to be. Not at all." He ruffles his feathers a little bit and examines them idly as he speaks, his voice slow and patient, conveying the sense that he has all the time in the world to discuss everything and nothing. "Then I realized that someone was keeping you from me. At first I thought it was that dragon lady, but I saw that she’d only put a temporary ward. Nope, wadn’t her. It was the Black Queen." A pause as he looks thoughtful for a moment. "Or the White Queen. I can’t tell between them, mean bitches, both." And, as an afterthought, "And I mean that in the worst possible way." "Where was I supposed to be?" He blinks at this in mild surprise. "Well, hell, I don’t know. You tell me. What do you believe in?" I give him a blank look in answer, and he parries that with a heaved sigh before continuing in that drawling voice that fairly hums its patience and diligent perseverance. "Well, alright. Where are you from? Most places only give you a few choices." "I’m from here, the United States." If he had hands instead of wings, I’m sure he would have smacked his little birdie forehead in exasperation. "Oh, hell." And he inhales deeply, and runs through the smorgasbord of religious offerings in America in an attempt to find me some sort of placement. Unsurprisingly to me, he fails, and he seems thoroughly disheartened at my lack of religious beliefs. I tilt my head at him slightly, and then wonder aloud, "…why do you care, anyway, where I ‘belong?’" He answers me with a tilted head of his own, in that painfully angled, birdish kind of way. "Well, it’s my job—I’m a guide for dead souls. And I live for job satisfaction, you know." He pauses, and then releases a sigh of whispered pleasure. "And eyeballs." "…pardon?" "Eyeballs." He blinks, and his pupils take on a peculiar gleam in the noonday sun. "I take the eyeballs from the corpses as my pay. They’re wonderful…like gelatin filled grapes, they are." "…uhm. Yeah." Deciding now that the bird isn’t going to be much of a threat, at least, I will the blade small, and it shrinks back to its original size. Morimer appears vaguely pleased at that, and calmly intones, "Clever. Is that a sort of early warning device?" I shrug and absently continue to roll the thorn around with my fingertips. "I guess you could say that. But since you mention the White and Black Queens earlier, I guess you’ve been to the realm." "Well, sure." Though reluctant about using analogies to explain how the spirit realm works, he does it anyway, and informs me that if the spirit realm were likened to a house, then in the quiet den, where dusty board games rest stacked atop an ancient pool that no one ever uses, lays the Board realm. And because I ask, he goes on to say, "Well, the living room would be, I guess, where most of the people are…but though that’s where most of the people are, they come and they go…those would be the Catholics. And in the living room is a tattered couch, and all its springs have come unsprung. That would be Protestantism. Next to it rests a comfy loveseat, and maybe some of its legs are a little scratched up…that would belong to the Irish Catholics. And way over in the corner stands a little end table, and in one of its dusty little drawers that no one ever looks into, lies Mormonism." He delivers his humor with the tone and demeanor of the very staid, and that only makes me laugh more. He kind of reminds me of Droopy the Dog in that way, I suppose. In response to my constant stream of laughter, he placidly intones, "It’s nice to have such an easy audience," and I, of course, crack up at the mere thought of this bird, this harbinger of death, as a stand-up comedian. I’m easily amused, though, I guess. In a moment of more serious discussion, he calmly advises me to get a guidebook of some kind. My countenance brightens immediately as the idea that such a thing might actually exist—I’d love to have a map of sorts that describes in detail each of the realms for me, "so that I can pick and choose," I innocently tell Morimer. He frowns, and thus evidences his vague annoyance at my heathenism once again. "Like I told you, that depends on where you want to get to. Sometimes guidebooks already exist, like the Egyptian Book of the Dead. I think there’s a museum in town that’s got one on display right now. Sometimes living people get glimpses, y’see, of what’s actually going on in the spirit realm. When the Book of the Dead was first written, people everywhere were like, ‘Oh, come on, now. Everyone knows that when you die, you become a bird, and fly up into the sun, and get burned to a crisp.’ Then after a generation or two, the book began to develop a following, and people started to believe in it. The same kind of thing happens all over the place." He pauses, and then squints at me in puzzled question. "So you mean to tell me that you have no guidebooks whatsoever?" I give my head a slow, miserable shake, and he gives a sigh before he answers. "Well then, I’m going to go see if I can find you any. In the meantime, there is that museum." "Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve read the Book of the Dead, and even then, they were only excerpts. I guess I could use a refresher in case I ever end up there." He flies off, and leaves me to my own devices. With a defeated shrug, I turn to Mr. White, who merely smiles that charming smile, and motions for me to lead the way. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 228 (4/7/03 1:02 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder." -- Gilbert K. Chesterton, Tremendous Trifles "History fades into fable; fact becomes clouded with doubt and controversy; the inscription moulders from the tablet; the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they but heaps of sand; and their epitaphs, but characters written in the dust?" -- Washington Irving, The Sketch Book--Westminster Abbey The Metropolitan Museum of Art has an Egyptian wing that houses various items that remain on perpetual display. It’s fairly impressive, and culminates in an Egyptian mausoleum type thing built from stones that were transported from their home country to this one, that visitors can actually walk into. It also rests on Fifth Ave. along Museum Mile, and isn’t too far away from our hotel. Mr. White and I walk briskly in the chilly air, and I shut my eyes and grin at the way the winter current bites into my skin, and leaves its marks across my cheeks in the form of a rosy blush. As I lean into the wind and allow it to brace me a little bit, I can taste the moist air’s promise of ice, and I can sense it nipping at my lips in return for my attention. I revel in it just a little longer as I think, Mmmm, I’ve missed this. How different this is from Austin…! The other natives, having been bombarded with winter’s chill since early November, appear not nearly as impressed with the weather as I am…they remain all bundled carefully up, with gloves to cover their fingers, and scarves fluttering around their down clad bodies. All that remains visible of their inscrutable forms are hard little eyes that squint against the cold. Without really thinking about it, I give a short bark of a laugh as we continue along our way. ______________________________________________ In addition to the usual assortment of stuff from Egypt that’s now housed at the Met, there are also, as Morimer promised, sheets of papyrus that serve as bits and pieces of one of the oldest copies of the Book of the Dead. I glance at it in subdued awe…as I said, I’m something of a minor bibliophile, and old books always make me breathe some reverential sighs. It’s odd that as I pay closer attention to it, I realize that though I’ve never studied any languages other than English, Chinese, really, really basic Latin, basic Spanish, and basic Japanese, I can read the papyrus. Like, it makes sense. I blink at this unexpected bit of realization, but this sudden understanding, bizarre as it is, can’t compare to another unexpected bit. Next to the scroll stands what one immediately see when called to imagine an ancient Egyptian nobleman. He stands tall, regal, proud, well muscled, delectably bronzed. Against that sun blessed golden skin, rest imposing strands and chains of polished gold, and not even their brilliance can compare to the majesty their wearer exudes. Though he only wears the jewelry, a loincloth, and sandals, he doesn’t appear at all out of place. One might even think that he’s a model hired to further embellish the museum’s already impressive items, were it not for his look of haughty regard. With a slow turn of his head, he looks at me, and catches my slack-jawed staring. He greets me, and then I further realize that he’s not speaking English, but I can understand his native tongue as well as I can my own. "How is this possible?" In return, he arches a dark brow. "You are civilized. And thus you speak a civilized language." His name is Atunakun (or something—I’m spelling it phonetically as best as I can), and he has come to examine the homage being paid to his people, and their accomplishments. In a booming voice that feels like the floor is rumbling, he says, "It seems…reasonable." He also tells me he’s here to examine the scroll, and as he says that, I see the concentration harden his face. Gradually, the people in our area of the wing begin to look uncomfortable, and they filter out. As they start to go, I blink as I realize that, Oh my god, the shadows area lengthening! One by one, each museum leave the room until it’s just him, me, and Mr. White. Once we’re alone, he takes a breath, and simply passes through the tall panes of glass that encase the scrolls, and then it picks it up in his hands to examine them closely. Mr. White leans close to me as Atunakun stands in the glass, out of whispering distance, and whispers to me, "That’s a lot of energy he’s expending just to pick it up! That scroll’s about two or three pounds!" I just nod warily. Once he’s looked at it for a little bit, he nods, as if satisfied, and then returns them to their place. He returns to us, with the mild comment that, "They appear to be well cared for," as if his actions were about as natural as breathing air. I answer his mildness with an incredulous question. "How did you do that?" From everyone’s reactions to me, a casual passerby might think that I’ve been the only "recently dead" person in quite some time, because all these people who are not "recently dead" regard me with that same look of half contempt, half pity. With that same look, the bronze man gives me a smile now that would be worthy of the White Queen herself, and purrs, "You are…recently dead, then." I bite back my vague annoyance, and will a blank smile onto my face instead. "Things are solid to you only because you believe them to be. Here." And he puts his strong hands atop my shoulders, and tells me to close my eyes. Then he continues, "Now I’ll turn you so that you don’t face the glass." And I feel myself being turned before he says, "Now walk." I take a few steps, and I feel a sudden gentle rush of water over my head and shoulders, and once I feel that, I open my eyes in surprise…only to find myself standing past the glass case, like he was a few moments ago. After letting this new fact settle in for a moment, I turn around, and then step back through again to meet the proud jut of his nose, and the gentle curve of his lips. "Okay, but what about making the other patrons leave, and lengthening the shadows?" "That was merely to disperse the flies milling about, that I could do what I came to do." "…’kay. And holding the scroll itself?" "Another act of pure will." He pauses, and then quirks a brow. "And what you doing here?" I tell him about my need for guidebooks, and he closes his shining eyes, and holds one hand above the other. In a few moments’ time, a scroll begins to simply materialize, and I can do nothing but watch in open mouthed awe. Finally, the creation of the scroll is complete, and he intones, "This contains the wealth of all my knowledge." And to my look of disbelief at the physical (well, spiritual, but physical in a way) item, he merely grins and says, "Another act of pure will." I take it and offer stuttering thanks, and he inclines his head forward, and then announces, "Well, I have other matters to see to," and he goes away. A few moments later, the other museum patrons begin to wander back in, as if discovering the exhibit anew. I look at Mr. White with an arched brow, and he does the same. We have no words, really, for what just transpired, and we begin to make our way quietly back to our hotel. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 230 (4/8/03 5:17 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “He that has ears to hear, let him stuff them with cotton.” -- William Makepeace Thackeray, Virginians (ch. XXXII) This morning, Zhong Huang and I discuss Morimer himself, and Zhong Huang confirms what I’ve been thinking—that any information Morimer can bring is going to be very valuable. Eventually, a familiar rapping at the window interrupts us, and we both glance at it to see Morimer tapping against the glass. And what he shares with us is interesting stuff, indeed. In that same infinitely patient manner and drawling voice of his, he tells us that the Black Queen has “collected” people from my world in the past. Anne Catherine, the girl who manifested at the Orphanage by where the pews used to rest, and who was supposedly murdered there, was one such victim. I show him the picture of the ghost girl, and ask if that's her. Morimer blinks and answers, "No...! That would be Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide." Well, this was unexpected. Well, unexpected that he should know her at all. I figured the ghost girl was Elizabeth. "How do you know her?" "Well, I tried to collect her, twenty--" "--twenty seven years ago," I interrupt and finish. He blinks, and I answer his questioning gaze with the words, "She was the one who lured me into all this, even gave me artifacts from the land that have effects in the spirit realm. Is she the Black Queen?" He sighs. "I don't know. I suspect, but I don't have direct proof." "I figure that she must be the Black Queen to have given me these things, because as Elizabeth, why should she care...?" And I show him the box and its contents. He puzzles over them, but he does comment that, "Well, the Knight and Bishop are part of a set. I don't really know what they do, although...well, I can see traces of abjuration magic, and if she's the Black Queen...well, maybe the Knight calls up a demon, and the Bishop makes it go away." "But why would a Knight call upon a demon?" "Well, he's a Black Knight, and Black Knights historically haven't ever really been knightly." He looks at the contents again, cocks his head this way and that, and finally says, "The only other thing I can tell you, is that I think that letter opener is a sacrificial knife. It'd make sense that she'd give you the very tool you'd need for harming yourself. I bet you'd f u c k yourself up real good if you cut yourself with that." "...but would it have that same kind of strength if I used it on someone else, or if someone else used it on me?" He frowns. "Hmmm. I don't know. It'd have to depend on whether it functions 'to the letter,' or 'to the spirit' of the action, I guess." Immediately, I remember that wintry voice, spitting out those harsh words to Rose Red, "To the letter, but not to the spirit." And I release an involuntary shudder as I murmur, "Spirit, more likely." He nods a bit. “That'd make sense. But look, the best advice I can give you,” he continues, “is just not to go back there at all. That place is an oubliette, and remains a perpetual game! People go in, get stuck, and don’t usually come back out. This is your chance to escape that!” I frown at this, remembering the Cheshire’s ability to manifest wherever he pleases. When asked about him, Morimer responds that the Cheshire is actually not just archetype, but something far beyond it. “Lookit me. In terms of power, I’m a light bulb. Mr. White there, he’s maybe three light bulbs.” And he tosses me objective look of estimation. “You’re maybe a candle. Now the Cheshire, the Cheshire’s all of New York City.” I blink. Without pause, he resumes, and he absently fluffs his feathers as he does so. “The Cheshire shows up everywhere in one form or another. What you really should be calling him is “Nemesis.” Epiphany strikes, and I breathe a sigh in sudden understanding. “The Bishop’s ‘mortal enemy of all who live.’” Morimer tilts his beak at me before drawling, “What?” “Hmm? Nothing.” A pause, and then something else. “But wait—he’s helped me before, genuinely helped me. When I was being chased by the Ace of Spades, he covered me, and made me invisible, or so I thought..” “Ha! Caught him in a lie already! She saw you alright, you can be sure of that.” “But…” Ever patient, he calmly tells me, “She saw you as Rose Black, but not as the Ace of Spades. But she definitely saw you.” My mouth drops open in dumbfounded chock…and then, another burst of unexpected realization. “Wait, then you’ve spoken to her. How is she doing…? She was trying to sort herself out the last time I saw her.” He gives a brief shrug of his narrow, feathered shoulders before answering, “She’s fine. Went to have a little chat with the Black Queen, from what I understand.” My brightened countenance immediately darkens again, and my now distraught voice further betrays how I’m feeling. “Oh, no! She’s gone back to her, then, back to the Black Queen! Is she now back to being the way she was originally, as just the Ace of Spades?” “Oh, no, she’s still both. And she’s gone to the Black Queen to talk about her previous mistreatment. At least to me, she seemed more determined than anything else.” I sigh in response…that news cheers me a little, but I know that the darling Ace of Spades, even with the new shift in personality, is simply too simple for the Black Queen’s masterful subtlety. “Too bad I can’t talk to Rose Red…” “Oh, I found her, but she didn’t tell me anything useful. She doesn’t like me much, you see. As soon as I got near, she got really, really mad, and busied herself by telling me what to stick myself with, and where I could go after I stuck it. Then she dared me to come closer to her, so that I could be in range of her teeth.” A pause, and then, as if I needed telling, he adds, “I didn’t choose to get in range of her teeth, by the way.” “Well, no, I didn’t think so.” I blink as I remember the brilliance of Rose Red’s eyes, and the gentle warmth of her smiles. “You know, I thinking that perhaps I could become a Tarot Queen in the Board realm, and thus balance out the imbalance that the Black Queen has caused, but I wasn't sure if I could. Then, after that, I was once thinking that maybe I could become the new Rose Red…the main role I can deal with pretty well…then I realized that she had a ton of other aspects to her archetype, and, well, while I’ve noble instincts, I think I’m still too much a lazyass to actually succeed.” He gives his head a tired shake and then comments, “Oh, the Tarot Queen already exists, and you don't much want to mess with them, because they're almost all pure archetype." A pause, and then, "And with becoming Rose Red...Every Rose Red that ever adopted the archetype had the tendency to make bad decisions in the face of good advice. And with how you seem intent on returning to that place despite what I’ve told you, I’d say that’s spot on.” I laugh outright at that and then stroke the bird’s feathers. “I do like you.” His mild response is, “I’ve no idea why—I’ve brought nothing but bad news since I got here. I’m a bird of ill omen.” I giggle, and then ask, “Even so, what reason does Rose Red have to dislike you as strongly as she seems to?” And for once, Morimer actually looks vaguely uncomfortable and remorseful. “Well, you know, being what I am, I…took away…some of those she had gotten attached to.” “Oh.” “I mentioned your name, in fact, and then she suddenly got all quiet-like.” Ahhhh, Rose Red. “What about Father MacHaggerty?” “Who?” “The priest who was found with me.” “Oh, him. That wasn’t his real name.” I blink and fumble for a name that I’ve only seen once, in a letter. “Oh, it was…Dean, I think.” “Oh, yeah, he was there.” I inhale sharply as I ask my next question, and I can feel my chest tighten in anticipation of an unhappy answer. “…and how was he?” “As well as can be expected, being in a tree and all.” “You see, this is why I can’t simply leave the Board realm—there have been too many people who have sacrificed their lives, or were otherwise harmed, for attempting to help me. I can’t just abandon them…!” The bird shakes his head slightly, and then focuses sharp eyes on me. “Well, I already gave you my best advice, and that’s to leave, and never look back. You’ll get trapped! But all I can do is offer advice and be a guide. I can’t really make you do anything.” “I can’t just leave them! Especially not Thomas and Father MacHaggerty…and Father MacHaggerty’s fate is simply too cruel…” Morimer tilts his head at me here, and quirks a dark, bushy brow. “I don’t know about that. He’d be happier where he is now than where he would have been, I think.” I shoot him a suspicious glare, and my voice involuntarily hardens. “What do you mean?” Nonchalantly as ever, he informs, me, “Well, he was a nice guy, and all, always believing the best in people, and the like…he was good friends with the priest that Mr. White put in the papers, and MacHaggerty knew that something strange was going on with that priest, but he turned a blind eye to those occurrences, and that’s not fulfilling the duties of protector of people’s souls. If he wasn’t with the grendels, he’d be in the bad place, if you know what I mean.” A pause. “And I don’t mean that in the nicest possible way.” My words fall silent in this miserable lull, and I can feel my sadness begin to throb in my chest as I think on my former companions’ fates. Rose Red, though, knew what she was getting into, but Father MacHaggerty, poor protector though he was, stumbled into this madness completely unwittingly, and I’m to blame. Briefly, I remember Matthew’s assertion of my ‘sainthood,’ and then another thought strikes strongly enough to at least temporarily push aside my melancholy. “Waitaminnit…if the Cheshire’s true archetype is that of ‘Nemesis,’ he can’t be a saint, and yet he is.” Morimer doesn’t display any emotion one way or the other on the subject. “The Cheshire just tests people. It’s what he does. He doesn’t care if you succeed or not. If you don’t, it’s chomp chomp chomp for you, and if you do, he’ll put another obstacle in your way to test you further. "I think in the Board realm, they’re using the word to simply mean someone who has the option to leave the area, but they choose to stay, for some reason, whether it’s to help people or not. Like I said, the Cheshire shows up everywhere. He's the devil in other Christian realms. I bet he's off laughing his ass off at the idea that he's any kind of saint. By the definition of the word "saint" that the Board realm uses, you’d qualify if you went back.” “…but I lack the power to leave the realm on my own.” He blinks in agreement. “Oh, yeah. Well, you’d be a saint for the half second you'd have before you get stuck. That’s why you should just leave it, and go to Baptist heaven. It’s really easy to get in, too. You just talk to Jesus—and it’s not even really Jesus, just a Jesus archetype, and he’s a real nice guy—and say that you believe he’s your savior, and that you believe in God, and blah, blah, blah…and you’re in! And it’s party time for all eternity!” My lungs heave a heavy sigh, and suddenly, even the cheery afternoon sunlight feels curiously oppressive. I don’t answer his suggestion, but touch upon something else instead. “Y’know, by that definition, Elizabeth, or the Black Queen—since I think they’re the same person, though I have no proof—qualifies as a ‘saint,’ too, though neither of them is one.” Morimer’s little bird face falls at my lack of reaction to his advice, just before blinking again and then fluttering his wings gently at sudden memory. “Oh right! I had other stuff to tell you, too, about the Black Queen!” So far, the facts that connect the Black Queen’s victims have been dates, and places of birth. We’re not sure how these details are significant, but they remain. In a vampiric sense, she can consume life essence, and she also collects “tithes” from her subjects the way the White Queen does. Thus, when any of their subjects feed, the Queens do as well. I note that from this, then, the Black Queen surely gets more raw energy than the White Queen does, not only because the Black Queen rules over two additional other realms, but also because the Black Court consists mainly of archetypes, rather than archetypes mixed with mortal personalities. Another method she uses is what Morimer calls “plucking mortal souls,” and that’s pretty much what happened to me. The soul eventually becomes her possession, and she can apply torture to it, so that consumption occurs over a longer period of time. Lastly, she can work out deals with those who are still living; that is, she can provide various services within her power in exchange for the energy that mortals offer. And this is when Morimer lands another shocker on me. “When people die and get buried, the things they get buried with give them energy. It’s kind of a final goodbye type of thing. And you know what? Your funeral that’s supposed to occur this week? Your family’s got a wax dummy.” He sighs. “You know what that means if you’re not properly buried?” “…I don’t get buried with anything, and so I’ve no energy bonus?” He blinks, and then sighs sadly again. “Yeah. But it also means that I don’t get my eyeballs.” Despite the gravity of the situation, I actually giggle at his preoccupation with this supposed delicacy. “Look, I really appreciate all the help you’ve given me, and I don’t know if I can actually procure eyeballs, but if I can do something in return for your guidance, I will…” And here I take out the hundred dollar bill left to me by Dr. Ostrog. “I don’t know if it’s something you’ll accept, but this is all I have in terms of currency.” And here his little bird eyes widen. “Ooh, that’s coin, alright.” And he takes a step towards me and continues to examine it. “Yep, yep. But you’d best keep that—you might need it later on. Right now, we have to fix this ‘wax dummy situation.’” ______________________________________________ Morimer leads Mr. White and me to a stately mausoleum in, unsurprisingly to me, White Plains. It’s very pretty, and while I wouldn’t have normally minded such a place of eternal rest, it’s not eternal rest, and I give a grunt of annoyance at the name the stones bear. All around the area sit mausoleums of various Adelaides from the last century and a half. The raven cocks his head toward me, and murmurs, “Yeah, those Adelaides will pretend to die every so often, but they don’t actually. But that’s where your body is, lying there being stored.” “Stored? For what?” He blinks, and his usually inscrutable face does appear a bit unintentionally blank. “Well, hell, I don’t know. Well, keeping it from getting a proper burial, obviously, but other than that, I don’t know.” I narrow my eyes at this, and blurt out, “Well, f u c k no.” And I try to walk through the stone the way I walked through the glass in the museum, only to run into the masonry face first. “Ow.” An unattractive grimace contorts my face, and I try again, more forcefully than before, only to experience the same result. “OW.” I release a frustrated sigh, and then prepare to hurl myself at it. As my feet come off the ground, I hear Morimer placidly intone, “I suppose I should point out…that she’s put wards on the thing..” My eyes widen, and I have just enough time to brace myself for a now definitely expected impact. I land against the stone with my shoulder, with a sound, thudding, “Oof!” Morimer and Mr. White both just kind of stand there and look at me, and I return their stares with another sigh of exasperation. “Well then, what do we do?” We decide on a rather spooky, albeit somewhat cliché, method of action. With practice, I can affect physical change, and Morimer begins to teach me how, even though “it’s against my better judgement.” We start with rolling a pebble. I roll it as always, but once I look back at it after turning away, the pebble remains in its original spot. After I begin to concentrate on it, though, all its edges have that peculiar, watery feel to it, and attempts at rolling it around feel like attempts at rolling a ball of water. It’s difficult, but I eventually get it. Morimer nods, pleased. “Now if there were a living being here, he woulda freaked out, and thought he’d seen the hand of God, or something.” ______________________________________________ On the way back, we chat still more. He explains to me the potency of the hundred dollar bill: because people believe it to be worth something, it is. In the spirit realm, what it carries isn’t the value of a hundred dollars, but energy in the form of human faith. “All that’ll buy you all kinds of goods or services. All the spirit realms are different idea spaces, right? But they’re all connected, and there are people available to take you from one realm to another, usually by a major waterway.” Puzzled, I say, “I don’t recall ever seeing any body of water in the Board realm.” “Well, no, because it’s a frickin’ oubliette. Once you’re there, you’re stuck. I don’t think they’d even let any proper waterway in there.” I ask about all results of all the reflective surfaces I’ve ever touched, and he tells me that it’s still all a result of exercising willpower. I took only the spirit of the items I touched, and they ceased to be mirrors at that point. All the weapons that I took—the knife, the gun—would damage others, but only as far as my will dictates. “And I’ve already said that you’re a candle,” he adds. Now that I know how to affect physical objects, that could change. More immediately, though, we decide that in order to get my body, I could write a message on a mirror when the proper person or people are looking at it—like, say, a policeman, or cemetery security. Before that, though, I need to practice. And as Mr. White and I head back to the hotel, Morimer flies off, and attempts to gain confirmation from various others that Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide is, indeed, the Black Queen. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/9/03 9:53:25 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 231 (4/8/03 10:57 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “I prithee take the cork out of thy mouth, that I may drink thy tidings.” -- Rosalind, from William Shakespeare’s As You Like It (III, ii) Zhong Huang and I chat some more as we await the bird’s return. I even throw out the idea to search for Athena so that we might better help Dr. Ostrog. I eventually rule it out, though, because I remember that she’s trapped in the Board realm, and she doesn’t have a position of power that I can recall. This can’t bode well for her ability to strategize against the White and Black Queens. And speaking of the White Queen, he tells me that she is, indeed, rather angry with me. I laughingly ask, "You mean in the way that people get when a kid spills juice on the carpet?" Zhong Huang gives me a charming grin as he says, "More like the way one would become when the child decides to take a piss on the carpet...while the adult stands on it." I flush slightly, and merely offer a nervous chuckle and an "Oopsies" in return. And because I ask, the Jester, he tells me, "is fine," though I have to wonder at his meaning...simply because I told him not to tell me anything if she weren't fine (I remembered the Red Queen's warning about worrying about leaves in the forest). Once I find myself wondering aloud if she really is fine or not, I start to regret opening my big mouth. I also ask him about how he gets his history as “Mr. White,” since, not being from this plane of frickin’ existence, he doesn’t have a social security number, a passport, any other ID, money, or anything. Calmly, he says that all of that was previously provided to him by the White Queen, who coached him on how to field questions on his background and history. He doesn’t know how she goes about procuring such backgrounds. Other than those bits of information, the chat is so fruitless that it doesn't yield much else. Aside from knowledge of the characters of the Board realm, he doesn’t know too much about other mythologies, and so isn’t too much help here. And in trying to puzzle out the various dead ends we’ve hit, he doesn’t yield much. I rather get the feeling that he’s the Chinese Ace of Spades—though he is better at making decisions, and perhaps less susceptible to suggestion (although he did fall prey to the White Queen), he is just as poor at perceiving machinations as she is. At around midnight, Mortimer returns. As always, he brings useful information. From his connections, and from his own research, he tells us that though he still has no direct evidence of Elizabeth being the Black Queen, he himself is convinced. Dr. Ostrog is not the Black King, however. Elizabeth might have used Dr. Ostrog’s vampire killings as an excuse to capture him, and stretch him by his entrails out for a mile not as a punishment, but as an attempt to harness his creative forces as Prometheus. The problem there, though, as Mortimer informs us, is that Dr. Ostrog is not Prometheus, even though he carries himself that way, and even presents himself to others that way. According to Mortimer, he’s actually Epithemeus. I release my answer in a rushed breath. “That explains it! Ever since I was told, I thought he didn’t seem very Prometheus-y! If he’s Epithemeus, it makes a crap load of sense! After finding out about his history, I couldn’t believe that Ostrog actually willingly went looking for Elizabeth, and even stood with me at her damn house! 'How can he possibly be the personification of foresight,' I thought. But if he’s hindsight personified, it makes more sense.” Frowning now, I stop to ask, “But I wonder why he’s allowing himself to be tortured this way, if he’s not Prometheus—that is, if Elizabeth has him and is attempting to harness his power for herself, then she doesn’t know who or where the real Prometheus is. Why doesn’t Epithemeus run away?” Morimer shrugs. “I d’nno. You already said that he isn’t too bright.” Without realizing it, a nervous giggle escapes my lips. “It’s a funny thing, though.” “What?” And here I throw a worried looks at the box of artifacts. “Well, if he’s Epithemeus, and I developed a friendship with him…well, I can’t help but feel like Pandora, faced with all of Zeus’ boxed rages. She was meant as a trick for Prometheus, but he didn’t take it, and so Pandora ended up with Epithemeus instead. It’s just an interesting…ah, coincidence.” And, unbidden, I recall the Red King’s words. “This place ‘as the ten’ency t’ create ‘coinci’ences.’ The more often ‘ose coinci’ences occur, the more lyek’ly it becomes f’ more ‘coincidences’ t’ follow.” Morimer shoots a glance at the box, and then returns his pointed gaze at me. “Yeah. Interesting coincidence.” A pause, and then, “…well, have you opened it?” I frown. “Well, of course. You were here when I showed you the items!” His face falls noticeably, and his voice weakens a tad. “Oh. Right. I’m hosed.” “Oh, come now. Nothing’s happened yet,” I offer hopefully, though the words don’t do much to cheer either of us. In an attempt to lighten the mood a little, I throw out the other question I’d been wondering. “Is there a living—and I mean “living” in quotation marks—person who takes on the role of the chess board?” Morimer furrows his feathered brow, and shakes his head. “No, no person acts as the board.” My countenance darkens at this, and I think, Well, if she’s not the board, then there’s only one other option left, really. I thought that she was, but I was hoping she wasn’t… But Morimer continues. “Other research I’ve done shows that, of the Board realm's entire population, one hundred and twenty people were from this word, and none of them are supposed to be there. All were lured in somehow, or wandered in themselves, and got stuck.” And he looks pointedly at me before continuing. “Anyway, I’m glad I found ‘em, so I can pass the word on. I know some of the fellas who were supposed to collect some of them.” I frown. “But, wait, there are others who can move freely between realms, even aside from the Cheshire. What about Snow White? I know she can move between territories in the Board realm freely, but does she exist outside of the realm? And Rose Red could, for sure.” “Well, Rose Red is a little freer.” “Okay, but what about the others? And how, then, would the archetypes originate and function, if it wasn’t for lost people?” A moment, and then he fairly bursts out (well, it’s still rather calm, but considering how patient and serene he usually is, it’s “bursting” for him), “I don’t know. All I know is, because of my own diligent leg work, and tough research, there are one hundred and twenty people missing, who got themselves lost there and got stuck.” “Wait, even if the Rose Red archetype is freer, you’ve already spoken to her. So you’ve been in the Board realm, and came back, right?” He blinks. “What? No! That place is an oubliette! I keep telling you that…and I don’t go in there. I wouldn’t be able to get out.” “What? Then how did you speak with Rose Red?” “Well, she’s in the Tree.” “The grendel tree in the White Queen’s domain, yes?” And now he seems thoroughly confused. “What? No. Grendels are universal, so they exist everywhere. I didn’t have to go into the Board realm at all. And to be honest, I only use the word ‘grendel’ because it seems to be what you’re comfortable with. Others call them ‘night terrors.’” This is news to me; unexpected, but definitely welcome. “Really…?! Can I…can I go to talk with her too, then?” My throat constricts, and my mouth suddenly feels like it’s just tasted the sands of the Sahara. Still, I’m hopeful, even though I don’t quite expect his next words. “Sure, if you want to.” “Oh. Uhm. Well, how long do you think we’ll be gone? We’re supposed to meet Zhu Ming later this morning.” He shrugs, and preens his feathers a bit. “Oh, I don’t know. An hour or so. It depends on how long you talk to her.” I shoot a glance at Zhong Huang, and he merely looks back at me, until I ask, “Will you be joining us?” Morimer interrupts now without wasting a moment, and his voice is only slightly apologetic. “I can’t carry all that. You’re a spirit, so you don’t weigh much. But him, he’s mass.” We agree that Mr. White will just wait for us to return, and Morimer instructs me to lean halfway out the window. I do so, and he flutters out into the moonlight, and clasps me by the shoulders with his claws. It’s not comfortable, certainly, but it isn’t painful, either, and so I endure. And without more warning than that, we’re off, and I take a sharp breath of cold night air. He flies faster than I’ve ever moved, it seems, to the point where I think I’m moving faster than I have on rollercoasters. First the city, then various townships vanish beneath us as his wings stretch, pump, and glide, and all the landscape below just blends in with the darkness in an unclear blur. Before I know it, I hear Morimer calling to me, “We’re going to pass through shadow now!” I open my mouth to ask him what he means by that, and I actually feel myself offering the words, but I realize that I’m surrounded by both darkness and silence. This is rather like being in the mirror…except that I could hear myself talk then. I don’t have time to dwell on that, though, because we punch through pretty soon, and I can see the Tree up ahead. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/9/03 9:09:33 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 232 (4/9/03 9:17 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The things that have been and shall be no more, The things that are, and that hereafter shall be, The things that might have been, and yet were not, The fading twilight of joys departed." -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Christus--Divine Tragedy--First Passover (III, Marriage in Cana) We touch ground, and as Morimer gently sets me down, I can see grendels inconspicuously scurrying away in various directions. Above me, Morimer chuckles and says with no small amount of pride, "They’re terrified of me, bringer of death that I am." I nod, and then remain silent as my eyes land upon Rose Red’s beautiful face, and I try to swallow the customary anger at what I see. Noticing it too, Morimer murmurs, "Oh, they’ve got her gagged again." And he hops onto the bark of the tree, waddles close to her, and with his beak begins to pry the gag loose. Eventually, it drops out from between her lips, and I step closer to her as she just wordlessly blinks at me. Every step moves me closer, and once I get close enough, I reach out a nervous hand and gingerly run my fingertips along her proud cheeks. Softly, then, I murmur, "Hello, Rose Red…" She continues to blink, but now she also furrows her brow, and she reminds me of Thrace as she does so, in the way that she appears to be trying very, very hard to remember something, but doesn’t quite succeed. My face offers her what I hope to be encouragement, and as I trace my thumb lightly over those soft lips that once held mine in a tender kiss, she begins to speak. Unfortunately, she is not as I remember her (not even from the last time I visited her at the tree), and her words carry more uncertainty than the deliberate vagueness of the old Rose Red. Her voice, once so vibrant and full of confidence, now sounds worn and faded. "Hello." A pause, and then, "…it’s been…a while, hasn’t it?" I take a shallow inhalation of breath, and try to fend off the conflicting emotions: anger, that she should be kept here this way; sorrow, that in being here, she will be forgotten; sadness, that perhaps she has forgotten me; desperation, that the information I seek will elude me once again. "Rose Red…do you…do you remember who I am?" She continues to frown as she thinks, and as I watch, with my hands still on her skin, I try to smooth away the creases it brings to her face. A moment more, and her words remain as halting as they have been so far. "I do remember…but it feels like it’s been…a while." Oh, what I would give to release her from this…! "Yes, about a week or so, I think…" She doesn’t answer, and as I look upon her, I want to weep at this withered shadow of my former friend. Instead, I take a shuddering breath, and say with a quivering voice, "Uhm, Rose Red, I came to ask you some things…Mr. White tells me that when you trust your intuition enough, you set things in motion. Did you have some sort of plan for everything that’s happened with me so far…?" She shuts her eyes very briefly, and her only answer is, "I…don’t really remember. I’m sorry." And she does sound genuinely apologetic…but this certainly is not like the Rose Red I knew. Though this comes to me as a blow to my hopes, I’m honestly not any better or worse off than I was before…but this is rather disappointing. "That’s okay…what about the Black King? Do you know who he is?" "No." "And the Black Queen? Is she this woman?" And I take out a picture of Elizabeth. She frowns at it, and looks again like she’s exerting some effort in trying to remember. "…I don’t remember. I’m sorry." I sigh and fold the picture back up, and put it away. "Why did you pass your thorn along to me, Rose Red?" "Because you needed it. Without it, you definitely would not have been able to avoid the White Spider." I blink, and my amazement and disbelief are betrayed by my voice. "How…how did you know about that?" She frowns again. "…I’m not sure." My face clouds with pain and concern as I run a fingertip along one of her dark, well-formed brows. And after a moment, at the feeling of unspeakable loss, I rest my forehead gently against hers, and murmur, "Rose Red, what’s happened to you…?" She blinks, and then she offers gravely and deliberately, "My archetype must be pure. It must be free of people like me." "What do you mean, ‘people like you?’ I don’t understand…" At this point, I can see a grendel come sauntering warily up to us along the bark of the tree, and he carries, of course, a gag. I release an audible growl at that, and Morimer notices. My feathered companion steps near the grendel as he approaches and calmly intones, "Nice gag ya got there. I guess you’re not planning to gag yourself with it, huh?" The grendel gives his head a tight shake. Morimer continues, "See that guy over? He," and he inclines his head toward some poor, random grendel, "could use a gagging. Why don’t you take your gag and go gag him?" The grendel scurries away, his fear plainly written on his face. From the other side of the tree, though, comes another grendel, presumably ready to attack. At this, Morimer flies into action. Beak first, he dives for the grendel, and lands exactly where he wishes to be. A pained cry echoes through the large room (which is now curiously devoid of all grendels), and the poor creature slaps a long-fingered hand to the bleeding, gaping hole where his eyeball used to sit. Then, following his compatriots’ leads, he rushes out of the room as well, leaving me and Morimer with the tree. Morimer returns to me with a slight swagger in his spry little steps, eyeballed lodged securely in his beak. Without wasting another moment, he tilts his head up, and just swallows it down, the way we would raw oysters. "It doesn’t taste that great, being a grendel eye, but it’s okay. I was hoping they’d pick a fight. More eyeballs that way." And he smacks his lips. Beak. Whatever. I just nod, take my glasses off to relieve some of the pressure that’s built up in my head, and return my attention to Rose Red. "What do you mean, ‘free of people like you?’ I have the opportunity now to leave the Board realm, but I’m not going to go until I get some things done, and one of those things is establishing a new protector, and that means freeing you. You’re Rose Red." "I am…was…merely a holder of the title. Rose Black will fail. Another Rose Red will rise." A moment of quiet falls between us, and in this moment, I can almost pretend that we’re alone, our eyelashes gently touching, her breath warm on my skin, and mine on hers. But, as much as it hurts to admit it, she’s not who she once was. With a cracking voice that’s barely above a whisper, I ask, "…well then, what’s the most efficient way to ensure this new Rose Red’s rise?" She pauses a moment, and when she next speaks, her voice rings with quiet conviction. "Kill the Black Queen." I close my eyes at the idea that so daunts me. It’s something I plan to try anyway, but still…it’s easier said than done… "But another will come to power in her place…" "It’s not the archetype, but this particular Black Queen. She is the source of all the corruption in the realm." A brief moment, and her weariness is evident in her next words. "I’m sorry I can’t help you more. I’m very, very tired." I nod, and as I lift my forehead from hers, I lightly brush my lips against each eyelid to shut them, and then I part from her with a gentle kiss to those still soft and supple lips. "Goodbye, Rose Red." ______________________________________________ Father MacHaggerty, curiously, doesn’t appear to have faded memories of his life prior to the tree. Indeed, he seems just as alive and mentally alert as he was before. When I tell him about the possibility of being released from the tree, unless he wishes to stay, he answers, "It’s an odd thing, but this tree actually has a community of its own. We all talk to each other, you see, through the sap." Curious. "Do you hear anything from Rose Red, ever?" He furrows his brow and says, "More impressions than anything else—she’s usually incoherent. But what I do catch has something to do with purity, and something about Mr. White." "It’s strange how…faded she seems as a person, like the tree is sapping her energy away, or something." A brief moment of consideration, and then, "It sounds deliberate on her part, if you ask me. Like she’s willing herself out of existence." I sigh, and then cast a sorrowful glance at Rose Red’s sleeping face. Nothing more I can do about that now… "What about Thomas?" After a moment of quiet, he says, "The last I saw, he was walking away from this room in the company of the Bishop." Oh, hell! That means that he's either dead, or being tortured by the White Queen. I pause just enough to paranoidly think, Or worse, he's a zombie, or something, and I'm going to have to kill him myself later on...I think that'd make the White Queen happy, watching me kill my own friend in order to defend my ideals, or something. But I can't do anything about that right now, either. And then I remember Morimer’s words about where Father MacHaggerty would be if he weren’t already with the grendels. "So I take it that you’d prefer to stay here?" "…I think I could do more good here, yes." I nod, bid him a good evening, and Morimer and I are on our way back to New York. Strangely, as I leave this land of the gruesome and macabre, I don't feel a burst of freedom the way I expected to; instead I feel more depressed and lonely than I ever did before. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 235 (4/9/03 5:22 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Yet the deepest truths are best read between the lines, and, for the most part, refuse to be written.” -- Amos Bronson Alcott, Concord Days--June--Goethe As we fly back, Morimer and chat a little while longer. I ask about the grendel tree, since I can’t figure out why it’s there. It’s gruesome, that’s for sure, but surely it has some other purpose. Mortimer tells me that it’s a Tree of Life. And when I look at him blankly, he further explains that the Tree itself is alive and aware, and its roots go deep down into the recesses of human consciousness. The Tree I saw was merely a single branch of an even greater tree, and all the realms are separate branches. Thus the realms themselves are their own sovereign idea spaces, but they remain connected. The room housing the Tree was once used as an advising room, and the grendels now find heads to put on it, but they do it more out of habit and tradition than for using it the way it used to be. For some reason, an image of Rose Red rises in my mind, and I ask, "Since you can see souls so clearly, I wonder if you know...people have told me that I carry Rose Red's essence with me. Do they mean that I've her essence within me, or are they referring to the thorn?" "I think she put just enough essence in you so that you can operate the thorn." "...but what about Mr. White? He can operate the thorn just fine." "Yes, well, Mr. White is special." When I ask about the Black Queen’s powers, and how it compares to the White Queen’s ability to control everything she sees, he corrects me by saying, “Well, the White Queen can’t control everything she sees. She can only issue commands to everyone she sees. And how you obey it depends on how you interpret her words. But she doesn’t have to say the commands out loud, so it’s harder to get around them then. The Black Queen, on the other hand, can actually kill things in her line of sight." When I ask about Elizabeth’s ability to perform magic, Morimer tells me that magic is usually acts of will, backed up by spirits. He warns me, though, that some people have strong enough wills that they don’t need the help of spirits. Elizabeth is one such person. Her specialties lie within two realms of study: that of influence, and that of manifestations. The power of influence can be seen as exercising enough will upon people to affect how they think or respond, or exerting enough will to create “coincidence.” And at these words, I remember again the Pandora analogy, and I furrow my brow in worry. The power of manifestation usually affects the physical world. That is, she can “create” physical things in the world of the living, and leave lasting change. And at this I wonder about the dream I had of Elizabeth before I met her, and my meeting with her subsequently…and then to the reflectionless Elizabeth at the house in White Plains…and finally to the Elizabeth who smiled so beguilingly at me as she landed me in a spirit trap. … if she has manifestation magic, then she could actually spend far more time in Wonderland than I initially thought. But I don’t understand…she must have been giving me a hint with the dream, and the lack of reflection thing, because she had one the next day, and I don’t think she’s careless enough to have simply ‘forgotten.’ But why would she be empowering me with this kind of information? Above me, Morimer’s voice rings out clear. “We’re going to pass through shadows again!” And I’m now surrounded again by a darkness that engulfs everything, and am silenced by that eerie, unbreakable quiet. After a few moments, though, townships far below us appear. We start nearing the city again, and I ask, “Hey, Morimer, did we just pass through the metaphorical equivalent of a mirror? I mean, that shadow stuff seems to be a barrier…but then, wouldn’t the Black Queen know if we passed through, if she can control shadow?” “Oh, the Black Queen can control shadows, but not in the way that you’re thinking—hell, even I can control shadows.” “Really? How?” A pause, and then, “And I hope you don’t mean by just lifting a wing when the sun’s out, or something, and then watching it move, or something lame like that.” He laughs. “No, I didn’t mean that, but it’s a good idea. I can do that, too…” We reach the hotel, and he screeches out, “Damn! He closed it, the bastard! Alright, close your eyes! I’m gonna throw you in!” “What?” “The window!” In vague indignation, then, “I don’t have to close my eyes to pass through!” And as the window draws ever nearer, he caws, “Alright, just wanted to give you fair warning!” And he heaves me forward, and his claws let go. As I soar closer to the stone and glass building, I do actually find myself shutting my eyes…just in case. And I feel that familiar watery kind of passing, and I tumble to a messy, heaped stop at the feet of Mr. White, who merely blinks at my ungraceful arrival. As I stumble to my feet, one hand rubbing a sore spot on my head, Mr. White and I both turn at look at Morimer, who raps impatiently at the window. Mr. White opens the window, and as Morimer hops in, I exclaim, “I get it! You have to be let in!” Morimer sighs, ruffles his feathers a little bit, and then pauses to admire its sheen. “Yep.” I almost laugh. “Well! That’s good to know! If you have to be let in, surely Elizabeth, as a vampire, would have to request permission as well!” “As a vampire, sure. She needs to have willing victims to feed on—it’s why vampires give their victims pleasure, so that the humans are more likely to give in, and the vampires are going to get more in return than they gave—and she needs to be let in, the way I do. But there are instances when she doesn’t have to do that.” “…when?” “Oh, well, like at her house, for example.” I roll my eyes slightly at this bit of obvious—at least, I consider it obvious—information, and the words that follow come about in a slight rush. “Well, I know that. But I wanted to make sure that if she showed up here, I could refuse her request, and call security, or something, to have her escorted away.” Morimer glances about our posh suite, and murmurs, “…No, I think she’s got stock in this place. She likes antiques.” I blink. And then I get rather angry. “Well, s h i t! Why the hell, then, did Zhi Ming set us up in this place?!” Morimer blinks. “Who, that Dragon lady? Hell, she don’t know anything! She makes sure not to bother with other realms and ideas.” And he pauses just long enough to emit a self-righteous, indignant snort. “She thought I was a creature of no consequence. Hah!” I frown, gather up all my stuff, look pointedly at Mr. White, and I flatly intone, “We’re checking out. Right now.” He nods in quiet agreement. ______________________________________________ As we settle into our new shithole of a hotel room (thankfully, it’s not roach infested, as I believe that not even roaches would deign to grace this room with their presence), Morimer tells us that, “I’ve seen enough about Elizabeth that I’m convinced, at least. If she’s not the Black Queen, then she’s sleeping with her! Literally!” I nod in response, but that doesn’t appear to be enough. He adds, “And using the bathroom with her! At the same time!” I give my head a more vigorous nod now, lest he think me a complete dunce. “Yes, yes, I got you the first time, thank you.” And we begin our attempts to convince Mr. White to join us in our pre-emptive attack. At some point, Morimer mentions the quill in my possession, and I give him a stern look and fall quiet. Despite what I think about Mr. White being unable to perceive others’ machinations, he does seem surprisingly good at reading body language…because right after I fall uncomfortably silent, Mr. White excuses himself to go to the bathroom. I sigh and give Morimer a frustrated sigh and look of minor annoyance. Morimer frowns, confused. “What? I thought you trusted him.” “I do, but…” Another sigh. “But I was hoping to have Mr. White there with me as I did it. And if he’s to be a diversion, he ought to be convincing, don’t you think? And I was careful about not telling anyone about it, so that I could keep it as a secret. Too many cooks spoiling the broth, and all that. How do you know about the quill, anyway?” With a shrug and almost boyish grin (well, it would be boyish if he weren’t a bird), he murmurs, “…I went looking through your stuff.” Yet another sigh. “Oh.” “I am sorry. It was just part of my research on you, and I didn’t think you’d be mad.” “…well, at least you’re telling me. That remains something in your favor, at least.” A pause, and then I recount for him the instructions the Manticore left me. “Dammit, this sucks. I don’t want to kill anyone. Even if I do, I don’t know if I can use the quill on her. I don’t know how it works…is it only one charge? That is, a one-time only kind of use? And what if the next time I see her, I’m faced with nothing more than a manifestation?” “The quill is from the Manticore, isn’t it?” He clucks his tongue as I nod in answer, and then he murmurs mostly to himself, “Huh. The Manticore’s getting braver.” “What? Why?” “Well, if he gave you that, and he told you specifically to use it on her, then that means that he’s gearing up for a will-to-will, out and out war with the Black Queen. It is a only use only thing, but if I go with you, you don’t have to worry about the manifestation bit. I can tell if she’s there or not; her magic doesn’t and won’t fool me.” I nod gravely, and am just going over various details in my head when I hear a brisk knock at the door. I frown, and then quietly let Mr. White (who actually just sat in the bathroom all that time) know. When he emerges from the bathroom, we both head over to the door, and frown. There’s no one we’re expecting, and certainly not at almost 2 am. I head toward the door with the intention of looking through the peephole, when Mr. White blocks my path, shakes his head, and goes to do it himself. Oh God, I hope it’s not— I don’t get to finish my thought, because just as Mr. White puts his face by the entry to our hovel, the part of the door by the peephole suddenly shatters and splinters. My unspoken fear is confirmed, and I can feel my throat tighten nervously at the imminent confrontation. You might be noticing that I'm using "Zhong Huang" and "Mr. White" interchangeably in the narrative. Because I have a thing with names, when I address him directly, I consciously call him "Zhong Huang" unless other people (who know him as "Mr. White") are around. Then I refer to him as "Mr. White." I hope it's not too confusing. For those who know, or care (and because I'm getting way out of practice): "Kage no Jyou-sama" no jikai! Supaado no Eesu ni aimasu, hotondo kenka o shimasu yo. Honto ni! Tanoshimi o shite kudasai! Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/9/03 8:25:15 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 236 (4/9/03 8:48 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The falcon and the dove sit there together, And th' one of them doth prune the other's feather.” -- Michael Drayton, Noah's Flood A single black, razor sharp, thorn-shaped blade pushes easily through the wood, and forces its way into our room. Mr. White dodges the attack with quick enough reflexes that he isn’t harmed, but he does manage to slap a palm against the flat side of the blade, and pins it to the flat back of the door. With that blade now immobile, he calmly turns to me and asks, “May I borrow your thorn, please?” I hesitate only a little, and as I give it to him, I ask pointedly, “And I will get it back, right?” He nods. “Of course.” And immediately, the thorn shifts into the massive blade that draws an impressed breath from me. I don’t have time to admire it, though, because thick, prickly vines begin to wind their way past the gaping hole in the door to entirely wrap around the shoddy wooden structure, pull it off its hinges, and retrieve the thorn blade in the process. As the door gets tossed into the dark alleyway just beyond the room, I can only stand and stare at the lovely Ace of Spades. And her eyes are fixed on Mr. White, who holds his own blade ready. And I still can’t help but smile slightly at the way her voice takes to the air. To Mr. White, she calmly intones, “…I wasn’t expecting you here.” It’s so smooth, and while it delivers her message plainly, it carries faint traces of teasing with it. At that kind of greeting, Mr. White just barely inclines his head graciously forward, and gives a smile that even the White Queen would be proud of. With my heart pounding in my ears, I breathe quietly, “…what are you doing here?” And upon seeing me, I could almost swear that her eyes, before hardened from the promise of battle, soften a bit. Her voice stays as firm as it always is, however. “I have come to collect Morimer.” I blink, and I resist the urge to reach out and stroke her hand or cheek. “But why?” She tilts her head slightly at me, and then calmly enunciates, “Because he interferes with our plans.” My left brow arches of its own accord now, because I totally don’t follow. “Whose plans? And what plans are these? What?” “The plans of my Queen.” And after my unexpectedly painful reunion with Rose Red, I just can’t take this. I can feel my eyes widen, and I can’t even control my voice at this point. “Oh no! Then you have gone back to her! The last time I saw you, you were trying to reconcile your two roles. Is that all you are, then, now that you’ve gone back? Are you going to kill me next? Oh, god, I knew that if you went back to her, you’d get broken again…!” She looks at me oddly now, and her face appears to soften still further at my rebuke. “I’m not going to hurt you, Christina. I am the Ace of Spades, but I am still also a defender of the innocent. I was broken before, but I’m no longer broken. I did figure out who I am. I am a tool, and I am Duty.” I blink. Is this woman for real? “No, see, that’s just it! That’s how she convinced you!” And here I cup either side of her jaw in my hands, and I look sternly at her. “You’re not just a tool! You’re a living, thinking, feeling being. What you’re doing now is blind! You mustn’t just obey, because if you do, you’ll be just as broken as you were before. All the Aces’ hearts are normally their own, but in blindly obeying her order, your heart isn’t your own, but her will. Don’t you see?” She blinks, and even though she doesn’t sound it, I can see the confusion begin to rise in her lovely features. “But I don’t obey blindly. I consider it very carefully first.” I give my head a slow shake, and as my temper yields, the harshness of my tone also eases. “But of course she would phrase it in a way that would make sense to you. And that’s another tactic of hers—to make you seem and feel less human. I bet you don’t even have a name…” And I remember something I’ve wanted to ask her for the longest time. More gently now, “What is your name, if you have one?” At this turn of events, it’s her turn to blink. Her own voice now soft, she asks, “…what would you call me?” “…well, I had a name for when you were still in the Red Realm. I was going to call you ‘Romany’ then, because of your wandering. It doesn’t suit you quite so well now. I’ll need to think a little while longer on one that would be more fitting.” A few moments of quiet fall between us, and it would seem as though both Mr. White and Morimer are all but forgotten. She looks at me expectantly, and I just allow my gaze to roam over her pretty face and well kept form…and slowly, a smile finds its way to my lips, and I release her face from my hold. “Peregrine. Like the falcon.” And once I say it, I’m immediately pleased by it. It does suit her, with her being a huntress, named after a noble, black and white bird of prey known for its courage and swiftness. Briefly I recall the line about the act of bestowing names upon things, and gaining subsequent dominion over them…but even if it doesn’t, I at least have a way of addressing her as a person, that’s free from the implications of either of her roles. She gives me a meaningful look (but, unfortunately, I can’t always discern the meanings of the multitude of looks she’s given me thus far), and merely says, “Thank you,” in response. Just a few seconds longer, and then she turns her attention to Mr. White. “Do you believe me, that I’m not broken?” Mr. White merely furrows his brow, and gives a half-embarrassed, “Well, not really.” She frowns at this, and I attempt to soothe her. “It’s okay…” “No. It’s important to me that he sees I’m no longer as I was before.” I sigh. “Alright. But do you remember when you first asked me about Rose Red, so that you could better sort out your roles?” She nods, and I continue. “Well, you said earlier that you are also ‘defender of the innocent.’ That was one of Rose Red’s main roles, but she had other aspects to her. It’s going to be really hard for you to reconcile your two roles. Rose Red was also, for instance, Just Violence, Revenge for Innocence Lost, and Passion, among other things. I hope you don’t take offense at this, but you seem to be missing the meaning of ‘passion.’ You have ‘enthusiasm,’ maybe, but not higher passion. “And when you give no reason for following your order other than ‘it interferes with my Queen’s plans’ without knowing what those plans are, your action doesn’t seem very just anymore, does it? It’s hard for others to see any development past your former self if you continue to present yourself the way that you have been.” And now, completely unexpectedly, she’s the one who reaches out a hand, and cups my face tenderly in her palm. My eyes widen slightly as her gaze bears into me, and her voice wraps around me like a protective quilt. “I won’t hurt you, Christina.” And more firmly now, “But I do want you to know that I’m not broken.” I nod at the conviction in her voice. “Alright. I believe you. After all, you’ve not hurt anyone yet, and you haven’t yet executed what you’ve come here to achieve. But consider this. Morimer is also helping me. Your Queen wishes to consume me, Peregrine. Taking Morimer away from me would be depriving me of a possible way to go against that fate. That is what your Queen wishes to accomplish. Is that just, then?” I shut my eyes for a brief moment as I remember the plans that so intimidate me, and I lean into her touch just a little bit. Faintly now, in a voice tinged with misery, I say, “She wants to consume me. Why else do you think I was brought here…?” She blinks, and then creases her brow as she regards me curiously. When she completes her study, she takes her hand away from my face, and I’m a little surprised at the chill that immediately settles on my cheek once her warmth leaves me. Gravely, but as calmly as ever, she offers with careful deliberation, “I will check these allegations.” I nod…and because I can’t help myself, I lean upward and plant a tender kiss on her soft cheek. “Alright. And thanks…for listening.” And the lovely Ace of Spades once more gives me a curious glance before intoning, “As I said, I’m not going to hurt you. What I’m about to do, I do only to demonstrate.” I quirk a brow as I attempt to understand. “…uh, okay…” And she immediately blurs into action. She slips into the room with amazing speed and accuracy, and those thorny vines lift and fling Mr. White out past the doorless wooden frame, and into a metal dumpster in the alleyway outside, as if he were no more trouble than a broken rag doll. She avoids me completely, and despite Morimer’s resistance, she wraps a single strong hand around his neck, and he ceases to struggle. She glances at me, and then releases the raven. I glance out the door to see Mr. White getting up and brushing himself off, a frown on his lips. Once Mr. White returns to the room, she turns on her heel, nods to both of us, and leaves. I weakly call out, “Bye,” as she goes, and only that familiarly sharp clack clack clack clack of her boots as they resound against the pavement answers my farewell. My lungs heave a sigh, and I glance at Mr. White, who still frowns, and brushes dust and grime from his clothing. Breathily, I offer, “…doesn’t she just make you want to give her a big hug?” He pauses in his rushed grooming to quirk an incredulous brow, and to answer flatly, “No.” I grin. “Well, I want to give her a big hug. She’s all confused, the poor thing.” And, just as flatly, “…I’m sure.” And then he gives me a smile that plainly expresses how incorrigible he thinks I am. And perhaps he’s right. Morimer chirps in here with, “Mmm, I'd like to go toe-to-toe with her!” I blink. “What? Why? She'd have you in a second.” “It'd be worth it if I get at those eyes. They looked mighty tasty." I stare at him in disbelief, but he doesn't heed my silent warning. He continues, “Did you see them, those eyes? So big, so pretty. I bet they're delicious...” I arch a brow, and my tone sharpens a bit. “Keep talking in that vein, you're going to make me upset.” He looks disappointed, but does finally stop thinking about the Ace of Spade's eyeballs...or, at least, he stops thinking about them out loud. I take that as encouragement, and I say, “Anyway, I think that went rather well.” Mr. White gives me a look that would award me the “Understatement of the Year” award before continuing, “Considering how well she’s fused the efficiency of movement of the Ace of Spades with the speed and thorns of Rose Red, I’d say it went extremely well.” By now, Mr. White has finished brushing himself off, and he tosses me my thorn. As I catch it, it shifts sizes yet again into a full blade. With this to serve as warning, Mr. White and I both lift our gazes to the doorless frame just in time to see Elizabeth’s butler and a few of his cronies, two of whom I recognize as the vampires who dragged Dr. Ostrog away. And as they emerge from the shadows, I see that the butler carries an antique looking gun that's already cocked and aimed at us. Oh crap. And in a manner of speech that's rather like the Ace of Spades, he announces firmly and without preamble, “Let us in.” Oh, crap. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 237 (4/10/03 9:18 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The brave man is not he who feels no fear, For that were stupid and irrational; But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues, And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from." -- Joanna Baillie, Basil (act III, sc. 1, l. 151) Now faced with this, I do the only thing I can think of to do. I stall. With feigned blankness, I ask, "…what?" He merely repeats his command. "Let us in." S h i t, that means that they must have been watching, because the timing is too perfect…Crap, and since the Ace didn’t arrive until after the discussion of the quill, does Elizabeth know about that, too? But I continue to buy time in the hopes the Ace will return. "Wait, what are you doing here, anyway?" Calmly, then, "We knew that the Ace of Spades would not follow through with her order. We set her loose so that she would find you, and we’re here to do what she couldn’t. Let us in." Bingo! Finally! Houston, we have confirmation! Elizabeth is definitely the Black Queen if two separate sets of people got the same orders from the same person. I figured long ago that she was, but it feels good to finally be sure of what I’ve long suspected. The butler continues, "We’ve only come to collect Morimer. Let us in, or I’ll shoot." I glance at the gun that looks as harmless and well cared for as a collector’s piece. "If you shoot me, and the bullet actually affects me, won’t that upset your Mistress? I mean, that is the point, isn’t it? That she get something? And she isn’t here." The butler’s mouth eases into a slow smile, and he stares at me hard as he answers. "We will take what we can of you." "Is that it, then? You are so content, being a lackey?" And the smile remains, and he looks at me with faint surprise in his eyes. "There are varying levels of being a 'lackey.' My needs are met, my life taken care of." I spit out, "My god, then, you're not a lackey, you're worse--you're a lapdog." "I am an Enforcer." A pause. "Now let us in." "…is that thing even loaded?" The angles of his smile suddenly shift to become more angled, harsh. "Shall I give you a shot to test it out?" "…mmm, no, I’d rather not." A pause. "And I guess if they can affect me, they’re enchanted, or something, too, huh? "They are." The smile remains fixed on his lips now, but he continues to stand, watching me carefully. It’s about 2:30 to 2:45 am, and I pray and pray that either the Ace or Zhi Ming will show up. Pretty soon. Actually, now would be nice. Morimer flutters up onto my shoulder, and now mutters softly into my ear, "They’re lying. About something. I don’t know what, but they’re lying." I whisper back, "Why don’t you just fly out the window?" In a miserable voice, he answers, "They have spells waiting for me out there. I’d get caught before I even started. I think I might be able to come back from it, but I’m really not sure." The butler cuts in here very forcefully. "LET US IN." A minute has passed, and I’m beginning to lose hope at the thought of the Ace or Zhi Ming appearing to save our asses. In a panic, I burst out, "I’m considering it! Stop pressuring me!" "You’re not considering anything! You’re stalling!" "I am considering it! Now shut your fuckin’ mouth, and lemme think for a second, Jesus Christ!" And now I throw Mr. White a hurried glance that I hope screams, Well, you got a plan? He stands stock still, and doesn’t look at me. Great. I sigh at the butler, and quirk a mistrustful brow. "Wait, so if I let you in, you’ll take Morimer and then just go?" And he gives me a stern, impatient look. "Yes." My lip curls into a hateful sneer, and my voice fairly drips with my lack of faith. "I don’t believe you." In barely controlled exasperation now, he asks, "Well, are you going to let us in, or not?" And just so I can indulge in a moment of spite, I narrow my eyes at him, and I spit out, "NO." and I leap away from the door in the hope that I can avoid the bullet that surely has my name on it. As I leap away, the butler shifts his aim, and fires a shot at me that bites deep into my flesh, and then explodes at my left elbow. I slam my body against a wall so that the butler would have to reach it and turn a corner before he can shoot at me again. I glance down at my arm and release an anguished cry—my left forearm is useless, as it hangs onto the rest of my arm only by a single thin strip of skin. I’m bleeding way, way less than I expected, but that shouldn’t be surprising, as I am a spirit. Mr. White, meanwhile, has slipped into protector mode, and I see that while he stood there, stock still, and allowed me to talk, he took a good grip of the wooden chair beside him, and now he slams the chair into his attacker’s face. The wood shatters, but it doesn’t affect the attacker at all. Despite that, I see the development of Mr. White’s plan, because he grabs the remaining wooden leg of the chair, now pointed and sharp, and uses it to stake the vampire. The vampire releases a primal scream of pain and fury, and Mr. White shoves the wood still further into his assailant’s flesh. Unfortunately, Mr. White had to reach out past the threshold of the room to do that, and so the other vampires take hold of his arms, and drag him outside the room. The butler releases a shot into Mr. White’s gut, and Mr. White now grunts and falls to his knees. The butler takes hold of Mr. White’s head, and forcefully slams his head into the damp concrete of the alley before placing the barrel of the gun just behind Mr. White’s right ear. Curiously, he doesn’t aim the barrel toward the head, but parellel to it, so that it faces the concrete, just as Mr. White’s face does. "Will you let us in now? Any answer other than ‘yes,’ I will take as a ‘no.’" I’m generally fairly good at dealing with pressure, but this is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. And because the thorn really isn’t going to do much good now, without really even thinking about it, I will it small and tuck it back into a pocket as I plead, "What? Stop! This is insane!" BLAM! I see the point of it now—it’s a painfully slow, tortured death. Mr. White’s right ear gets blown off, but he’s still alive. Now, the butler roughly turns Mr. White’s head, and he takes hold of his left ear, and places the barrel behind it. "Will you let us in now?" I don’t answer. I can’t answer. Mr. White manages to growl, "NO," just before the butler grabs his hair, yanks his already bloodied head up, and slams it back down into the pavement. And he says coolly, "The question was not addressed to you, Mr. White." He glances at me again, and his lips take on a cruel, mirthless curve. "I have an entire body to go through, you know." A moment, and as I watch in horror, the butler intones, "FIVE…FOUR….THREE…" I don’t answer. I can’t. "…TWO…ONE…" BLAM! And now laughing, the butler sings out, "He’s suffering here for you!" The butler gets up and repositions himself before Mr. White. As he does so, I turn to Morimer, and I whisper, "You said you might be able to get away from his hold. I’m so sorry, Morimer, but I can’t…" He nods. "I know, it’s okay." "Hurry back to me, Morimer." Outside, the butler places the barrel against Mr. White’s nose, and I’m a little late noticing. The countdown has already started anew, and I stop him just in time. "…Three…two…!" "Alright! Stop! I’ll let you in!" The butler arches a brow, and almost looks disappointed. Immediately, though, he strides into the room, pauses at the door to intone graciously to his comrades, "Please. Do come in and join us!" And the other vampires begin to tie my right wrist and elbow to the upper corners of the bed, and I shout, "Wait, I thought you said you were just going to take the bird, and go!" The butler turns, and gives me a look that carries his contempt so well, that even I begin to despise myself. Without missing a beat, he smoothly replies, "I lied." Mr. White lies in an extremely bloody heap by the door, but I can still see him attempt to get up and continue to fight. The bullets must be powerfully enchanted, because I saw Mr. White get back up, unharmed, after being thrown into a dumpster, and denting it. He clutches at his abdomen, and through the mass of red, I can see his insides glisten and spill even as he tries to hold it in. While they’re busy with attempting to bind Morimer, I lift my legs up over my head in an attempt to get the thorn back out. I get close, very close…but I cease all motion as I feel the cold, cold barrel of the gun rest now at the nape of my neck. And, closer than I’d like, the butler’s icy voice slips into my thoughts, and I can feel his warm lips touch upon the outer folds of my ear as he speaks. "You’ll never get it out in time." In answer, I breathe a nervous, shaky sigh, painfully aware of the weapon that presses against my neck just below my skull. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/10/03 11:10:00 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 249 (4/21/03 9:52 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Submit or resign." -- Leon Gambetta As I lie here on the floor with my right wrist and left stump tied to the bottom corners of the bed frame, and the gun resting at my neck, I decide to try some of the more unobtrusive techniques to get my butt out of this rather unpleasant situation. First, figuring that every action done as a spirit depends on the power of sheer will, I attempt to will my left forearm reattached. The loose flaps of flesh wiggle a little, but to my massive disappointment, don’t do anything else. My jaw clenches in a bit of sudden panic, and I glance quickly outside the door to see the other vampires kicking and beating the bejeezus out of the already prone and unconscious Mr. White. Quickly, then, I make myself intangible, and hope that I will slip through the floor, and leave this madness. Since I’m the one they want, maybe they’ll leave Morimer and Mr. White alone, and just chase after me… It works! I begin to slip through the floor, beginning with my ankles, and then my knees, my hips…in fact, I slip through up to the sternum, and then…I stop, but not by choice. I remain above ground only because of the ropes that bind me to the bed frame. Dammit. The butler frowns, quickly slips his gun back into a hidden holster, and scoops me up, his hand at the small of my back, and his elbow at my hip. I try to wriggle one leg free of his grasp, that I might lock his torso in a scissor hold. Why is it that I’m intangible now, but he can hold onto me at all? I don’t have time to think on that, however, because with his free hand, he delivers a resounding slap to the side of my face. All my motions still as I blink in shock. His strike is enough to cause me to feel that white fuzz push inward against the edges of my thoughts and vision, but more than pain, I can feel rage begin to pulse persistently in my veins. Oh, you think you’re such a big man…I swear, if I weren’t tied, I’d be on your ass like a starving pitbull on a steak. And I place a resounding smack of my own to the back of his head with a free knee. He grunts as his head comes slightly toward me after impact. I briefly strain to get closer to him, that I might bite him, or something, but before I can, he lands another SLAP! to my face. Instead of struggling this time, I lie still, and I give him a venomous smile. He catches that, quirks a brow, and then, without turning his head, shouts to his cronies, "Leave him! He’s not the dangerous one!" I blink at that, but before I know it, they’re inside. Without wasting a moment, the butler informs them, "She’s got an artifact in her pocket." One of the vampires begins to reach toward the pocket, evidently to relieve me of the thorn. Before he even get near it, the butler bellows, "Do you want to lose your hand? Take these off!" What the hell…? But it becomes obvious. While the butler watches, one vampire continues to hold me down, and the other begins to unbutton my pants. He starts to wriggle the material down past my hips, but I really struggle at this point. "Hey! Stop that! I’m shy!" And as I wiggle about, I thrust my right hip upwards, toward the vampire, and will the thorn large at the same time. It hasn’t worked before, but things haven’t been so dire before… To my delight, it does grow large. It rips through the pocket as it shifts into a full blade, the edge of which leaves a long, angrily red scratch against the vampire’s arm. Still, it does remain only a scratch. The vampire winces, and releases a choice word or two, but continues his task. Curiously, the vampires seem more intent on merely following orders than on truly harming me, and they both avoid the thorn at all costs. The black cotton garment rests at my knees now, with the thorn blade flopping about every which way, and eventually, the pants reach my ankles, and then they’re off, and tossed into a corner, the blade along with it. Despite the thoroughly disturbing circumstances, I still manage to find time for a thoroughly 21st century thought to form in the back of my head. I’m glad I got the non-wrinkle version of those dress slacks… As I watch the graceful arc of the formless legs of my pants as they land far from me, I will the blade small, and try to force it back to me. To my surprise, it starts to work—the thorn becomes its original size, and it begins to crawl back towards me, centimeter by painfully slow centimeter. But at least it’s working. The two nameless vampires (well, three, really, since the butler has remained merely "the butler" all this time) take hold of me once again, one at my ankles, the other at my wrist and stump. Somewhere in the background, Morimer, bound at the legs and wings like a Chinatown chicken ready for roasting, has loosened his gag, and has begun to cuss up a storm. Not heeding the less than elegant words from the feathered creature, the butler calmly begins to undo the buttons of my silken shirt, and then takes out a knife. With a steady hand that has undoubtedly performed such rituals before, he begins to trace out the forms of three concentric circles. Now finding this all too familiar, I begin to wiggle again (because, really, being bound as I am, what else can I do?), and the butler appears vaguely annoyed. He doesn’t bother to slap me again, as I expect, but he does spit out, "You are more trouble than you’re worth." And then he intones to the vampire at my head, "Jeffrey, get the stakes." Jeffrey (nameless no longer) retrieves them in a flash, and without ceremony, the butler takes them, and pounds two of them smoothly into my shoulders, two into my collarbone, and two just above my floating ribs. Try as I might, I can’t struggle anymore, really. The stakes feel as though they’ve anchored themselves into my very bones, and they seem enchanted to disallow any freedom of movement. At this, I can only release a pained sigh of futility. Another binding spell... Within the ring of the outer and middle circles, he writes words in Arabic, and some of them look familiar…at least, I think so (not being able to read Arabic, I can’t really tell). And within the space of the inner and middle circle, he inscribes a star and Greek symbols. The butler carves these into me in the span of a few seconds, and there simply isn’t much I can do to interrupt him. When he completes the etching, he begins to speak…and he begins with "Benedicti," but no other notes in his strangely canorous song of foreign words sound Latin, let alone vaguely familiar. When the incantation has been spoken, the lines in my flesh are no longer red or raw, but look professionally inked…and I release a broken sigh. In response, the butler tells the other two vampires that they're free to do as they wish. They look at each other, head out the door, and begin to drag Mr. White off somewhere. Angrily, I burst out, "What're you doing with him? Leave him alone! You already got what you wanted! He hasn't anything to do with anything!" The butler quirks a brow and calmly agrees. "You're right. He doesn't have anything to do with anything. Which means that he doesn't interfere with my Mistress' plans, so we can do with him whatever we please." I release a disgusted sigh, and throw a worried glance at the door. And, despite the futility of it, I struggle against my bonds. In answer, he wraps some of my hair none too gently in his fingers, and yanks my head back. Once more, he calmly enunciates, "Far more trouble than you’re worth." "Yeah, well, tell that your Mistress. It’s not like I wanted this to happen to me." He gives an almost gentlemanly smile as he leans close now, his eyes roaming over my face. Not trusting his closeness, I narrow my eyes at him and watch him carefully….I can feel the fingers in my hair tighten somewhat, and so I can’t do what immediately comes to mind, which to give him a headbutt. He continues to grace me with that smile, and as I watch, his canines lengthen. My lungs pull in a sudden, but deep breath as I feel his nearness. Almost as soon as that breath is pulled in, my lips part slightly to release it again...I suffer only a small sting of pain before I feel a sudden surge of heat, and the freshly tattooed area just above my breasts begins to feel very, very warm. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/21/03 10:59:26 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 252 (4/22/03 12:18 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Sweet it was in one sense, honey-sweet, and sent the same tingling through the nerves as her voice, but with a bitter underlying the sweet, a bitter offensiveness, as one smells in blood.” -- Harker, from Bram Stoker’s Dracula My eyes have slipped shut in response to this strange violation, and only vaguely, I wonder, I thought they had to have willing victims…Have I unwittingly consented somehow, or did admission into the room act as blanket permission…? But I can’t grasp the thought fully, and I can almost see the tail of the thought as it flitters away and leaves me behind to enjoy the sensations of this otherworldly intimacy. As much as I try to fight it, every iota of energy that he pulls from me also seems to sap me of my will…and slowly I lose myself in the warmth of this sudden dreamlike trance that has descended upon me. Soon, I pull in another breath, this one shuddering and shallow, as the butler removes his fangs from me. He does so slowly, and I can feel every fraction of every millimeter as the length of his teeth pull from my open flesh. A breeze stirs, and lightly touches upon the twin wounds upon my neck. Still in a haze, I only barely register the butler looking at me, but I do feel the next sensation. He leans close again, and runs his tongue lightly against the punctured skin. As I struggle to suppress a shiver, I can feel the dull stinging fade, and I instinctively know that the wounds are closed and healed. He gets up now, and regards me as coldly as he ever did. More than anything else, I’m delighted that we’re at least no longer touching, and I can feel my usual hatred for him returning. Unexpectedly, he picks my left forearm up off the floor, and places it solidly against my stump. “Here. Reattach it.” Though this is something I planned to do anyway, I’m still curious to know why he’s suddenly so desperate to have me healed completely again. And if he wants it done, I don’t know that that bodes well for me in the long run. So I ask. “Why?” “As whole as I can have you.” There’s no mistaking the impatience in his voice now. Since it’s already been away from me for about ten minutes, and it’s still okay for me to simply will it back onto the rest of me, time shouldn’t affect the state of the limb. I can always reattach it later…after all, Osiris was cut into a buncha pieces, and it was a long while before Isis and Horus found him and put him back together again. I lie there, and I don’t do anything. He frowns, and repeats his command. I lie there, and I don’t do anything. He scowls, and merely intones, “Fine.” And he takes other stakes, and pounds one into either side of my hip. He pauses a moment to look at me, and I give a blank, but curious blink in return. He grabs an ankle then, and stands up. Now supporting my leg by the knee, he pounds another stake into my right ankle. My eyes widen at this—I knew before that these stakes have some strange anchoring ability, but I didn’t quite get that they’re so short that they couldn’t possibly have landed into the wooden floors. Now my right leg hangs suspended in the air, with nothing but the enchanted stake to hold it in place. Now, despite the wild kicking of my left leg (because there’s no way my right leg is moving), he repeats the same process, with my legs spread apart, so that they make a literal “V” in the air. With me bound thus to the air, he turns to me and calmly intones, “Reattach your arm.” A pause, and then, “You can be made to feel pain.” I heave a sigh, and am damned thankful that at least I still have my underwear on. .. .. .. But that’s a situation that can be too easily changed…and I’d rather not think about that. So I reattach my arm, and pray that that’s all he wants from me. He nods in satisfaction, and calls out to the other vampires, “Alright, it’s time to release her!” He waits a moment, and then, upon not receiving any answer, he turns, and I follow his gaze. Morning light has begun to creep into the room, despite the fact that it’s a good couple of hours before the winter dawn. The other two vampires are nowhere to be seen (or heard), and the butler scowls in irritation as he takes the door from where it fell, and places it back into the doorway. The annoyance plain in his voice, he says, “I don’t know how that happened,” and he goes about slamming the blinds shut against the windows, “but there’s nothing we can do except wait the day out.” “…well, since you were going to release me anyway, would you release me now?” He lies on the raggedy bed then, and appears to prepare for sleep. “I’m going to wait. You should shut up and get some sleep.” And that’s that. Strange that he won't release me. It's like he's reluctant somehow, and it's not laziness on his part, nor is it, I think, from any sense of precaution...there's something else about these stakes that he needs the assistance of the others... Pretty soon thereafter, a knock sounds at the door, and I call out half innocuously and half pleadingly, “Yes?” The butler jerks up, strides over to me, grasps my jaw in an iron hand, and begins to stuff a gag into my mouth. Despite the hold on my jaw, I try to keep my mouth as tense as possible, so that when he goes away, I can relax my mouth enough to spit the gag out. Unfortunately, this must have been too simple a plan, because he also lodges a leather strip between my teeth, and ties it around my neck to keep the gag in. Once he’s done, he merely returns to the bed, and I’m left lying there as I was left before, but with new accessories against my tongue and teeth. The knock comes again, and I do the only thing I can do: I slam my head into the bed frame, hoping that the sound will travel easily past the flimsy door. To my delight, the concerned voice of the friendly Egyptian guy at the museum wafts over to me. “Christina, are you in there?” Though my head still aches from the last response I offered, I now give two sharp, quick raps of my head against the wood in wordless answer. And as my eyes travel around the room to seek out some sign that I was heard and understood, I can see the shadow of the Egyptian as he walks around to the window and tries to peer inward. Eventually, though, he leaves. My head lands against the bed frame once more, this time softly, and in a slump of depression rather than enthusiastic answer. During this time, I concentrate once more on getting the thorn back to me, and after many, many minutes, it does. Because of the way I’m bound, though, I can’t reach it with my hands, toes, or even my mouth, and so I tilt my head very carefully and will it towards my ear. After much struggle, I get it to rest securely, lodged between a piercing on one side, and cupped squarely against my ear on the other. A few more minutes pass, and suddenly the loud, clattering roar of a very old, unfiltered engine shatters the quiet of the little room. I can hear tired brakes squeal and cry as the vehicle pauses just outside, and soon—mercifully—the engine cuts, and the cacophony ceases. Another minute, and then more unexpected din, this time caused by a chair that flies through the window, crashes against and past the blinds, and into the room. With the window now in splinters of wood and glass, and the blinds tangled on the floor, I can finally see outside. A few well-muscled, rather obviously blue-collar guys stand ready just past the window frame…and the butler has already prepared himself. He sits perfectly upright on the bed, gun cocked and aimed. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/22/03 8:00:39 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 256 (4/22/03 7:53 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes, and Adversity is not without comforts and hopes.” -- Francis Bacon, Of Adversity At this unexpected development, the butler bursts out in an angry, but withered, old voice, “What d’you think you’re doin’ in my room?!” I can’t help but blink and stare, and I attempt to crane my neck as far around as possible to look at the butler, who now sounds about 85 or 90 years old. Does he get weaker, or older during the day, when he’s vulnerable, and then regenerate at night, or something? I catch a glimpse at his face, though, and it remains unchanged…at worst, he looks like he’s maybe middle aged… “Oh, pardon us, sir,” stammers one of the chiseled men, “but you see…well, you see, we had a vision.” And he seems as unbelieving of his own words as he expects us to be. My jaw drops open. Are these people for real…? More importantly than that, however, they don’t respond to the fact that the butler already points a gun at them, and more strange, they don’t notice the nearly naked me as I lie on the floor, with legs open and suspended in the frickin’ air. Although, perhaps, that’s not so strange, since I am a spirit… …but then it dawns on me, and my conclusion explains the nervousness of the men despite the vigor and enthusiasm of their initial intrusion, and it explains the unnatural sound of the butler (well, more unnatural, that is, since he’s already unnatural). Oh, Christ, he’s mesmerizing those poor people! He’s appearing to them as an old, disgruntled—and unarmed—man! “Well, git outta my room!” The men look uncomfortable, but don’t really move…one seems to search the butler’s face, and his own expression appears to be one of mild apology that almost says, How can I put this…? But the proud Egyptian shows up at this point, and interrupts any further exchange. Though it’s about 4:15 or 4:20 am, strong golden rays follow the sun blessed bronze man, and then the warm light begins to fill the little dingy room. With a booming, resonant voice, then, “This is indeed the place where Christina is bound. Now if you would get the door.” And just as he finishes his sentence, the butler fires the pistol…and fires it, and fires it, and fires…. My eyes widen in surprise at the capability of this antique revolver. Alright, he already used one on me, three on Mr. White… But what’s even more shocking is that the Egyptian stands placidly in the face of the butler’s fire, and I can see the bullets slow, and then stop completely…a quick count reveals eleven bullets used on the bronzed nobleman alone. How…? Unless…it’s Elizabeth’s will…because there’s no way it can possibly hold that many bullets… And slowly, the sunlight that followed the nobleman intensifies, until it begins to beat down upon our furrowed brows and into our squinted eyes in what would appear to be all its noonday glory. In the face of that blazing heat, the butler valiantly continues to fire his weapon, even as he begins to sizzle and char, but to no avail. As the scent of burning flesh and hair begins to permeate my every pore, one of the first guys waves a hand in front of his nose as he makes his way in from the doorway, before stating flatly, “Phew, that guy stinks!” And he walks over toward the Egyptian, and walks right through me along the way. A pause, and then to the nobleman, “Hey, aren’t you coming in?” And only then does he enter. I quirk a brow at that, but hey. So far, the two times I’ve seen him, his presence brought about respite from impasses. And I wonder vaguely about that, since I’m still likening the impasses to stalemates in chess…but, as usual, I don’t have time to ponder the thoughts that come to me in moments of strange circumstance. The butler sits perfectly still now, his face and form a collection of hardened cinders that bear his characteristic determination, along with impressions of bitterness, and the traces of agony in his final moments of existence. The guys who broke the window, however, don’t seem perturbed so much as oblivious. The nobleman thanks them, and politely dismisses them, and once they go, I’m left with him towering over my bound form. And he looks carefully at me, from the staked ankles up to my newly tattooed chest, I fight a flush of embarrassment at my current vulnerability. And in response to his brightness, my eyes involuntarily move just past the man’s shoulder…and I realize that the night once more casts a blanket of darkness over the city. He starts to speak now, though, so my eyes pull back towards golden skinned nobleman. “Would anything happen to you if I were to release you from these bonds?” Oh, hurrah! Finally, I can get off this filthy floor! But first, “I’m not sure…the butler over there wouldn’t remove the stakes himself, so they might be enchanted to harm those who aren’t authorized to dispel their effect...” “I am generally immune to such acts done upon my person. It’s for your safety that I’m concerned.” “Oh…well, I don’t know…I guess you could start at the ankle, and we’ll find out.” Using his bare hands then, he calmly places his fingertips over the top of the stake, and he pulls it smoothly from my flesh…my leg drops, and nothing more happens, though he and I both wait for the ill effects. When it becomes clear that nothing like that is going to happen, he releases me completely. I leap up off the floor, change into a different pair of black pants, and begin to re-button my gray silk shirt. I feel so much better when I’m clothed… “So…thanks for the rescue. But how did you know to come here?” He smiles enigmatically and offers, “I got an anonymous tip…a little bird told me.” And another voice from a far corner of the room shrieks itself into existence. “And speaking of little birds…!” That’s right! I’d forgotten! “Morimer!” I rush over to his side, and unbind him as well. And then, to the nobleman, “…who would send you a tip? No one here knows of this location, and those who did were here, with…” Sudden realization. Elizabeth sent it. She put me in this situation, but it was also by her doing, then, that I was released, thus further tying my existence to her… “…what do you mean, a little bird ‘told you?’” “It was a bird carrying a message. That is all…but I always take note of such things.” And I turn to Morimer, and look at him pointedly. “She would know something like that, wouldn’t she?” He thinks a moment, and then nods. I sigh and give my head a small shake. “Yeah…thought so.” A moment passes, and no further words are exchanged…in answer to the nobleman’s questioning look, however, I nod toward the motionless collection of soot that is the butler, and ask, “…d’you know who he is? He had friends, also…” He turns his head slightly to look at the seated figure before saying, “Ah. Yes, there were…two others, yes?” I nod, and he continues. “They…were…shadows, who had the ability to animate bodies. Now, they are nothing more than cinders and dust.” I blink, and then nod politely. So that means no. “There was yet another person among them, a friend of mine who was terribly injured. Have you seen him, or know where he’s been taken?” “He has a body…and so I sent him away. I suppose he is wherever the … vehicle… took him.” “Ah. Thank you.” And finally, I let my shoulders slump in relief. At least he’s not going to bleed to death, or something, if he’s already in an ER… Despite my release from my captors, I begin to experience sensations that feel like sickening lurches in my stomach…there’s something here that I’m not getting. If I assume that the anonymous messenger bird came from Elizabeth, I can conclude that my freedom is owed to her once again, even if it was an indirect action on her part. But she already has me spiritually bound to her. And what purpose does that serve? She gained nothing further from me, but did lose her butler, her “Enforcer,” as he called himself. Unless…in the same method of indirect action, she’s forging new—though indirect—bonds with this Egyptian through me…thus luring him into her web when he was merely a bystander before. I blink, and then turn my head to study the sun kissed face of the nobleman, who merely returns my stare with a mildly curious look. After giving my head another slight shake, I toss a casual glance outside, and sense the coming dawn. And then I realize that I still don’t know how to get in touch with Zhi Ming. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/22/03 8:15:04 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 258 (4/23/03 7:37 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The desire of power in excess caused the angels to fall; the desire of knowledge in excess caused man to fall; but in charity there is no excess, neither can angel or man come in danger by it.” -- Francis Bacon, Essay--On Goodness I mention this to Morimer, who suggests that I seek her out at the old Chinese charlatan’s place with the dirty windows. I nod, and then return my attention to the nobleman, to whom I owe my relative “unspoiledness.” “I have to meet with someone now, since we agreed to meet at dawn, but I’d like to talk to you again, if I can.” He nods, and agrees to meet me back in the room at 1 pm in the afternoon. We part ways, and I pocket the butler’s pistol as I get the rest of my things, and Morimer and I head directly to the charlatan. Despite the early, early hour, the wizened old man is awake and alert, and appears to fumbling with something beneath the counter. The door is locked, and I can’t manage to walk through it, for some reason. After several attempts, I ask Morimer, “What, does he have wards on the place?” “No. But you haven’t been invited in.” “…okay…but I wouldn’t need to be invited, would I?” “Well, you’ve also been bitten by a vampire.” Oh, crap. And in a sudden burst of mingled impatience and panic, I give the door a few brisk knocks. The old man glances up, replaces some things, and then shuffles slowly toward the door. He peers outward, but as soon as I see him starting to turn away upon seeing nothing of importance, I knock again. He pauses, and slowly turns. “Spirits…?” he calls out timidly. The door unlocks, and creaks open as the diminutive figure sticks his frazzled white head out to look around. He frowns at seeing nothing, but while the door is open, I slip past him inside. It works, but I don’t know that I’d call that consent…unless…oh, crap. And I remember the vampire’s bite. I guess it was an unwitting, blanket permission… The man continues to wait by the door, and after a few seconds he whispers, “Are you inside yet?” He waits, but when no one answers him, he shrugs, closes and locks the door again. I begin rather creepily, and I have to suppress a fit of giggles as I go about my creepiness…I approach the mirror, and note with a chuckle the talisman* he’s got hanging near it, on a door that leads elsewhere. I will a small slit in my right index finger, and begin to write on the reflective glass. My words form smoothly, gracefully, boldly red against the surface, and though it stings, even I’m rather impressed at the dramatic effect. The little old man, of course, is affected far worse than I am, because he completely stops all motion, and just stares that the quickly forming groups of words. In as few words as possible, I write my questions about contacting Zhi Ming, and after a while, he finally figures out that I’m the “big Chinese girl” that Zhi Ming talked to earlier in the week. He seems a little more comfortable after this realization, and I learn from him that Zhi Ming is meeting with a “client” later this afternoon, at around lunchtime, but he suggests that I not be there for that. When pressed for what he means by “client,” he says, “Oh, you know, she makes deals with people here.” But she will be by before then, sometime in the morning. I thank him for the information, and he offer to make me some tea (though I suspect the act of something so routine is more to soothe his own jangled nerves). I accept, but because I’m worried about Zhong Huang (or Mr. White), I let the old man know that I’ll return a little later to meet with Zhi Ming. ______________________________________________ The nearest hospital rests on Worth St. by Lafayette, and isn’t hard to find. Once I get there, since no one else really sees me or Morimer, I don’t have any trouble poking my head into various rooms within the ER ward. On the way, though, I can hear the chatter of several nurses as they mill about in the hall. “—hallucinating, and his body’s gone into shock.” “Too bad, too…he’s kinda cute. And built! Jeez!” A pause, and then teasingly, “Whaddaya think, maybe a Flying Dragon? A Ghost Shadow?”** “Please. You know that they barely even exist anymore.” Bingo. I move through the door and into the room, where Zhong Huang lies. He blinks slowly in surprise as he sees me, and though I can see his wounds as clearly as anything, there is a monitor beside him that shows his body completely intact. Awww, crap. Doctors can’t do s h i t for spiritual wounds, and I can’t do a damned thing about anything right now. But I move close to him, lay one of my hands on his, and I murmur quietly, “I’m still okay, and I’m so, so sorry you were dragged into this mess. I’ll be back for you. Right now, I’m going to find Zhi Ming.” He gives his head a very slow nod, and I turn, and bolt from the room. His body may be intact, so instead of bleeding blood, he’s bleeding energy, and that’s even worse. I run all the way back to the old man’s place, and Zhi Ming stands in the little shop, already awaiting my arrival. ______________________________________________ We’re back in a familiarly dingy little room, and once I’ve caught my breath, and we exchange the necessary pleasantries, I tell her where Zhong Huang is, and I fill her in on how he got injured. She doesn’t respond the way I had anticipated. “Do you know yet what you would ask of me in return for the service you have rendered me?” “Uh, well, Zhong Huang’s not in very good shape right now. Do you think that we should maybe deal with that first?” With the same quiet forcefulness that I’ve come to expect from her, she answers, “It is more important that I clear my debt to you.” “Well…I don’t actually have anything to ask of you for myself. I was considering asking you to bring back a friend of mine who got sucked into this mess with me accidentally. Would you be able to do that, either with a new body, or with the same body?” She nods. “But I can bring the person back with the old body only if you have the old body available.” At this, Morimer looks at me and interjects, “But would you really want to bring someone back from the dead?” “.. .. Oh yeah. Good point.” A pause, and then, “What about sending his soul to other realms?” She nods again. “Well, I can’t know where to ask you to send him unless I ask him first.” “Let us retrieve him, then.” “Oh…but…” And here, she merely quirks her brow, and I mumble, “Well, I’m not as, ah, ‘pure’ as I was the last time we did this. Will that impede the procedure?” “No.” She gives me a hard look, and the expression rather reminds me of the one my parents gave me when I wasn’t meeting expectations. We go through the same process that we used to get Mr. White, but this time doesn’t prove nearly as difficult (or painful). Within moments, Thomas stands before Zhi Ming, Morimer, and me, and after I pass around some very, very brief introductions, I give him the brief summary of what’s occurred to me—including the realization of our deaths—since our last meeting. Thomas, in turn, tells me some strange things. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect, as Thomas had just finished landing a swift kick to the balls of the White King. When asked why he did such a thing, Thomas just blinked, and then said, “Well, he had others hold me by the arms while he told me about all the nasty things he was going to do to me, and just posed all the while. And since the pose required that his legs be spread far apart, I just decided to kick him without really thinking about where I’d be after it was done. So thanks!” I laugh. “No problem…you know, he always did kind of remind me of a cartoon villain.” And now my friend widens his eyes at me at the admittedly apt description. “Hey, yeah…he really does, doesn’t he?” I giggle as I watch Thomas, and I know that we’re both imagining the oh-so-proud White King drawn in the anime chibi style; he has stubby, baby limbs, an oversized cloak and scepter, and a crown that he has to keep pushing up with a small hand to keep it from falling over his eyes. “But, after you left, I went back to the Red King, and we pored over the maps together. I figured out how to get to the grendels, and I went. I chatted with Father MacHaggerty, and learned that the grendel hierarchy actually is kinda, sorta like that of fantasy-ish goblins, and they don’t really care for fire…” “Didja get to talk to Rose Red at all…?” He frowns slightly. “…No, not really. She wouldn’t talk to me.” I nod, and he continues. “So, anyways, I met up with the Bishop, and he actually uses the Tree for consultation purposes. But the Bishop is not a nice person. He crucified me on those library walls, and showed me to the White Queen, who looked vaguely pleased at my situation. When they left, I managed to wriggle my palms a bit, and force the nails outward until I was freed. “After that, I sorta just hung out at the library, staying out of sight, and out of the way. By the way, I think I met up with your monk guy.” Ah, Matthew! I smile. “Charming, isn’t he?” Thomas tilts his head slightly, and quirks a brow. “…Yeah, I guess…I wasn’t expecting…someone like him…” He trails off for a moment, and then his expression becomes bright with some other thought. “Oh! Did you know that, like, the entire White Court is just f u c k e d up? I mean, really, really f u c k e d up.” I nod mildly. “Yeah…but the White Court is that way because the White Queen picks ‘em to serve her.” “Yeah, and she’s f u c k e d up herself.” I smile, remembering the stole of arrogance that sits so prettily about her neck and well-formed shoulders. And Thomas now holds his hands out into the air, fingers curved and outstretched, as though cupping some fragile, invisible thing in the air. “I want to fix it.” Blink. “Really…? How?” “I don’t know, but I want to fix it.” My lungs heave a weary sigh now, and I lean back in my chair, so that I’m only balanced by the toe of my shoe, and the two back legs of the chair. “Trust me, I know how you feel. I don’t want to leave until another protector rises in the realm. But I was invited into this mess, and I chose to get involved.” I pause here, and look at him, my eyes full of sorrow and apology. “You got dragged into this by accident…and so I brought you here to see if you wanted to either come back, or go somewhere else. The realm we were in is, as Morimer loves to emphasize, an oubliette, and not one that anyone sane should really like to remain in for long. I hear Baptist Heaven is cool.” Morimer begins to describe the place, but Thomas interrupts. “Wait, wait. Okay, it sounds like fun, but considering that, one, requirements for entry are pretty lax, and, two, they’re Baptists. Yeah, it’s a party, but who am I gonna party with?” “Very true,” I laugh. “Could I go elsewhere, and then go back?” “No.” “Could I stay there for a while, fix stuff, and then leave?” “Not on your own.” I give him a hard look now, and I play nervously with a lock of hair as I speak. “This is why I wanted to at least give you a choice. I’m willing to sacrifice my chance at escape so I can get my thing done. I…wasn’t sure if you would be also.” Now, Zhi Ming, apparently tired of all our talk, butts in with, “Where would you like to go?” I blink, and despite the small woman’s greater power, I say firmly, “We’re still discussing it.” She goes back to quietly waiting, the impatience gleaming brightly in her eyes. Thomas finally says, “Well, what about someplace Norse?” Thomas evidently knows the mythological Norse worlds pretty well, but I have him confer with Morimer to make sure he gets the geography right relative to the other realms, so that he doesn’t end up in Norse Torture Land, or something. (after the basics, I don’t know Norse myths very well.) Morimer gives the destination to Zhi Ming, and Thomas is off. “Bye, Thomas…good luck…and I’m so sorry…” But he’s already gone. My throat constricts at the finality of his departure, but I’m relieved that he’s at least not going to be impaled on pikes for the entertainment of others during the rest of eternity. I breathe another sigh, and shut my eyes slightly. When I open them again, Zhi Ming faces me fully and asks, “…You said you’re trying to put a new protector in place at that other realm.” I merely nod, since I don’t really trust my voice at this point. Zhi Ming’s face tightens a little now in a look of mild concentration as she holds her clasped hands out before her. After a moment, she reveals the small, shining green scale that rests within her delicate palm. “This is a reward you have earned with your unselfish wish.” My fingers pluck the small flake gingerly from her hand, and I marvel at it for a second…it feels cool, smooth, unyielding...and I recognize it as one of hers from the reflection in the mirror. I lift my gaze back up to hers as I breathe, “…thank you…” She nods, and her countenance softens just a tad. “It will provide you with more strength, and greater force of will.” A brief pause, and then, “Now, I have business that I must conduct.” I rise as she nods, and I bow my head forward as she leaves. Once she’s gone, I tuck it into a pocket (what the hell is one supposed to do with a scale?), and rush off with Morimer to the hospital on Worth Street. ______________________________________________ As we approach the facility, we can already see Mr. White coming toward us, and he looks as fine and whole as the first time we met, and seeing that, I release a sigh of relief. “Zhi Ming found you, huh?” He nods, and then says with no small amount of curiosity, “She seemed…much more impressed with you than she has been in the past, this last time I saw her.” “Oh! She gave me this, but I don’t really know what to do with it.” And I show him the scale. “I mean, do I wear it like jewelry? Do I eat it? What?” Zhong Huang gives a grin, and then says, “I…would not eat it. But try taking it into yourself.” “…what? In a way that doesn’t involve eating it?” “Yes. Apply it to your flesh.” And without thinking, I slap the scale onto my forehead, right between the eyes. “Hey, it worked!” He and Morimer just stare at me. With a vague sense of dread, I reach a nervous fingertip up to my forehead, and I can tap at exactly where rests…over my skin. “Uhm, I was expecting that it would sink inward, or that my skin would grow around it…” And I try hard to peel it off my forehead. After many painful attempts, I get it off, and I pick another place to put it. I try that, and then Zhong Huang taps a playful finger against my forehead, where the scale reappears. He says with a smile, “That spot seems to be where you have bound it to yourself.” “Oh god, how embarrassing.” “Try keeping a finger on it, and willing it elsewhere.” I do so, and with a fingertip on the scale, I shift it down my nose bridge, down my cheek, down my neck, past my collarbone, to the area just above the tattoo. I let go…and to my relief, it stays there. “Well, that was an embarrassing bit of comic relief.” Zhong Huang offers a 180 degree turn. "I apologize..." "What? Why?" "...I was unable to offer you the protection that you needed, and that I was supposed to provide. And I'm very sorry." I lay a hand on his arm, and I say in a soft voice, "It's okay." "I am...out of form." "Well, a hundred an' sixty years is a long time..." "Yes. I will train to regain the skill I once had, that I might protect you better. I am very sorry." "You've already apologized. Several times. It's okay." We begin to walk back our hovel now, but I begin to ask Zhong Huang, “So you know, I can’t help but wonder…since we’re essentially out to get the Black Queen now, I wonder if the White Queen would be interested in striking up some sort of bargain, since I can really help her out, but I don’t know that I can succeed alone.” Zhong Huang nods now and adds, “Perhaps. But would it be worth it you?” “Prob’ly not,” I chuckle. I barely get done saying that when I stop short. Against one of the buildings creeps—who else could it be?—the White Spider. Zhong Huang and Morimer see it, too. I narrow my eyes at it, and all eight of its eyes shine eerily, and are, as always, inscrutable. “Peeeeeaaasssse.” After quirking a brow, I hold up both my hands, to show that I’m unarmed. “I bring a messssssage from the White Queen.” Of course. *Chinese talismans are often rectangular sheets of paper that have messages written on them, and so long as you have the proper message, anyone can create them. **I couldn't resist adding this bit of information, though it's a detail that wasn't used in-game. The 'Flying Dragons' and the 'Ghost Shadows' are the names of two of Chinatown's older, more traditional, most vicious street gangs. The Shadows particularly hold much power in cities from Boston to New Orleans to Hong Kong. With Zhi Ming and Elizabeth playing a part in our in-game lives, I thought the names too appropriate to leave out, and when the old man mentioned Zhi Ming's "client," I couldn't help but think of 'protection' money held for a Flying Dragon. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 261 (4/24/03 9:08 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Progress has not followed a straight ascending line, but a spiral with rhythms of progress and retrogression, of evolution and dissolution." -- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe "But whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refused to take her figured proffer, The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer." -- William Shakespeare, The Passionate Pilgrim (IV, l. 9) "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it." -- Oscar Wilde As soon as I hear that, I bring my hands together for a few sarcastic claps, knowing full well that the White Queen lurks somewhere just behind the Spider’s luminous eyes. "Your sense of timing is impeccable. Kudos to you!" "The White Queen would like to disscusss sssome thingsss with you." "I’m sure she would." "Would you consssent to a meeting? On neutral ground?" I take a moment now, and look at Zhong Huang, who has, so far, said nothing. Thinking about the White Queen, my lips pull into an almost involuntary curve as I think, Hell, this is almost too funny… "Sure…but I’m not really sure where we could meet." "A Church, perhapssss?" I burst out laughing, imagining the red splattered mess that surely adorned the once pristine walls of the church in Staten Island once Mr. White made his presence known there. Neutral ground, my ass. "No." And the Spider almost seems to smile. Now, Zhong Huang leans close, and murmurs in Chinese, "If we’re going to meet somewhere, we need to be in a place that can be warded. We might go back to the room we were in the first night I was brought here." I reply just as fluidly in clipped Mandarin, "We can’t. Zhi Ming’s got something going on there. There’s no one you can ask to ward?" "No one." The smile spreads further across my mouth as I return my gaze to the expectant Spider, who clings patiently to the side of the building as it awaits our answer. We’re supposed to meet the Egyptian guy over at the hovel at 1 pm, so, "One thirty." And I pass on the address of our shithole. "It’s not much to look at, so don’t be surprised when you get there." The Spider calmly answers, "I don’t think ssshe caresss." "Even so. Fair warning." "Sssshe will sssee you at one thirty." And with that, the Spider slips into a pane of glass, and soon its reflection of the city is as normal as it ever was. Hey, that’s cheating…I thought the Spider is supposed to haul ass, not use mirrors… ______________________________________________ We enter the little room, and I sit on the bed, waiting…except that’s when I notice that the butler is gone. The stench of his burnt flesh remains, but the collection of dirt that was left of him is gone. It may not actually be that surprising, since both the window and door were busted open, thus allowing all kinds of gusts of wintry air to blow the butler’s remnants away. But still… And I glance around the broken room now, and I heave a heavy sigh. I’m glad I’m not the one who’s gonna pay for damages… To Zhong Huang then, I ask, "So…I think I’m really going to try for the Black Queen. What are you going to do?" "As I said, I will train." "…tell me, how does one train for a meeting with someone whose tactics aren’t physical? I mean, in some part, they are, but you can’t see them or feel them, and those methods are made even more abstract when she implements them only indirectly. How does one prepare? What can I do?" He blinks, and then says with quiet confidence, "I will be training for the capacities to which I am best suited, so that I will at least be as I once was. And I plan to stay with you and offer what I can." I give him a genuine smile of thanks. "Y’know, I really appreciate that. People like you are the reason that I’m so determined to get a new protector in place." And inwardly, I note, Man, he really is the Chinese Ace of Spades, isn’t he? ______________________________________________ When the Egyptian joins us, I ask if he is able to remove the binding spell that rests upon my chest, and he sadly shakes his head. "I cannot remove it. I can, however, replace it." "Replace it…? With what?" "A spell that binds you to me." I frown at that. "Oh…Well, I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to be bound to anyone, really." And he smiles in a way that says, I thought not… I tell him of our later meeting with someone else who is not from this plane, and that we don’t currently have any way to ward against her abilities to command those in her line of sight. His lips curl into an interested smile, and his eyes take on a curious gleam in the afternoon light. "This would be the White Queen, then?" Blink. "Uh, yeah…" "If you wish, I can help you. I wouldn’t mind seeing her again." "Uh, okay…" Something weird and/or bad is about to go down, I think…Oh well. At best, the meeting will be uneventful, and at worst, it’ll be…interesting. The Egyptian closes his dark eyes, and the room fills with brightness. ______________________________________________ At 1:30 precisely, the White Queen steps into our sun filled presence, and despite all that’s happened, I still react to her the same way. I admire the confidence in her every step, the gentle slope of her proud jaw, the delicious eyes that whisper secrets, the smile that dares, challenges, beckons… She glances about the room, and in that languid voice that envelopes me as sweetly as a lover’s caress, she murmurs teasingly, "Neutral ground, indeed." I sweep my arms to either side of my torso and give a little bow of welcome. No, bitch, no advantages for you. "Well, you can’t do anything, and I certainly can’t do anything. Neutral. Indeed." "Well, Christina, it is truly a complete and utter pleasure to see you." She looks at me fully then, her mouth curved into a rounded, ripe, red smile. And for a brief flash of a moment, I recall the softness of those lips upon my cheek. Softly then, as a courtesy, and more to myself than anyone else, I murmur, "Likewise…" And it’s true…simply looking at her is a pleasure. Dealing with her methods of action, however, is quite something else. And briefly, with that dangerous smile still softening that harsh mouth, she sidles her gaze over to Zhong Huang—though she doesn’t speak to him or mention his name—before giving her attention back to me. "So," she begins, her voice swirling lazily through the sun-filled air, "you have with you…a key that unlocks locks…the Manticore’s quill…" And she pauses here for effect as she rakes those sharp eyes over my form. I stand my ground, and lock eyes with her, unwilling to let her see my discomfort. "…a vampire’s kiss…and a spell that binds you…to the Black Queen, now confirmed to be one Elizabeth. Catherine. Adelaide." And I reward her with a warm smile of my own, and thus gently test how far I can play with her. Clearly, she’s enjoying herself somewhat, and I rather relish the sensations her voice brings me as it washes against me, and laps its way into my consciousness. Zhong Huang once mentioned that she’s ‘unspeakably clever,’ but that was just his opinion, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s not too terribly bright. I mean, I’m not terribly bright myself, but I’m much, much better than he is at trying to figure out machinations of various sorts…the Black Queen herself is unspeakably clever. The White Queen, while clearly competent enough to make prudent decisions, is merely well informed. Extremely well informed. And of ‘little birds’…it’s possible that the White Queen sent the bird to tell the Egyptian of my situation if the Spider had been spying on me this whole time, but it seems unlikely…the White Queen is a micro-manager, and that move doesn’t match her style…Ahhhh, Elizabeth…You are impressive, if nothing else. "My guess is that the Black Queen established a link to you through the butler, and now with the spell on you, anything you feed on will indirectly be feeding her, and I suspect that she’s drawing on you as we speak." Yes. Extremely well informed. My smile softens into one of genuine amusement now, and I chuckle a bit as I answer, "Thank you, Captain Obvious." She blinks, gives her head a charming tilt, and looks as though she’s trying to decide how to respond to that odd comment. "Well, sometimes you are so very simple that I’m not sure what’s obvious to you and what’s not. "But now, I think I’ve a clearer understanding of her purposes for you. She needed a patsy, and she chose you. She gave you connections to both sides of the board, and I think she wants you to kill either her or me. I’m not sure which action is the one she believes will lead to her winning, however." Ugh, again, with the killing. "I don’t want to kill anyone…" She continues, and her voice begins to spiral through my head…I shut my eyes for a moment to ease the pounding in my temples. "Whether you want to or not, you’re still in a position where you could do a great deal of damage to the Black Court, and I have an offer to make." Somewhere in the back of throbbing head, I recall a line from Alice. "Queens never make bargains." Oh, how wrong that was. "The current Black Queen is the most fell opponent I’ve ever faced. She is possibly the most fell opponent the Board has ever seen. If, instead of killing the Black Queen, you will stab the Black King instead, I will give you something you want in return, even though I know you don't like me." I release a tired sigh, and look at her in disbelief. "It's not that I don't like you." "Oh? Then how do you feel about me?" Her voice bears a subtle kind of intimacy, and she watches me carefully, her eyes estimating, teasing. A short laugh flows from me, and my gaze suddenly as languorous as hers. "Wouldn't you like to know. And anyway, regardless of how I feel about you, what I want you can’t give me." Though the rest of her face doesn't change expression, her eyes finally display a spark of real interest, as if to say, Gotcha. I’m not so easy, though. "What is it you want…?" My gaze meets hers squarely in a moment of wordless challenge. "I want to put in place a new protector for the realm." Her words come immediately. "I could bring the Rose Red archetype back." "How?" "The current Rose Black isn’t much of a protector. The Black Queen had the Ace of Spades take the role, and then put contradictions to her way to confuse her." "I know. I think she can get over that if she really tries, though." "Under your watchful eye, yes, she could." "You’re not offering me anything new." And her eyes continue to gleam. "Well, I could make you the new Rose Red." Blink. My chest constricts at the tasty choice dangling before my eyes, the temptation left by those infernal lips…lips that aren’t nearly as soft as the petals of a newly bloomed summer rose. For I no sooner in my heart divin'd My heart, which by a secret harmony Still moves with thine, joined in connection sweet. And I breathe a sigh. "No. If I am to become the new Rose Red, I must get there on my own. Whoever will become the new Rose Red must get there herself." I look at her fully now, and I can feel my resolve strengthen. "You see, the role of protector can’t be ‘given’ to anyone—the protector that I wish to see rise, and will do the realm the most good, is one who is impartial, and one who will offset the imbalance already in the realm. "And besides, your request doesn’t make any sense. If she is the most formidable opponent you’ve faced, you should want me to kill her, not the King. The current game will end, but with Elizabeth still in power, she’ll just put another King in place, and it’ll start over again." "When the Courts lose their King, there will be a time of chaos. The Queen will be very easy to kill then." "I only have one quill, and it’s only got one charge on it, so I can’t grant your request. I have a promise to keep." "The promise holds you to stab the Black Queen with the quill. Kill the King, and then stab her all you want." "No." Her smile widens a bit here. "And if I can procure another quill…?" I jerk my head towards her, and I can feel the anger flash in my eyes. "NO. Don’t approach the Manticore at all. In the same way that the protector needs to be impartial, I’d feel very, very uncomfortable with the Manticore in the same position as that poor Spider God." And her smile eases into something resembling a teasing pout until she becomes serious again. Before she can speak, though, I burst out, "Wait, have I even met the Black King?" "You have." And her eyes focus sharply upon me, and I only barely manage to suppress a shiver under her scrutiny. "How do I find him? I mean, no one’s heard from him in, like, a few decades." "I know that he is still at Elizabeth’s house." Recalling Morimer’s words now, I ask, "…wait, are you sure?" She nods, and I continue, "…and you’re sure I met him…?" She nods again, and releases an impatient breath. "Yes. He is the Black King now." I catch that, and blink. Is that why no one’s heard from the Black King in so long? Because she lures people in to be the Black King, and then she kills them herself so that, one, she feeds off them, and two, no one knows who the Black King is because he’s constantly changing…? "But if…if the guy I know is the Black King…well, hell, I can’t kill him!" "Why not?" I shuffle the toe of my shoe lightly against the dirty carpet. "Well, because…he’s so very sad and pathetic…I’d feel bad." And she quirks a brow now, and her smile regains some of its harsher edges. "Perhaps he is because the Black Queen knew that we’d one day have this very conversation." I shut my eyes. Oh, that goddamned woman. Impressive, but dammit. "You know, when you said earlier that I don't like you at all...that's not true." She watches me intently now, her brow arched in question. I continue, "I like you just fine. I just don't trust you. At all." The White Queen's eyes widen slightly at that, and her smile softens again, as if to wordlessly express, Fair enough. "Either way," I conclude as I open my eyes again, "your request isn't something I can answer now. I need a while to think about it." With that same smile still on her lips, she asks, "Would you like to speak with Rose Black?" "…how…? You don’t have her, do you?" "No, but there are ways to call her, when innocents are in need." I arch a brow. "I’d rather not, if you’re the one calling her." She answers that with the a question that carries its curiosity plainly. "Why not?" "Oh, please. As if no one in the room already knows your style. If you’re the one calling her, and you’re using innocents to do so, it’s probably somewhat horrible and gory, and I’d rather not cause any others that kind of pain. Thanks, though." She looks vaguely disappointed, but nods. We agree to meet later that evening at 6 pm (after I off handedly suggested 8 pm, and she answered 6 pm instead), and she leaves, but not before giving Zhong Huang another sly glance. "I think she misses you," I remark to him. "Perhaps she was seeing my flesh and bones roasting on an open spit." I laugh, and then to Morimer, I ask, "How was she going to call Rose Black?" He answers, "Well, I think it probably had something to do with those bottled-up souls that she has with her. She coulda released one, and when it screamed in pain, Rose Black would have shown up." Lovely. Curiously, throughout the entire meeting, she didn’t say a word to the Egyptian, nor he to her. To him, I ask, "What did you do to the room?" "I filled it with my will. While I am here, she cannot do anything to you." "But she couldn’t see you either, right?" "Right. Though you are untouchable, I would not remain immune to her effects." I thank him, and he agrees to return shortly before 6 pm, so that he can ward the room again (or whatever). And once he goes, I turn to Zhong Huang. "I wonder why he’s being so helpful. I don’t think he’s being of service for no reason." "…I’m inclined to agree." Yes, definitely the Chinese Ace of Spades. And speaking of… "Morimer, would you find Rose Black for me, and bring her back here?" He nods, flies off, and as he does so, I shout, "And you can’t eat her eyes!" Now there’s nothing else I can do except wait. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 4/24/03 10:48:14 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 268 (5/6/03 10:37 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "O, white innocence, That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide Thine awful and serenest countenance From those who know thee not!" -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci (act V, sc. 3, l. 24) "‘In innocence there is no strength against evil,’ said Sparrowhawk, a little wryly. ‘But there is strength in it for good.’" -- Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore The Sweetest Rose, Part I Time passes, and Mr. White begins to train. I watch him for a few moments before asking him to teach me some of what he knows…I understand, of course, that such mastery comes only with years and years of learning and practice, but I manage what I can in the ten minutes I have before I get bored. Once the boredom strikes, I leave Mr. White to his activities while I draw a bath. The water’s heat swirls up into the air in thick clouds of steam, and I sigh as I step into its warmth, and feel the tension in my neck and shoulders melt away. After a few moments of silent and motionless pondering, I begin to bathe in earnest, and I sigh as I run my fingertips against the Black Queen’s indelible mark on my chest. When I finish, I dress (this time putting on a matching, nicer-looking, Dior panty/bra set…the last time I was stripped down, I was rather embarrassed to be exposed in Winnie the Pooh underwear), and step back out into the main room, where I ask him about the possibility of getting some communion wafers from a nearby Catholic church. "If Elizabeth is already feeding off of me, and she has already expressed a marked dislike of the Catholic Church, and she’s a vampire besides, I wonder if anything will happen if I ate some of those wafers…" Zhong Huang looks at me quietly for a moment, and his face is alight with almost boyish mischief. "Shall we go get some?" I throw a glance at the window and shrug. "Sure. Morimer’s not back yet, so we should have a few minutes…" ______________________________________________ At the Church, I learn just how dense Zhong Huang can be. After encouraging him to do a little of his own thinking regarding what should be explained to the priests ("Be innovative," I joked. "Must I tell you everything?"), he proceeds to give the completely honest, completely unbelievable truth when an unsuspecting priest approaches him. "May I help you?" "I would have communion wafers. My friend, already dead, has need of them." My jaw drops open in disbelief, and so does the priest’s. While the good man struggles to make sense of Zhong Huang’s words, I interject, "No! Don’t tell him that! Just say that your friend can’t make it to mass, and so you’re bringing them to her!" The priest, sure that he misheard the good looking, little Chinese man the first time, asks with a gentle look of confusion and humor, "…I’m sorry…?" And now, Zhong Huang substitutes my words for his own. The priest, knowing that there was something rather off about the man’s first words, doesn’t question much further, except to ask, "…and how many will…your friend…be needing?" "Ten," I smoothly reply. Zhong Huang answers in the same manner, and the priest scurries off, presumably to get our altar bread. Great, I think, the priest is gonna call the cops, or something, and Zhong Huang’s gonna get dragged off to the loony bin, where Zhi Ming’s gonna have to rescue him again. As we sit and wait, however, another priest, who immediately gives me a bad vibe, for some reason, approaches us. "Have you been helped, my child?" Zhong Huang lifts his gaze to the youngish priest standing over him before answering, "I believe so, yes." "What was it you needed? I will check on it for you." "Communion wafers. Ten of them." The priest quirks a brow, and as he stands there, I move closer to him, and wave a hand in front of his eyes, just to see if he notices my presence. He gives no indication that he does. After a moment, "I see. I will check on my brother’s progress, then." As soon as he’s gone, I whisper to Zhong Huang, "I don’t trust him." He merely shrugs, and then whispers back, "Maybe he really is just trying to be helpful." My brow furrows itself of its own accord in answer to what I perceive to be the purest naivete. "This is New York. Please." He gives another non-committal shrug, and offers a lopsided grin besides. "So you don’t recognize him at all from the White Queen’s realm?" "No." After a few brief moments, the second priest returns with the wafers, all wrapped up in a clear, plastic Ziploc thing. Before handing it over to Zhong Huang, however, he extends a cross. "Take hold of this first." My word breaks the silence. "Don’t." Zhong Huang looks at the cross, then at the priest in silent question. "The wafers have been blessed, but you yourself carry no mark of the Lord." And the proffered cross remains. Wait, that other priest guy who Zhong Huang killed wasn’t dead initially, but still had connections to the White Queen’s realm. Even if the White Queen doesn’t need someone like that to serve as her connection to the world of the living, perhaps this guy is that other priest’s replacement. She did want to meet me in a church, and she’s been giving Zhong Huang weird looks last time...If this is going to result in some weird voodoo thing, because he willingly grasped the cross, thereby leaving some of his own essence as a link… But just as I firmly say, "No, don’t take it," my companion reaches out, and lightly grasps the bottom of the crucifix. His thumb rests against the Christ figure’s nailed ankles, and he looks at the priest for acceptance. I’m too late. The priest nods, and then takes the crucifix back, and looks at it purposefully for a moment. Then he says, "You are a good man. I hope that your friend is a good person, too." And then he offers the bag of communion wafers. Zhong Huang and I simultaneously reach for it, and as he takes the physical bag, I have grabbed the spiritual version. ______________________________________________ As we walk back to the shithole room, I stare at the wafers in my possession, and Zhong Huang dumps their physical counterparts. Mine do look pretty tasty, but I don’t dare nibble on them yet, for fear of consuming some of the White Queen’s influence. Although, honestly, that wouldn’t even be so bad, considering I bear the mark of the Black Queen. Their wills, while probably not evenly matched, are at least in opposition, and while that would tear me metaphorically (physically?), I would at least be pulled farther away from the Black Queen’s hands. That’s what I need to do—play the Queens against each other, especially since that’s their role anyway, and they’re more than willing to do it. Still, there might be something else I’m missing, and it might not have anything to do with the White Queen at all. In the same way that money becomes energy due to human faith, perhaps the same is true of these wafers. That is, I know through Morimer that Jesus isn’t real; a Jesus archetype exists, but it isn’t actually Jesus. Logically, then, if the Son doesn’t exist, then the Father doesn’t, either, except for the faith that we humans put into it. So, it wouldn’t harm Elizabeth at all if I ate them, and she’d be getting extra energy besides. …except that she already expressed her dislike of the Church. If they can’t harm her, why worry about them at all? Also, another thing I’m thinking is that if it does have White Queen essence attached to it, Elizabeth would be getting some from that, too. If that’s true, then it’s unlikely that the White Queen would do something so stupid, especially since she knows about the Black Queen’s binding spell. No, most likely, the priest, though he took no notice of my presence, probably sensed a taint, and handed Zhong Huang the cross to make sure that he is at least free of it. Aloud, then, I say, "I hope Rose Black has something to eat with her." I’m not yet brave enough to try eating the wafers, lest something bad happen to me, especially if the priest felt some sort of taint. I figure that by eating something from Rose Black, I won’t be giving the Black Queen anything she hasn’t already tithed. ______________________________________________ Eventually, Morimer returns with Rose Black, and I can’t help but smile as I watch her approach. She walks with the same surety, but I realize that the way I perceived her face has been totally wrong. I thought she always looked cool, calm, calculating. Now, I see that that calm stems from a complete lack of assumption or guile. Hers is the face of (flawed) purity. Upon seeing me, she nods slightly, and says in that characteristic flat manner, "Hello, Christina." I don’t know why she has this effect on me, but she conveys a sense of "lostness." And every time I see her, despite her general lack of effort at cultivating any closeness to others, I just want to wrap my arms around her lean form, and hold her near. But I dismiss that from mind, and I reward her presence with a genuine smile, and a breathy greeting. "Hey, Peregrine." We fall silent for a few brief seconds as I simply study the woman who has, thus far, garnered the most of my tenderness and affection in this realm. Strange, yes, especially with her being the deadly Ace of Spades, but, as I said, she is innocent…and I don’t savor the metallic bitterness of this moment’s irony. Elizabeth, if you planned it this way, you are so very, very impressive. You did pick Ostrog because you knew I wouldn’t harm him. I’ve set myself up so nicely for you that way…it’s obvious that I’m taking the path to become the new Rose Red, except that in order for that to happen, Rose Black would have to fail first. And because there is no one in the realm more naïve or innocent than she is, I can’t harm her, either, lest I bar myself from eventually taking the role. And because of the previous Rose Red’s insistence on ‘purity of archetype,’ I can’t simply ally myself with various others, thus effectively leaving me without a chance at archetypal strength. I marvel at the Black Queen only until I find myself wondering, How does one face someone like that, who can see so many moves away…? But, first things first. "Have you checked on those allegations about your Queen?" "I've started. It hasn’t been very long." "Oh…right…" And I hold out the baggie of communion wafers. "Well, in the meantime, Peregrine, these things have energy, but do you recognize the energy signature that rests upon them?" She leans a bit closer to study them, and after furrowing her brow for a moment, she says, "They do carry a taint. But I do not recognize it, no." So, no, no White Queen tampering. "…taint…? What do you mean?" "All energy is tainted." My countenance falls—I had hoped she’d yield something useful. "Oh. Well, you wouldn’t happen to have anything to eat on you, do you?" She tilts her lovely head a little bit, and then answers, "No. But you have no body." "Well, no, but I still need some sort of sustenance…" Those clear eyes blink once, and then, "Oh. I can give you rose petals." Ick. "…uhm, are those even…edible?" "I don’t know." Ahhh. "Well, ooooookay…" She holds out a deceptively delicate looking hand, and petals simply begin to form and pile up in the middle of her palm. "Whoa, whoa, that’s more than enough…!" I offer with a few short laughs, and she extends the small pile out toward me. I take them, and hold just one petal between a thumb and forefinger; the rest I tuck into a pocket. I take a breath, and then think, Well, here’s to hoping that the Black Queen won’t be getting anything from this… And I nibble on the thin, yielding softness of the petal the way a mouse or hamster might—with the front teeth only—and I brace myself for the bitter taste that will surely swirl around in my mouth. It isn’t as bad as I expected, and it’s way more filling than I expected—that single petal "feeds" me as much as any full meal I’ve consumed since my death. Wow, she does have a lot of power…And speaking of power… I move closer to her, and, unable to stop myself, I pull her into a close hug in thanks, and I rest my temple against her cheek, my nose and lips against her the line of her jaw. As I’m near her, I inhale her heady scent, and I am reminded of fresh grasses, minty pines, earthy calm, and, of course, of the inviting musk of wild roses…and of something deeper that I recognize, but can’t immediately identify… "I really appreciate that, Peregrine. Thanks for those petals." She nods in answer, and I continue. "But I have a question for you…you’re supposed to be a defender of innocents…but how far are you willing to go carry out that duty? That is, if you experienced a conflict of interest between your Rose Black and Ace of Spades roles, which would come first?" My breath, which before came so deep and slow, quickens a little bit, and I hold her just a little tighter now as I brace myself for an unpleasant answer. Strangely, she doesn’t answer at all in the way that I expect. "I haven’t experienced a conflict of interest." I blink, and step slightly away from her, though my hands still cradle her shoulders as I move. "Perhaps not yet, but should that situation come about—" "—then I will carefully consider my role, and how it would be best used." "But, Peregrine…" I sigh. Time for something different. I unbutton my shirt a little ways, to show her the Black Queen's mark. "So you still don't know what your Queen wants with me. Do you know what this, at least, is?" She shakes her head a little as she studies the writing. "No, I'm not familiar with it." "Ah. Well, it's a binding spell," I tell her as I re-button my shirt, "and the White Queen has confirmed as much. It allows the Black Queen to feed from me, and it was etched into my skin by her butler, another one of her minions. He followed you here, to me." I pause for a moment as she looks a little surprised, and I give her a pointed look, and then say almost apologetically, "You were loosed as a hound, and he did what you couldn't." While this information sinks in, I continue. "How do you go about defining innocence?" She gives a small frown, and I force down the urge the trace a fingertip along the lines it leaves on her lovely face. "It’s difficult to explain. I have…a sense…about these things." "Okay…but you know that there are gradations of innocence, and…well, lack of innocence." She nods, and I continue, "The reason I ask, Peregrine, is because," and I do gently touch her cheek here as I softly intone, "you are the most innocent person I’ve yet encountered in these realms. If you’re supposed to protect the defenseless, who’s going to protect you…?" Her lips curl downward in another vaguely confused frown. "If I can protect other innocents from outside threats, then it is something I can defeat. If I can defeat it, then I can protect myself." I shake my head slowly, and give a sad smile. "You have a lovely way of logic about you…" And I give her another gentle hug. She answers with a noticeably pleased, "Thank you." In my head, I continue, But things aren’t ever that easy, darling Peregrine… A moment, and then I’m interrupted. Peregrine says softly as she backs away from my closeness, "Please let go." Despite knowing that I should have expected such a response from the very beginning, and knowing that I should be surprised that I got even as close to her as I have, I can feel my heart constrict just a little at the potential rejection. "…am I making you uncomfortable?" "No. I have scented the butler." Blink. "Oh." And, without thinking about it, I release her, and in a sudden blur of motion, she’s out the door, and out of sight. "Dammit." And then, in a burst of mingled anger and sadness, I flatly state, "…I think that was a trap." Zhong Huang, who I’d all but forgotten was even in the room, merely concurs. "I think so, too." A few tense moments pass until we hear a jangle of crunching metal, and shattered glass. I think to stick my head past the threshold of the room, when I remember what happened the last time Zhong Huang had that idea, so I content myself with just standing at the door, and looking outside. Peregrine returns now to the room, and in a manner that’s painfully familiar, her long fingers are laced through the locks of the butler’s severed head. Just past her shoulder, I can see the butler’s foot sticking out past the lip of an open dumpster…the car he drove has slammed into a telephone pole, and the passenger door looks like it was ripped apart by a can opener. Wow… After stepping into the room, Peregrine announces, "Is this the man who did that," and she points at my buttoned shirt, "to you?" "Yes...But...I thought someone else had already beaten you to that punch...But do you see what I mean about conflict of interest? You took his head, but, like you in your role of an Ace, he merely followed orders that came from your Queen." She sits down in a nearby chair, places the head on the floor with a gentle thunk, and begins to write something down in a notepad. What, is she taking notes...? I wait for her to finish, and when she looks up again, she announces, "I’m going to see the grendels." I blink, shocked. "What? Why?" And I still stare at the open eyes of the butler. "Because I wish to trade the head for answers." "But he's already dead...how're...?" "He's not dead yet. He's trapped inside the head." Ahhh, so that's how they continue to exist in the tree, even though... "May I accompany you?" She looks at me now, and her eyes seem to soften somewhat with her next words. "The grendels are dangerous." "Eh. I’ve been there before." A pause, and then with a grin, "And besides, if something happens, you can protect me, right?" Peregrine frowns slightly again, and then her eyes seem to search the room before returning to mine. "The grendels are dangerous," she repeats. "If Morimer comes along, he can protect you." I look at Morimer pleadingly, and he gives a birdie sigh, and rolls those sharp, gleaming eyes. "Oh, all right." "Cool, thanks. Mr. White, will you stay here until we return?" Zhong Huang frowns severely, plainly expressing what he thinks of my idea. Though unenthusiastic, he offers a slow, "Alright…" My lips curve upward in thanks, and I turn my attention to Peregrine, who steps in behind me. She takes my left hand in her own, and encircles my waist with her right hand. She moves close, and I lean my head against the front of her shoulder. I don’t even bother to suppress a delighted shudder as she leaves a moist, breathy whisper against the skin of my ear. "Close your eyes…" I give her left hand a slight squeeze with my own as I do as she bids, and suddenly, I’m surrounded by her warmth, her softness. Large rose-scented petals enfold and envelop me, and I breathe a contented sigh, secure in my trust of her, and of this strange, new method of transport to the Land of the Grendels. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/6/03 1:38:51 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 271 (5/7/03 11:21 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "O, white innocence, That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide Thine awful and serenest countenance From those who know thee not!" -- Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Cenci (act V, sc. 3, l. 24) "‘In innocence there is no strength against evil,’ said Sparrowhawk, a little wryly. ‘But there is strength in it for good.’" -- Ursula K. Le Guin, The Farthest Shore The Sweetest Rose, Part II Rose Black continues to hold me close as the rose petals, just as suddenly as they came around me, quickly drop away. When they fall, I open my eyes to see the Grendel Tree just ahead, and then I glance at Morimer, clearly impressed. "Wow…" Morimer, of course, merely gives the pre-emptive screech, "I don’t want to hear it." With a giggle, then, I respond, "Well, you have to admit this way was a lot more efficient—" "I said, I don’t wanna hear it." And as before, wherever Morimer’s gaze falls, grendels scurry. Rose Black releases me then, and strides up to the Grendel King who regards us with thinly veiled suspicion. He juts his chin out at me. "I ‘member ‘er. Paid for by th’ Bishop. An’ whot would Rose Black be wuntin’ ‘ere?" Peregrine holds up a head shaped cage that I hadn’t noticed before…it’s not so much a cage, either, as it is just a gathering of dangerously sharp thorns that converge over the entirety of the butler’s head. She gives him the notepad that she used for note-taking earlier, and with a voice that rings clear, she calls out, "A trade for answers to the questions on this notepad. Write your answers on the pad, and I will give you this head." At this, the thorns open just enough to allow the butler’s face to peek out momentarily. Hey, waitaminnit, I came along so that I could get info, too! I motion to the notepad, and ask aloud, "May I see that?" The King merely looks at me, and fairly spits out, "This is b’tween ‘er an’ me." I frown at his words, but Peregrine murmurs to me, "I will reproduce the questions for you later." Meanwhile, the Grendel King, though wary, appears intrigued. "I don’ know—that’s a serv’nt o’ th’Black Queen. Whot if I took it, an’ she got mad at me?" Wait, how did he…? Voicing my own thoughts, Peregrine then asks, "How did you know he’s a servant of the Black Queen?" With a mirthless smile, then, he states, "We ‘ave our ways. ‘At’s why you’re ‘ere, in’it, t’get ahnswers?" A pause. "Anyway, th’ risk’s too great." Without hesitation, then, Peregrine boldly counters, "I will take that risk for you. If she is displeased, I will accept her wrath in your place." I whip my gaze to her, wondering if that’s exactly wise…but I don’t have time to dwell on it. The Grendel King studies the unflinching Ace for a long moment before glancing down at the written questions. After several seconds, he says, "I don’ know some o’th’ answers t’these." "Who can answer them, then?" The brown-faced monster curls his thick lips into a loose grin. "What’ll you be givin’ me fer answerin’ tha’?" In a burst of mental outrage, the first thought that pops into my head is, How unfair! To respond to it, though, I remember my own currency. Because I’m unwilling to give away my hundred bucks, I decide to put that baggie of communion wafers to use. "Will you accept one of these in return for names?" To my surprise, the Grendel King whips his gaze to me, and his eyes narrow to golden yellow slits of contempt. "Put tha’ up! You wan’ t’call off th’ ‘ole deal?" I blink, and look curiously at my baggie. What is it about these things that makes him so uncomfortable…? Energy is energy…isn’t it? I look at him in confusion once more, only to see that his eyes have narrowed still further. Not wanting to jeopardize Peregrine’s dealings, I do as asked, and put the bag away. Peregrine, then, boldly calls out against the silence, "Then for this head, you will answer all the questions now on the notepad?" The King looks at the head again, and nods in agreement. When that deal is settled, despite my belief that Peregrine got the short end of the bargain there, she gently and patiently leads both Morimer and me into an adjacent room. Once there, Peregrine turns to me, and, for the first time, a smile graces her lips, and it reaches far enough into her eyes that I can see the lights that twinkle there. The sight dazzles me. "Thank you," she simply says. Confused, I arch a brow. "…Uh…for what?" "For distracting him." "…distracting?" Morimer cuts in here with, "Yeah, that was the fastest act of forgery I’ve ever seen! Heh!" His words don’t help. "Forgery? What?" The bird ruffles his feathers a little bit to hide his excitement. "Well, not forgery, exactly. But while you had the King occupied, a rose vine whipped right out onto that pad and scribbled some extra stuff. It was amazing." "Ahh." A pause, and then, "What’s wrong with offering the wafers? I mean, it’s energy, right?" Peregrine furrows her brow in thought for just a moment. "Perhaps, seeing your mark, he was afraid of accepting anything further from the Black Queen." "What? How is he seeing that? It’s under my shirt…" She smiles a bit at this now, apparently at my naivete this time. And I notice how quickly the roles have reversed. "Well, it’s a bit of a spiritual stamp, and emanates outward." Well, that’s unhappy. I take a look around at the austere, grendel-free room, and ask, "So…why are we in here?" "To allow the Grendel King some privacy. Were we to hover by him in the room, he might not question his subjects as thoroughly as he would normally without the threat of prying ears." "Ahh." And in the silence that falls between us, I think a moment, and allow my eyes to roam over the pretty Peregrine, and once again I feel an urge to hold her close. "Peregrine…" She turns her gaze now from some far wall to me, silently waiting. "Peregrine…when…when I hugged you on those previous occasions…was I…well, I guess, invading your personal space?" She blinks, and her lack of comprehension is written in those guileless eyes. To reinforce it, however, she asks, "What is personal space?" Morimer emits of loud, exasperated sigh, and punctuates that with a screeched, "Ohhhhh, God." I sigh, give Morimer a dirty look, and after deciding how to approach this, I step in closer to her again, leaving about a foot and a half of space between. Peregrine doesn’t move from where she stands. "Well, you see…at least, where I come from, there is a thing called personal space, which is the amount of space people generally feel is necessary to have between themselves and others. It varies from person to person, of course. "And the space requirements change depending on the relationship. For example, if someone were to stand with a stranger, more space would be left between them than if someone were to stand with a friend, or lover." In a sudden ruffling of feathers, Morimer erupts rather inappropriately here with, "Oh, Jesus Christ, already! What’d you think she meant before when hugged you?! She wants to sleep with you!" My lips drop into a venomous frown as I glare icily at the little bird, who blinks, and goes back to preening the feathers that are now in tremendous need of care. The darling Ace looks at me curiously before asking, "What did you mean when you hugged me?" Sigh. "It means that I consider you close enough that I don’t need that much space to act as a buffer." I take another step closer to Peregrine, now leaving a few inches of space between us. Softly, then, "…this…doesn’t make you uncomfortable?" She considers this a moment, and then replies, "There was one time when your closeness prevented me from carrying out my duties as quickly as I could have." Blink. Uh, not quite what I meant… "And other than that?" "I don’t suffer discomfort." Not quite what I was hoping to hear, exactly, but I suppose it’ll have to do. Again, my feathered companion just cannot hold his tongue. "Oh…my…god, this is pathetic!" And he hops around on the ground, clearly distressed at the Ace’s simpleness. "Think harder! What do you think it meant when she kissed you on the cheek last time?" As I attempt to smack a hand at Morimer’s damned mouth…beak….whatever…Peregrine focuses her huntress’ eyes on me once more. "What did it mean?" Undaunted, Morimer caws, "It MEANS. She WANTS. To. SLEEP. With. You!" And here the Ace displays her lightning speed once more as she momentarily holds the raven’s beak shut. With cool authority, then, she clearly enunciates, "I’m not asking you." Despite the hold on his beak, Morimer still manages to squeeze out, "Shuttin’ up!" I look at her lovely face, and can’t help the smile that starts to spread across my lips as I remember her scent, her closeness…and I have to fight the rush of color that flushes my cheeks (although, really, I don’t thinks she understands the significance of that, either). "Well, it means…that I’m really rather fond of you…" She says nothing, and merely stands there, studying me. And in this moment of silence, I close the little distance remaining between us, and I press my lips to hers. I start slowly and tenderly, cherishing her nearness, feeling the texture of her lips, tasting her mouth. Without conscious effort, my fingertips travel to the nape of her neck, where I idly play with the errant locks of baby-soft hair. Only a second passes before the moment dies. With my mouth still on hers, Peregrine, despite my best efforts, responds only with, "An’ ha’ dosh dish mean?" I pull away with a furrowed brow, and another silence falls between us. Finally, I ask her rather timidly, "Have…have you ever been kissed before?" "Yes." At this point, I’m probably noticeably disappointed and depressed…well, at least to Morimer, who immediately hops onto my shoulder and begins to shriek, "GAH! I can’t take it anymore!" To the surprised, wide-eyed Ace, then, he speaks in audibly forced calm, "Okay. Now. Do you know what a kiss is? "Yes. It’s when a person’s lips are pressed to the skin of another." And then to me, "What did you mean by it?" Morimer interrupts again, and not having any energy to argue, I let him. "What would you think I’d mean if I kissed you on the cheek?" "That you were aiming for my eyes, but missed." Unable to argue with that, Morimer mumbles something and shrugs his shoulders in agreement. "But what she’s trying to do is get you to develop a relationship with people. To develop affection." A brief silence falls between us, and then in quiet response, she says, "I don’t have experience with affection." And she moves toward the doorway. "I will ask the Grendel King." Oh. My. God. The Grendel King. Because he’s Rico Suave.... ______________________________________________ She’s gone for a few minutes, and because she’s out of earshot, neither Morimer nor I have any hints on how this surely amusing discussion is going. She returns soon, though, looking satisfied with the answers she got (for free this time). Once she returns, I still can’t help but wrap my arms around her in a hug—a more polite one this time, as opposed to the other, full-body contact ones I’ve been giving her thus far. Peregrine, in an apparent attempt to use what she’s learned so far, asks me quietly, "And what’s your level of personal space?" Murmuring lightly against her ear, I toss out, "Oh, generally, about three or four feet." And the Ace obligingly takes a few steps back away from me, until there’s about three feet between us. I sigh, and offer, "Well, since I initiated the hug, what you should be getting from that is that I’m comfortable enough with you that I’m not worried about personal space." "Oh." My god. Even simple Thrace has a better handle on social conventions and cues… "And you, Peregrine? What’s your level? Well, at least with me?" She thinks about it a moment. "About an inch." Morimer throws in curiously, "And me?" "Two feet." "Awww, damn." But after seeing that, Morimer continues right where he left off. "Y’know, in order for you to develop relationships, you have to first trust people." Peregrine immediately interrupts with, "But I do trust people." "Yeah, but you always trust the WRONG people!" Ruffle, ruffle. Peregrine blinks. Morimer inhales deeply, and then continues slowly again, "Okay, let’s look at who you’ve trusted in the past. The Black Queen?" Without hesitation, Peregrine intones, "Yes." "WRONG PERSON!" He allows a brief pause to allow the echoes of his voice die down, and then, "The Ace of Clubs?" "Yes." "WRONG PERSON!" Another pause, and then, "And did you trust the butler?" And now, a little more sadly, "Yes…" "And look at what happened to him." Another pause. "Who else d’you trust? I’m havin’ fun!" Peregrine, apparently eager now to turn the tables, asks, "Do you trust them?" "Well, yeah. But I trust them to do as I expect them to do." "And what do you expect them to do?" Matter of factly, then, "Screw me." Then both pairs of eyes seem to focus on me at once, as if they expect me to say something, since I’ve been quiet for a little while. Unfortunately, I’m still stuck on Peregrine’s lack of reaction to me, and I lamely murmur, "…so…you have been kissed before. So why…?" She answers softly, "I kiss back when there’s a reason." "…reason?" "Yes. I have carnal knowledge, but, as I said, I have no knowledge of human affection. What was your reason?" "Well…I just…I don’t know…living a life without any form of affection just sounds so completely dismal to me. I wouldn’t that to happen to anyone, and I was hoping to just share some of it with you." "But I am not dismal now. If I were to have it, and then lose it, then I would be dismal." And before I can respond, there’s a knock at the doorway, and the voice of the Grendel King wafts in. "Am I interrupting?" Without moving her gaze from me, Peregrine answers, "Yes." Silence falls, and after a brief moment, the King asks now, "…may I interrupt?" "Yes." We have our answers, and it’s time to return to the shithole room. As before, Peregrine steps in behind me, and wraps her petals around me once I close my eyes. I still lean in against her, and I still relish feeling her near. ______________________________________________ Once we return, she gives me a copy of her questions, and I realize now that it wasn’t a few questions, but close to a hundred. The first question, I’m surprised to see, is "What does the Black Queen want with Christina?" Hmmm. So she really doesn’t know… She sits in a chair and reads silently, until I ask, "May I see that when you’re done?" Without looking up, she replies, "I will share with you the answers that do no incriminate my Queen." Sigh. Eventually, she folds up the notepad, and tucks it away into some hidden pocket. Okay…I guess it was all incriminating… She sits very, very still for a moments, and I approach her cautiously, knowing instinctively that something’s wrong. I kneel beside her, and take one of her hands in mine. In answer, then, she calmly but sadly states, "The answer to question thirty-four…was that because I was beginning to question my orders, care would have to be taken in order to ensure that I still complete my duties." With one hand still cupping hers, I fumble around with my other to uncrinkle the question sheet…Question thirty-four reads, "Why was I broken?" I look back up at her, and it seems like for the first time, sadness mars her flawless features, and a visible gray seems to dim the bold redness of her lips. After a moment, those lips move, and they bear words that sound as broken as she suddenly looks. "I…think I had affection for the Black Queen. And for the Ace of Clubs." In quiet encouragement, I run my thumb gently over the top of her palm, and she continues, "I think I am dismal now." Without a word, I stand up, and with my left hand still holding her left hand, I begin to stroke her hair with my right hand. We pass many moments like this, until I ask quietly, "…would you rather I stand away from you?" "…no…" I nod, and just continue to offer quiet comfort. After a while, though, I try to reassure her, though I don’t know how well I succeed. "What you’re feeling is normal….no one likes to be betrayed by those once held close…" And I lean down to plant a gentle kiss on the top of her dark head. "I understand now…why Rose Red lived apart from everyone else." And, unbidden, her words come back to my mind. "My archetype must be pure…" "But, Peregrine, as apart as she was, she still had friends, and shared her affections. She didn’t lead a life of complete solitude." And then, "My archetype must be free of people like me…" I brush those unpleasant thoughts away as I force myself to remember something else. "Hey, Peregrine, this is something completely different, but I’ve been meaning to ask you these questions for the longest time…" She shuts her eyes, inhales deeply, and when she opens them again, she looks ready to face anything else the world has to throw at her. I lean down to give a quick kiss to the back of her hand, and then I go to retrieve the small wooden chest that holds the artifacts of the Black Queen. From Peregrine, I learn that the notebook can be unlocked, but I’m not using the right key. The knife is used for bindings—that is, if I were to kill someone with it, the spirit would be trapped in the head. Gruesome… She’s not sure what the dragon is for, but she does know that the Knight and Bishop are used to summon the Ace of Clubs. I fiddle with the obsidian pieces a little bit, and, sure enough, underneath the velvet bottoms, etched into the Knight is the word "pathos," and the Bishop, "logos." I’m just about to put the pieces away when Peregrine mentions, "She can’t harm you while I’m here." I blink and turn my head slowly to her, already agonizing over whether or not I really want to meet this archon of pain. "Oookay…why…are you telling me this?" Peregrine, in her usual guileless way, merely answers, "You just seemed curious." And she’s right—I’m not that hard to read that way, I guess. I grasp the Knight in my right hand, and hold firmly onto the Bishop in my left. I stand near (half behind) Peregrine as I inhale, and then breathe out the word. "Pathos!" And suddenly, there, on the bed, sits one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. Raven hair so dark that it can even rival the sheen of Morimer’s feathers, fall in a cascade past perfectly rounded shoulders, and curl back upward to a prominent collarbone. Below that, ample breasts are supported by a tightly closed leather corset, and her long, long legs are bound in thigh-high black leather boots. Her long, creamy neck turns toward me, and upon her ruby lips plays a faint smile that beckons me closer. Her eyes are almost feline in their feral confidence, and they shine like polished sapphires. I blink, and vaguely wonder if my mouth is hanging open…my eyes drop to her hip, where a mace sits ready to be called into use. Ace of Clubs, indeed… I blink. This is the hardest I’ve ever had to try to maintain some semblance of composure, and to keep the trembling in my knees from compelling me to kneel at her feet. "Well. Hello there." Shattering my trance, her words escape her lips as a teasing British purr, and already, I’ve become her toy. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 275 (5/10/03 12:47 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The Devil tempts us not—‘tis we tempt him, Reckoning his skill with opportunity.” -- George Eliot (pseudonym of Mary Evans Cross), Felix Holt (ch. XLVII) To Sin in Loving Virtue, Part I My mouth becomes so dry that I could almost swear I just swallowed a handful of sand. The woman just looks at me expectantly, and, for once, I experience a genuine desire to meet someone else’s every expectation…but, not trusting my voice, and with my throat suddenly as parched as it is, I just give her a curt nod in greeting. Despite the feeling of willing submission I feel coming on, I chance meeting those feline eyes…and they appear amused. Because I don’t say anything, it is she who breaks the silence. “It is nice to finally meet you.” I quirk a brow in curiosity, and finally release my voice. With my throat tightened, my tongue dry, I sound a little huskier than normal, and I don’t quite bother to hide the mistrust I already feel—indeed, the new depth of my voice only carries it further. “You say that like you expected to some time ago, but got waylaid somehow.” She studies me for a quiet moment, and I jut my chin out at her appraisal. She takes note of that, and then turns instead to examine the length of her fine hands before returning her attention back to me. “Well. My Queen has forbidden our meeting, at least on my end.” She pauses, and throws a glance at the black knight and bishop that I continue to clutch just before allowing her clipped, precise British voice to wrap around me still tighter. “Just why she has forbidden it of me, and then gave you those to summon me, I’ve no idea…although I rather suspect that it has to do with her testing of me, to see where my loyalties lie.” The Ace of Clubs looks at me for a moment, as if expecting me to answer, but I find I have nothing to say. And, for some bizarre reason, I get the urge to lower my eyes from hers, but I stubbornly force that urge down. I stare resolutely into those mysterious sapphire pools, and my own eyes widen as I watch the lights that shine and spiral like caged serpents within them. I find myself reminded of the White Queen, who also forced me into involuntary silence…the difference here, of course, is that this Ace exudes Authority, while the White Queen, at least to me, only pretends to. And here, my silence, for the most part, is self-induced. “You look so small and shy, hiding there behind the Ace,” she calmly offers as she tilts her dark head to get a better look at me, half hidden behind Peregrine as I am. Despite her words, I remain as I am, and purse my lips in answer…I still don’t feel as though I’ve earned the right to address her as I would others normally, even though she baits me so freely. “You know,” she purrs, “I can’t touch you while you hold onto the Bishop.” Then she adds after the briefest of pauses, “…unless you ask me to.” I tilt my head and quirk my brow, wondering why she let that bit of information slip. Certainly, she doesn’t expect me to, does she…? What a strange person… “I see that you’ve taken her on,” and she motions toward Peregrine, “as your latest project. Injecting some humanity into her inhuman veins?” Suddenly, I feel rage building at the implications that reinforces Peregrine’s own belief that she is nothing more than a mere tool, and for a second, that anger is enough to break my silence, and allow my mistrust to surface once more. “Project? What do you mean?” “Well, I can see the threads of influence, and they stem from you.” I glance at Peregrine in surprise, but like an inanimate object, she shows no acknowledgement that we’re talking about her. Softly then, I offer, “I’m not doing anything to something that wasn’t there already.” “Ahhh.” And she slowly and purposefully turns her head to glance out the window at some unknown thing. “It would appear that the White Queen has come to join the party. Well, not her exactly, but her Spider. Not that I mind, or care—she herself is the most inadequate adversary in a long line of woefully deficient opponents.” I throw the door a quick glance, and almost expect the White Queen to simply materialize even as we stand and watch. The Ace of Clubs, however, is not nearly so concerned. “Oh, please. She knows better than to show up where I am.” I blink, but I don’t have time to even marvel at her boldness—she has already changed the subject. “Mmm,” she continues, as she re-crosses those leather-clad legs, “In any case, I was just teaching your president how to be handled by a woman, when I suddenly found myself here. I expect, in summoning me, you had more in mind than merely exchanging pleasantries.” I blink, and gulp harshly as I give myself a mental scolding. Of course…how stupid of me, and how poorly I’m treating her by keeping her waiting for something so obvious… I don’t speak my apology, and say instead, “Well, I have a question for you.” She arches a brow in a silent order for me to continue. Complying, I offer in a voice bold enough to hide my nervousness, “What, exactly, does your Queen want with me?” Now, the Ace leans back in a quiet moment of study, and her eyes rake over what little of me can be seen to one side of Peregrine. “Well, seeing as how I think the Queen might be testing my loyalty,” and she shoots a sly glance at one of the darker corners of the room, “I’m not going to answer that.” I frown slightly, but she holds me captive with those entrancing eyes, and she leans slightly forward, closer to me. As she does, though, Peregrine steps fully in front of me, so that the other Ace can’t see me, and I can’t see anything but the back of Peregrine’s pretty head. Though I can’t see the Ace of Clubs, I can easily imagine the glint of amusement in her eyes, and the devilish curl of her lip as she murmurs to the Ace of Spades, “I’m not going to hurt her, dear…” My hand gently touches Peregrine’s elbow, and I move my head closer to her ear as I whisper, “…it’s okay…” And I step out from behind her to meet the Ace of Clubs fully. My eyes lock onto hers, and I refuse to allow her air of superiority to intimidate me further. Her full lips stretches into an almost Cheshire-worthy curve, and she calmly intones, “Now then. How about a game of sorts? We will each ask the other a question, and when we choose not to answer, the other party gets to ask another. I will go first.” I blink in surprise, and notice with no small amount of chagrin that she didn’t even give me a chance to disagree. I have no opportunity to protest, as she continues to talk in that deliciously precise manner, but she does so in a way that gives the listener a feeling of leisure, and I quite lose myself in her surety. “What does the White Queen want with you?” My brow furrows as recall the question I asked earlier that should have allowed me to ask another, but it’s too late for that now. I consider her current question…but I decide that in the end, it ultimately doesn’t matter whether she knows or not, and so I say, “She had me consider a bargain. She made me an offer in return for killing the Black King.” “Mmm.” And she has a smile on her lips that fairly shows how absolutely not surprised she is. “Your turn.” I frown slightly at the way that’s expressed—again, she gives me no choice in the matter, even though I don’t really have anything to ask. I think a minute, and then decide to ask the only thing that comes to mind right now. From the wooden, I retrieve the pewter dragon, and show it to her. “What’s this?” She doesn’t appear impressed, but she does fail to hide the spark of interest that suddenly ignites behind the darkness of her eyes. “That,” and she pauses briefly for emphasis, “is something I’ve seen given to Black Kings. Although, keep in mind, not all people who were given it became Black Kings; some of them vanished. But you have your answer. My turn.” She inhales, and leans back again. “If you were to kill the Black King, how would you do it?” “I’m not answering that.” “Then I get another. The Ace of Spades. Have you kissed her?” Blink. What the hell? And then, quickly, I remember the Bishop that I’m still holding onto in my left hand. I could just will her away… But as soon as I think it, the thought dies. “What kind of question is that? Why do you care?” She quirks a well-formed brow, and vague displeasure flits across her beautiful face. “Have. You. Kissed. Her.” Despite the sudden eruption of angry curiosity, I also feel a strange kind of remorse for my outburst, for how I displayed my lack of discipline in the face of a plain command. Still, I meet her eyes squarely again as I answer. “Yes.” And I’m not sorry. The Ace of Clubs smiles now, pleased as she graciously orders, “Your turn.” My anger remains. “Why do you care?” “The Ace of Spades is something of a sister to me…or, at the very least, a distant cousin. I don’t like to see her misused. And it’s my turn again. "It’s actually something of a two-part question, but since you’ve thus far been so succinct in your answers, I expect that you’ll treat them as one, and answer both.” She pauses here to look at me sharply, to make sure I know that she doesn’t need my permission to assert that. “Have you slept with her? In the carnal sense?” “…are those the two questions, or are you asking them in pieces?” “Have you slept with her, in the carnal sense? If not, do you want to?” I exhale slowly, and try not to squirm. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation in front of Morimer and Zhong Huang also…how embarrassing… Although, really, she hasn’t so much as acknowledged their presence, indicating to me how absolutely little she thinks of them, that they need not be of any concern. “No, and I don’t know.” She arches a brow again, and her face is inscrutable. “You ‘don’t know?’ That is insufficient. To what do you owe this lack of certainty?” I frown, not only at her presumptuousness, but also because I genuinely don’t know…and that bothers me. I generally am pretty clear about goals and wants, but I’m simply not sure anymore, and that the Ace of Clubs touched so quickly upon a sore spot of mine irks me. “I don’t know. I do know that I want to share affection with her, but even I’m not quite sure what that means.” “She has little concept of affection. The reason I ask is because she does have carnal knowledge, but none of affection. She has been physically used by Queens in the past—” “—she’s being used by a Queen now.” She releases a slow sigh, and once again that displeasure moves in a wave across her face, but it lingers this time, and I bite my lower lip when I realize that I’ve interrupted. Purposefully, the Ace of Clubs slows her speech, and narrows her eyes just a bit. “I don’t think you’re understanding what I’m saying. She has been used in the past when the Queens have needed physical release—” Despite my earlier urge to just allow this woman to maintain control, I cannot hold my tongue. “I’m sure she has been.” “—Plainly and simply, she has f u c k e d Queens when they desired it of her.” “I’m sure she has.” I mean, really, someone as sexy as that, a virgin? Please. “Needless to say, I hardly thought it the most appropriate use for her.” “I’m sure.” A moment, and then, with quiet force, “My turn.” She gives a small smile, and her eyes glint dangerously. I furrow my brow a moment, and then I ask with some caution, “…why should I trust anything you say?” The smile widens, and her eyes seem to lighten several shades, and then immediately darken again. “I don’t lie.” A nice thing to say, but really, it doesn’t mean squat unless it’s true… And before she can say anything else, I say, “I get another one because of the very first question you didn’t answer.” I expect her to protest, or slap me across the face, or something, and I even watch her carefully, and arch a brow in challenge, but she merely watches me, and waits with that completely commanding smile on her lips. I take a breath, and then I ask almost timidly, “The Ace of Spades has been broken before by the Black Queen. Why haven’t you been? Or, have you been?” She tilts her head slightly, as if surprised that I would ask such a question. “There was time when I thought it in my best interests to pretend that I was broken. But I have not been; she cannot make me do anything I don’t wish to. She cannot issue commands to her Bishop.” I blink, but she, of course, continues. “Are you friends with her?” And she motions to Peregrine again. “Of course.” The indomitable Ace narrows her eyes slightly at me again before slowly informing me, “This is not an ‘of course’ sort of question.” “Yes, I know. It’s a ‘friends and allies’ sort of question. My answer remains the same.” She appears to consider this a moment, and then, “Would you be willing to ally with her?” I allow my lips to ease into a lopsided grin. “Ahh-uh—my turn now.” She sighs softly, and she regards me with a little more warmth, I think, than she has so far. “So it is.” “Problem is, though, that I’ve got nothing to ask.” “Well, you have to ask something. Ask something puerile if you must.” I tilt my head slightly, and murmur, “…but there’s nothing further I want to ask you.” I smile fully now. “You’ll just have to owe me one.” She leans close now, so that her hot breath passes over my skin, and her teeth shine dangerously white and sharp in the afternoon sun. “You know, I rather like you right now. If you force me to owe you an answer, I will be very cross.” I have no doubt that the unspoken threat will be carried out at some point. The warmth I fancied seeing just a second ago has turned to impenetrable ice, and her sapphire blue eyes narrow once more. Then, in no uncertain terms, she commands, “Ask.” I sigh, and think about this a moment, and I try not to think of how much that last “k” sounded like the cracking of a well-controlled whip. As a result of this distraction, I come up with something that’s rather out of left field. “So…you said you were with the President earlier…how do you pick who you mentor? Or do you not get to pick at all?” “Well, I do have preferences,” she begins, and she rather sounds back to her previous commanding, but not completely unfriendly manner. “The further away I get from people who are stupid, and men, the happier I generally am.” I quirk a brow, and offer her a smile of genuine sympathy. “Wow. I’m so sorry you got stuck with one of the stupidest men on the planet.” She answers my smile with one of her own. “You’ve no idea.” We pause for a moment, and I realize that I really don’t have anything more to say. She must realize this too, because she says next, “Well, since that’s over with, perhaps we can play some other game. One that's a little more relaxed.” I give her a look of sarcastic disbelief as I lamely intone, “What, like Tetris, or something?” The Ace of Clubs thinks about this for a moment…and then gives me a smile so dazzling and winsome that I’m forced to blink and push away images of the former Ace of Hearts. “If you’re so inclined, sure, why not?” I sigh, and shake my head to clear out some of my confusion. Good God, she’s more emotionally nimble than I am. “Well, we’ll have to get a Playstation, or a PS2…and there are better puzzle games than Tetris.” I immediately brighten. “Ooh! Like Puzzle Fighter! That game’s awesome, and so horribly addictive!” She smiles in response to my sudden enthusiasm, stands up, then looks down at her leather corseted self before murmuring, “Hmmm. This isn’t exactly clothing for going out.” Catching that, I think to myself, “…too bad…” Despite my intentions to keep that thought silent, she slowly and purposefully turns her head to study me once more…and she gives another half smile, and I can see hints of fire flash and surge in those wintry eyes. At that sight, I breathe a shuddering sigh, and I know without further doubt that my peril lies within those bright sapphire eyes and crimson smile. In answer to her unnerving contemplation of me and my unintentional words, I murmur, “Jesus, did I say that out loud?” And then, a little more loudly, “I’m sorry…” There’s no mistaking the evident humor in that coolly British voice now. “For what?” Now more embarrassed than anything else, I don’t even think about what I say, and it all comes out a jumble. “I don’t know…did I say something? I don’t think I said anything…” She looks at me for only a moment more before she shifts into a more appropriate form. She becomes an attractive Chinese girl who is shorter than I am, and generally smaller, who is dressed conservatively, but who still exudes some sense of power. Despite the similarities, she does not even remotely remind me of Zhi Ming. She offers me her arm, and in that same, clear British enunciation, she asks, “Shall we?” I consider it only briefly…with the obsidian Bishop still firmly in my left hand, I loop my right arm into the crook of the Ace's elbow. “Let’s go.” Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/12/03 10:46:43 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 279 (5/12/03 11:00 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “The Devil tempts us not—‘tis we tempt him, Reckoning his skill with opportunity.” -- George Eliot (pseudonym of Mary Evans Cross), Felix Holt (ch. XLVII) To Sin in Loving Virtue, Part II My arm securely hooked against the arm of the Ace of Clubs, I turn around and give the Ace of Spades a look of invitation. “Peregrine, are you coming, too?” Before Peregrine can answer, the Ace of Clubs murmurs with evident surprise, “…Peregrine?” Nonchalantly, I answer, “Yeah. ‘S’her name.” The Ace of Clubs just gives me a half-smile as she considers this, and I continue. “What, don’t you have one?” “Should you need to address me with a name, you may simply call me ‘Ace.’ I prefer to be known for who I am.” “What you do, you mean,” I counter. And those completely too-attractive lips relax into a curve that’s deceptively placid. “Or maybe that.” A rather derisive snort almost makes its way up and out into the air. “Maybe? Funny, coming from a known sadist who inflicts physical torture on people.” The smile widens a bit, and her eyes flash just a little. “Dear, the hooks I leave in people are emotional.” I blink and parry that by returning my attention to Peregrine, and asking again, “So you’re coming, right?” “Yes.” I glance over at Zhong Huang and Morimer with the same question in my eyes, and without words being spoken, they both nod vigorously and give the Ace of Clubs nasty looks. The Ace of Clubs, of course, just quirks a good natured brow at their antics, and leads us out. ______________________________________________ As we walk through town to get back into Chinatown to hit some of the places with bootleg videogames and anime, we pause long enough for the Ace of Clubs to place a delicate hand against the ragged, dilapidated face of some forgotten building. I watch in puzzlement, and after a few seconds, we continue. She answers my questioning look by saying, “…a ward to keep the White Spider from spying on us further.” I nod silently, and we shop. As we do, I learn a lot from her. While the others browse and attempt to find what I’m looking for, I pull the Ace of Spades away from the group, and look at her seriously. She looks at me with some subtle surprise, and some glimmer of amusement…after a moment, she calmly gestures to the others with a small motion of her pointed chin. “Your friends seem to think your decision unwise.” I can’t help it…I grin. “Yeah, but they often do. It’s amazing, that I’ve survived as long as I have, I guess.” Her quirked brow expresses her plain agreement with that thought, but she offers, “They don’t trust me.” She pauses, and then she continues with a smile of heart-wrenching playfulness, “And perhaps they’re right not to. I wouldn’t trust me either, were I some other entity, and not myself.” I furrow my brow slightly as I think of a defense, but I don’t come up with very good ones. Instead, I satisfy myself by merely saying, “Mmmm.” Damn, but that was lame… She appears to think so, too…that arched brow lifts itself even higher at my response. But it’s during the time that we’re away from the others that she gives me a great deal of information… I begin with, “So…that name. Is that because the Black Queen is her own ace in the hole?” The Ace of Clubs smiles and tilts her head slightly, and says, “…do you know her name?” “Well, yeah…” “I can’t give it to you; that’s why I ask.” A sigh escapes my lips quickly as I rush out the words. “Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide.” The smile spreads further across those crimson lips, and I’m glad I’m able to see it, it’s so lovely. “Well. That frees me from a good deal of responsibility—she wouldn’t allow me to tell you her name, but since you know it already…” She pauses. “But in answer to your question, I don’t know. I’d have to ask her mother.” “…her mother’s still alive?” “Yes.” “Well, I mean, I guess, since they’re a family of vampires, but still…” And then, because I have this compulsion to chase down fleeting thoughts that flit through my head, no matter how random they are, I ask something that’s only tangential to the conversation. “Hey, do you know where she lives?” She leans close to me now, and her eyes take on a look of rather girlish conspiracy. It’s very charming… “No, I don’t…do you?” “Yeah. Hmm, I was going to ask you something about the Black Tower, but since you’ve not seen it…” And then I ask about Elizabeth’s ability to switch between realms. She answers that usually only spirits can enter into the realm she’s from, but “Elizabeth and a handful of others are special cases. Elizabeth herself is a vampire, as you already know, so she doesn’t qualify as a spirit. Another person was that priest that Mr. White made such quick work of.” “Right…so Elizabeth has a tangible body buried somewhere…” “Yes. And I don’t know the answer to the next question you should be asking, which is where it’s buried.” I frown a little at that, not because she doesn’t know the answer, but that she thought she had to spoon feed me something so obvious. But perhaps I really do appear to others the way I appear to the White Queen—as though I never quite know what’s obvious and what’s not. “Well, I know for sure there’s one particular Adelaide mausoleum that it’s not in, and that’s because it holds my body!” Like a cat who’s suddenly caught sight of something to bat a paw at, she’s suddenly quite interested. “Really…?” “Yeah.” “We should go look at it sometime, then.” “I already tried…I couldn’t get in. There’re wards on it.” She laughs softly and leans close enough to almost brush her lips against mine. “That’s why I said we.” “Well, anyway, even if you did know,” and I back up a little to put a little more space between us, “I don’t think you’d tell me…especially not with the Black Queen trying to spy on you to see if you’re truly loyal to her. Is she watching now, by the now?” “She is not. She has difficulties looking into areas that are filled with sunlight.” “Ahh.” Every so often, I will toss glances at the others, just to check on how they’re doing, and to see their reactions to my actions. They still keep a sharp eye on me, and continue to watch the Ace of Clubs warily. I grin in response, and occasionally wave to show them that I’m still okay. “So I’m curious about something else now…you said that you were with the President before you showed up in our room.” “Yes.” “…but you also said that you try to avoid stupid men in particular, and our president’s one of the stupidest ones around…” “Yes.” And she gives another smile that pulls me further into the magic of her precise, clipped, British voice. “It was necessary then.” “Yeah, but that’s what I mean…it was necessary. Why? Evidently, you were doing it for Elizabeth, but that’s real world politics, leading me to believe that Elizabeth’s reach extends much further than I guessed before. Just how far does it go?” Her eyes gleam again, and the smile seems to hold more faint surprise to it. “There are Middle Eastern deities that require war and bloodshed to increase their power and worship. I made a visit to Mr. President to ensure that such wars come to be. When they do, Elizabeth will have garnered much influence in the Middle Eastern mythologies.” She tilts her head for a moment, as if considering. “It’s very exciting, to have a Queen who is so ambitious…” In a way, she scares me—she’s obviously as smart as Rose Red was, but she works for someone I’ve considered the enemy since I was first drawn into this craziness. Why is she telling me all this? “Hey…a question. You put a ward on the White Spider, yes?” She nods. “Well…is there some way to free him of the White Queen’s control? He’s not spying on us because he wants to, after all…” The Ace of Clubs looks at me again, although her expression is one that I haven’t seen yet…she’s genuinely amused, but there’s something else there that I can’t identify. “You…really are just a sweet girl, aren’t you…?” I blink, and can feel the color and heat rising to my cheeks. “Uh, not really…” She watches me for a moment, and then says vaguely, “I’ll give it some thought.” We have a few quiet moments to ourselves before I cut in again with, “So…you’re pretty smart. And you could easily be that ambitious. Why haven’t you staged a revolt, or something?” Her face appears to soften a little, though her eyes lose some of their brilliance. “I have torn loyalties. I admire her as a Queen, because her strategy is excellent. She sometimes does things, however, that I simply can’t abide.” Blink. Seeds of dissension! “Like?” “Well. You know that Peregrine was broken.” I blink at her quick adoption of the name that I gave to the Ace of Spades, but she continues, “First, I didn’t think that such an action was necessary. Second, she went to the White Bishop to get it done.” “Oh my…is that…is that even legal?” And her eyes seem impossibly cold now, and I marvel at the sudden change. How volatile she is! Accordingly, her voice also seems to harden, and carries an edge of contempt. “What, you mean, ‘is that possible,’ in a game with no real rules? Of course. Did it show any kind of sportsmanship? Certainly not. Was it terribly uncouth? Definitely.” I blink at the sudden rush of emotion from her, and decide to reward her with a little tidbit of my own. “You asked earlier about whether or not I would ally myself with Peregrine…” She focuses sharply on me, and I take a breath before I continue. “…well, it might be unwise to tell you, but…the reason I don’t know is because of some things that Rose Red said the last time I talked with her. Specifically, she said that her archetype ‘must be pure,’ and ‘free of people like her,’ whatever that part means. Due to how she caused her archetype to shift, I’m taking that to mean ‘without unwarranted alliances’ with others, because that compromises the archetype’s ability to function freely. Peregrine is Rose Black, yes, but she’s also the Ace of Spades.” She tilts her head now, and stares at me until I start to feel like she’s examining me down to my bones. “Why would that have been unwise to tell me…?” I frown severely at that. “Well, because you carry that same link to the Black Queen.” She merely smiles, and then leads me back to the others, and pays for the items they picked up. ______________________________________________ I was once excellent at Puzzle Fighter. There was a point in time when that’s all I did for two weeks…I played Puzzle Fighter obsessively for many, many hours a day until I beat the game several times in a hidden Master mode. I was excellent then, but I’m still very good. Peregrine kicks my ass. She beats everyone in the room until the Ace of Clubs (who has shifted back into her blue eyed, black haired “self”) asked gently but firmly, “Peregrine, dear, would you mind taking turns?” Peregrine, of course, answers in that same unassuming manner. “No.” The Ace of Clubs laughingly answers with, “Perhaps we should have gotten two—one for Peregrine to beat the game, and one for the rest of us,” as she hands the controller to Zhong Huang. Eventually, they get ready to go, and I’ve all but forgotten that I still have to meet with the Egyptian and the White Queen. Surprisingly, the Ace of Clubs already knew about my meeting with them, and explains that that’s why they’re leaving now. Peregrine stands up, and I give her a close hug and kiss on the cheek. “The Ace of Clubs says that we should go look at the mausoleum…will you come tomorrow, too, Peregrine?” “Yes.” She’s never been one for small talk… The Ace of Clubs gives me an amused look as I release Peregrine and move awkwardly to her. What, should I shake her hand, or…? I decide that I’d rather not be rude, and so I give the Ace of Clubs a polite hug. As I do so, she leans close to my ear, and whispers into it, leaving the skin there warm and moist with her breath. “…am I encroaching on your personal space…?” “Well, uhm, no…” And I try very hard to keep my thoughts from flying completely apart as she wraps her arms around me. Peregrine hasn’t even hugged me back yet… Breathily, then, she murmurs, “Good…” And before she pulls away, she presses her lips to the tragus, where the ear meets the cheek. My thoughts fly completely apart at the feel of her body pressing against mine, at the scent of leather that carries a hint of sandalwood, at her brief kiss…but I do manage to keep enough presence of mind to whisper back, “…that didn’t leave anything, did it?” She gives another smile that makes me breathe a slow sigh. “No…you’re getting paranoid.” She pauses, and then adds, “And that’s a good thing.” Then she moves toward the door, and doesn’t give me time to respond. “Peregrine, dear, come. I have something to discuss with you before the sun person comes in.” Peregrine frowns slightly, but hesitates only a second before following the other Ace out…and I grin as she passes over the threshold and releases her thorns so that they protrude a few inches from her body protectively. They’re now both gone, and I’m left to prepare for my other meeting, and to wonder just how the hell the Ace of Clubs knew about the “sun person.” Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 281 (5/13/03 9:20 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Diplomacy is to do and say The nastiest thing in the nicest way." -- Isaac Goldberg, in "The Reflex" About ten minutes pass before the sun blessed Egyptian knocks to alert us to his presence. We allow him in, and he goes about filling the room with his gold-tinted will. Pretty soon, the little room is filled with a warm orange glow…and the White Queen steps in. She still carries herself with that same confidence, and though it’s only been a few hours since I last saw her, I find myself now immune to her charm. You had your moments in my sun, and you’re not going to get them back…I’ve met the Ace of Clubs, and see now that you’re a pretender. I watch her as she walks closer, and note her confidence, her devastating beauty…and I feel a swell of pity when I compare her to the Ace of Clubs, who is herself a slave to the will of the Black Queen. What, then, must the Black Queen be like? Oh, White Queen, you’re in way over your head. She’s so out of your league… But, without expressing to her any of my thoughts, I give her a small, sad smile, and welcome her once again into our shithole. She, of course, skips the pleasantries and gets to the point immediately. Without taking notice of anyone else in the room, and without even acknowledging my welcome, her words slice through the air, though her voice remains characteristically slow and sleepy. "Have you given some thought to my proposition?" I breathe a dejected sigh. "I have…" Even though I knew that I’d have to answer at some point, and even though I’ve long since decided upon an answer, I still dread answering, and I meet the White Queen’s gaze for only a second before I avoid looking at her completely. My eyes dart around the room, and I examine the cracks in the walls and ceiling…I study the texture and layers of dirt on the shattered glass of the window…I try to follow with my eyes the whorls on the hardwood floor…and the silence around us just seems to grow and grow until I finally can’t take it anymore. I look back at the White Queen only to see that she continues to stare at me, silently waiting. To make light of the situation, I given a feigned laugh, and murmur, "Oh, I’m sorry, did you expect an answer…?" She furrows her brow, and her narrows her eyes so severely at me that my own eyes widen a bit. "I would have thought that that was obvious," she spits out, her voice now strained with barely controlled impatience. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea to toy with her, no matter mildly I’m doing it… I answer instead with, "You know, I’d really be taking a lot of risks by doing that…and you really didn’t offer anything tangible…" She sighs now, and she doesn’t bother to hide her impatience any longer. "I said I’d grant your wish for a protector. Either by the methods we discussed, or some other way." "…if I say no…?" She quirks a brow and those red, red lips, so lovely in their cruelty, lips that seem as though they’ve just sipped the nectar from someone’s open heart, deliver a smile so cold that it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And her eyes haven’t moved from mine. "Then," she offers, her voice slow and steady, the syllables of her words painstakingly precise, "we have nothing more to discuss." I don’t answer for a little bit, and I just stubbornly meet her stare until I begin to feel the need to blink. "Why do you want me to do this anyway? I mean, this isn’t something you can’t do yourself." "First, I want no doubt in anyone’s mind about his death. Second, you already have an ‘in,’ if you will." "…but how would there be no doubt of his death if I do it? I mean, since I’m an outside party, that won’t count as your move…how would you win?" She can barely control her voice at this point, and every consonant in her words starts to sound like cracking knuckles… "It would count as my move. But I tire of discussing the finer points of strategies which you can’t begin to understand." Fair enough…Although, really, if she weren’t barred from doing so, she woulda shut me up long ago…how unlike the Ace of Clubs she is. She’s gotten lazy in her time as Queen… "If I were to do this…would you also release the White Spider from your control?" Silence once again falls around us while she considers this, carefully and slowly, it seems. After a few long, long moments, she arches a delicate brow at me, and clearly enunciates, "You realize that the White Spider would likely kill me the instant I free it." Well, duh…! But I say nothing aloud, and keep my face blank. Well, I was right, at least, about the White Queen not taking well to sacrifice ploys… She continues in that same matter of fact fashion, "There would be no gain from such an action." Well, not for you, personally and specifically... "Well, if that’s your answer," and I shake my head slightly at this, "then I can’t do it." And I look at her nervously—despite my observations, I still half-expect her to assert her power over me somehow… …she doesn’t. "Then," her voice rings out without any hint of her usual languor, "we have nothing more to discuss." And those lips curl away from those pearl white teeth in a dangerous smile that lingers in my memory even as she turns away and leaves without further exchange. Once she’s gone, I breathe a shuddering sigh. "Well. At least that’s over with…" Before the Egyptian leaves, I ask rather bluntly, "So…I’m very curious…why exactly are you doing this for me? What are you gaining?" He gives me a smile that hints at eons of mystery, just before giving me some vague answer that doesn’t answer anything, and then I find out that he knows of the Black Queen, but hasn’t dealt with her directly. He tells me that he will be by at some later point to check on me, and then he exits. I frown slightly as he goes, but Zhong Huang’s words interrupt my thoughts. He looks at me with a broad grin before intoning softly, "You know, she’s really pissed." I look at the long empty doorway, remembering once more the crimson smile, the teeth that seemed fit to tear into my flesh. "She seemed like she was exercising pretty tight control over herself…" "I’ve been around her a long time…and when her anger flares, it’s usually rather subtle. But she was, indeed, very, very angry just now." "Oh, rah. That means she’ll wanna stomp my ass into the ground even more than she already does. As if that’s even possible." And I bring my fingertips to my temples to ease the pounding there. "My guess is that she’ll not kill you, but she will damage you in a way that would render you useless to the Black Queen." Oh, rah. "Morimer, show me how to control shadow." The bird, not having been addressed during these last few hours, suddenly turns toward me and blinks. "I told you that stuff takes a while…!" "And we’ve got some time." He sighs, obligingly stalks over to me, and we begin. It takes us several hours to "begin," and by the time I’m done with the exercise (because I give up), we’re still "beginning." (We both suffer through several hours of "Morimer, you can’t feel shadow! It’s just an absence of light; there’s nothing there!" And the bird retorts, "I’m telling ya, there’s something tangible there, an’ you can feel it, if you just pay attention!" Like that. It was painful.) I give my feathered companion a disgusted wave of my hand before I unceremoniously announce, "I’m sleepy," and crawl into bed, leaving Morimer going on incomprehensibly about my lack of abilities. ______________________________________________ I'm roused a few hours later by one of those nighttime danger sense things that all people are equipped with, and the first thing that greets my vision is Zhong Huang standing by the door, with a sword drawn. Curiously, the first thing I think is, I wonder where he got that from…maybe Zhi Ming gave him another care package when he got out of the hospital… I give my tired eyes a vigorous rubbing, and hazily murmur, "What’s going on?" Zhong Huang looks at me with some surprise, and then calmly informs me, "There is an Ace of Clubs standing in the doorway…and you would see her, if you would but look." Oh yeah… So I do. And there she is, standing just outside the doorway. She quirks a brow at me, as if expectant. I answer that with a huge, gaping yawn, and flop back down onto my pillows. With my eyes thus angled away from the door so that I can’t see her, I take the obsidian Knight into my hand and release a sleepy and garbled, "Pathos…" Yawn. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 282 (5/13/03 9:01 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “With thee conversing I forget all time: All seasons and their change, all please alike.” -- John Milton, Paradise Lost (bk. IV, l. 639), Eve speaking to Adam It might seem as though I do this for no reason other than that I’m lazy (and I’m perfectly content to allow that misconception to form), but honestly, I’m not sure if the obsidian Bishop can banish the Ace at any time, or if it only banishes it after she’s called by the Knight. In either case, I want to be sure I can send her away at will. As I rearrange the pillows so that I can lie more comfortably, the Ace simply appears in a chair near me, and she tilts her head slightly and regards me with some curiosity. “Good morning,,” she offers, in that deliciously understated manner. It should be clear, after all, to anyone with a pair of eyes (or even half a pair) that I don’t ever consider any morning “good.” Especially not this morning, I think, since I spent many hours trying to master shadows, and I don’t think I’ve slept much. Yawn. “Wha’ time’s it?” And she smiles fully now, and gives her dark head a mild toss. I blink at the utter prettiness of the raven black hair as it catches the twinkling of starlight. Starlight…? As chipper as before, then, she informs me, “Six a.m.” I just blink at her, as I’m half-expecting her to be joking. She’s not. “Awww, man…! I don’t wake well normally, and this is far too early to be conversing (yawn) with someone like you…” and I bury my face more deeply into my pillows and blanket, so that only half of one eye shows. She smiles a bit, and leans close to murmur teasingly, “Shall I come back later then, when you’ve…some facilities about you?” I breathe in deeply, just enjoying her nearness…and, as before, I know that I can send her away, but as unwise as not doing so may be, I simply don’t want to send her away. And so in answer, I merely blink at her with my exposed half-eye. The Ace of Clubs just continues to quietly look at me, and I debate whether or not to continue my light dozing… Instead of dozing, however (because evens in this sleep induced fog, I know that’s a bad idea), I ask, “Wha’ time’s Per’grine gonna show up?” The smile widens a bit and the amusement takes up its post in her eyes once more. “At eight.” I lift my head now, and put my glasses on to glance at the clock. It’s now 6:02. Drat. “…so…what’re you doin’ here?” Yawn. “I wished to talk to you a bit before she arrives,” she says softly. “…okay…” I try to focus on her, but my eyelids, so heavy with the remnants of sleep, droop every so often and this makes the lovely Ace all fuzzy in the bluish-black of night light. She’s so pretty… “…so…do you sleep? What were you doing before you showed up here…?” I give up on trying to sit up, and I wrap my arms around a pillow as I settle back down and close my eyes just a little as I listen. “I was reading.” “Reading what?” I half open one eye in drowsy curiosity. She takes a moment, and then asks, “…May I sit next to you, on the bed?” I arch a brow, and then murmur, “…okay…” The Ace of Clubs then stands from the chair, moves smoothly over to where I lie, and then after a series of cat-like motions, she sits in front of me. “You know…the Bishop you have with provides a warding field that I can’t pass into without first asking permission.” She pauses, and then adds, “But I can use the energy of past invitations…” She looks at me pointedly, and I yawn in answer. She just shakes her head a little at that, and her eyes seem to ask, Are you even paying attention…? I am, of course. “So what were you readin’?” Yawn. Her posture seems to relax a little as she shakes her head again. “Books,” she murmurs teasingly. “Well, yeah—” “—with words in them.” Yawn. “Yeah, thanks, Hamlet.” She quirks an amused brow, and says, “That would have been poor quoting indeed, if I intended to quote it.” “Yeah, but I don’t know of many people who can quote Shakespeare verbatim all the time. Paraphrase, sure.” “But that would have been an easy quote to give.” “Yeah, but even so.” “So what do you want?” I blink. “What?” “What do you want?” I lift my head slightly from the pillow as I consider her words. “Well, I thought you already knew that…I want to put a new protector into place for the realm.” “That’s a goal, not a personal want.” Despite the persistent want of sleep that presses against my eyeballs, I am mildly irked enough to remark, “Y’know, you people seem to be fond of believing that one condition precludes all others from existing in the same instance. Yes, that’s a goal, but it’s also a personal want.” She appears to consider this for a moment before smiling and answering, “Tell me a real want, and I’ll give the title of one of the books I was reading last night.” I sigh, and now prop myself up on an elbow as I warm to the game, and shed some of my former sleepiness. “Well…let’s see…as an extension of my want for a protector, I wish the realm would gain some balance of power.” The lovely Ace of Clubs tilts her head and gives me a look of such incredulity that I’m forced to wonder if she thinks I’m lying…but she answers instead, “The Great Gatsby.” My face contorts into an unflattering grimace as I think, Man, I was hoping she was gonna answer a copy of someone’s Book of Life, but Gatsby’s just painful… “Tender is the Night is better…” “Well, I’d read that one already.” “…so you already finished Gatsby, in those few hours?” She chuckles a bit as she answers, “I read swiftly.” A few moments of quiet fall between us, and I can’t help but notice how genuinely comfortable I am just sitting with her…and my thoughts from a moment ago get answered now as she confides, “…we share a want.” I blink. She continues, and somehow her voice, which always exuded aloof British sensibilities, seems to soften just a little, and she herself somehow seems much more personable. I furrow my brow at this change, and I watch her closely as she meets my gaze. “I also wish for balance of power on the board.” “Hey, so why hasn’t Elizabeth already killed the White King? I mean, it shouldn’t be that hard…” “It’s surprising how good he is at delegating responsibility. He recognized the talent in the Bishop, knew he had been a student of mine, and awarded him the position.” “…I thought the White Queen put him there.” She laughs. “She would like you to think that. It was no exaggeration when I said the White Queen isn’t a challenging enough opponent, and her reign is marked by continual poor choices in Court members. …it’s sad, really. The Black Queen’s playing style is very subtle, while the White Queen’s is not, and she has become far too dependent on that Spider of hers. You’ve seen her Knight, yes?” She looks at me now and doesn’t bother to hide her disgust. “…I don’t think I’ve ever met him.” “…really? He’s blonde, and was an actual knight…one of the most able duelists of his time, but without even half the brains of a newborn. Something of a boytoy for her.” I shake my head in response, and she says, “Hmm. I thought she would have paraded him about. Interesting.” After a brief pause, I ask, “Hey, so I know a little about the White Court, in that they’re all f u c k e d up people. But they’re at least all people. I’ve heard that the Black Court consists almost entirely of archetypes.” She considers this a moment, and then answers, “Most of it, yes.” “…Then…how does that work out? I mean, if you’re all archetypes, I’d think that you would lack flexibility or personality, but I’d say that you’re pretty high on the ‘lots of personality’ list, and you’re pure archetype…” She smiles and leans close now, so close that her sandalwood scent begins to ensnare my senses, and I have to close my eyes to fight it off. Her murmured words seep slowly into my consciousness, and I can feel myself start to yield to her sound, her closeness…and I'm so enraptured by the sound of her voice that I almost don’t catch the words themselves. “That is a misconception that the Black Queen has perpetuated. Actually, only about ten or twenty percent of me is pure archetype…” My eyes fly open at the implications of this, and I turn toward her in shock at this bit of information. I look at her again, open-mouthed and blinking. And once more, the beautiful Ace of Clubs graces me with a slight curvature of her lips that speaks volumes. It carries traces of warmth, but with layers of teasing to hide and detract from the open affection. I simply watch her, marveling, until she speaks. “I would appreciate you not passing that information on.” I give my head a slow shake, and rather obviously balk at the thought. “No, of course not…” I fail at stifling another yawn as I mumble, “See, that’s the problem with both Courts. Everyone just needs to relax, and pass around some hugs, or something. It’d be better, then.” The Ace of Clubs quirks a thoroughly amused brow at that before asking in disbelief, “…hugs…?” Now tired of sitting up, I flop myself back down on the bed so that I’m lying down, and I murmur, “…Mmm, I can’t really believe I just said that, either.” And I open one eye to peer up at her. She smiles genuinely now, and her gaze carries more warmth in them than I ever have before (which, honestly, is not really saying much). In a voice so soft that it could serve as a lullaby even without melody or tone, she says, “I can believe it. It seems to match well with the rest of your character. My past isn’t at all trustworthy, but I was serious when I said that I liked you.” She pauses, and then adds as an afterthought, “You are a bit too prone to ‘lawyering,’ but I can understand your tendencies, given your current situation.” I open both eyes now to study her a bit. “…thank you…” “…I…will also tell you what the Black Queen wants with you, if you agree to answer any question I ask without knowing first what it will be.” I blink at her sudden intensity, and I can only shake my head right now…she doesn’t seem surprised. So she adds instead, “So. Shall we trade another personal want for the other book I read last night?” Oh. Right. I forgot about the “game.” “No. It’s not really a fair trade, you know, a want for the name of book. Personal wants for personal wants, then.” She thinks about it a moment, and then nods. “Okay, lessee. Ooh. Here’s one I have. I want my body back.” The Ace of Clubs chuckles a bit. “Which is why we’re going to the mausoleum today, yes. Why would you want it back, though? Certainly you don’t expect to walk in it again…?” “Ick. No.” “Ahh. You just don’t want it to be used for Elizabeth’s purposes, whatever those may be.” “Right…” I think a moment, and then ask, “Hey, I was wondering…you always call Elizabeth by name, but I’ve never heard Peregrine call her anything other than ‘my Queen.’ Why do you…?” She smiles fully again, and this time, that curve, while still bearing that same amusement, holds some bitterness on its surface. “Well. You’re familiar with the dynamics of various BDSM relationships, yes?” I nod, and she continues, “I am comfortable with either position, but Elizabeth cannot help but be a Top. I suppose you could say that it’s my way of needling her, and topping from the bottom. It amuses me.” “You’re beginning to sound like the Cheshire,” I laugh. “He and I do have some things in common,” is her placid answer. A few moments, and then I roll over onto my side, nearer to her, and I bring a fingertip to gently poke at one of her kneecaps. She quirks a brow, and I smile gently as I look up at her. “Your want…?” She smiles again as she thinks about this and her voice rings of tenderness as she tells me. “I want for Peregrine to be herself again, and to be clear about herself, and the paths she chooses for herself.” I blink, and then giggle, “Hey, you can’t take that want. That was gonna be my want!” The smile on her lips spreads. “…then that makes two wants we share.” “…so yesterday, you asked if I was friends with Peregrine. What about us? Are we friends?” “I’m not sure how you’re defining that word. I’m not trustworthy, but as I said, I do like you. I feel like I can confide in you, and I have a new, rather disturbing tendency to give you an irrational amount of information that brings me a great deal of risk. If that’s your definition, then yes.” So…I’m her friend, but is she mine…? But I nod quietly instead. After a moment, though, I hold up the baggie of communion wafers that I received from that mysterious priest. “Are these safe…?” And I fill her on the Grendel King experience. She chuckles and says, “They carry the blessing of some religious sect, if that’s what you’re asking. “Ah. I wasn’t sure if I could eat them or not…or if anything bad might happen to Elizabeth because of this stupid thing,” and here I show her the binding etched into my chest. “Elizabeth gets whatever you’ve already digested, so it’s not going to harm her in that sense. If you somehow got her to eat one herself, however, definite changes would occur. With her being a vampire, there are quite a few who would be happy to tear her apart from the inside.” She pauses to let that sink in, and then she says, “And that binding does more than just allow her to feed from you, you know. Most obviously, it does that. It also serves as a kind of anathema, marking your connection to the Black Queen. But not as one who serves her; I don’t see that happening anytime soon, as you’re a bit too ornery for that.” She pauses and smiles before becoming serious again. “This is why the Grendel King got nervous. The Black Queen’s will emanates from it, and it’s rather hard to miss. Also, it serves as permission for all members of the Black Court to approach you. That doesn’t apply to me only because of the Bishop you have in your pocket.” I blink, and all my words leave me. Her voice continues to float upon the air now, and eases my rage a little bit with every word. “If you wish it, there are a few interesting ways to have it removed. The first is to pass it onto someone else, and allow them to bear the mark’s consequences.” “Pass.” “The second…is to have the White Bishop remove it. You’re apparently fairly familiar with his style.” And those mysterious glimmers of something rise to the surface of her eyes, and I frown. “Mmm. I think that’s out, because the White Queen would have my ass in a second. And just how do you know about that, anyway? She just smiles, and continues. “The last—and the most interesting to me, personally—is to allow me to remove it. And I am offering to remove the mark for you, with no strings attached.” She adds laughingly, “And keep in mind that I’m not at all accustomed to doing things out of altruism.” “What do you get out of it?” The smile spreads, and glints oddly in the twilight. “I am the Ace of Clubs.” “Well, aside from the sadistic joys of inflicting pain on someone.” “Pain and pleasure, dear.” The growing light plays oddly on her pale, pale skin, and seems to make her eyes more still more unnaturally luminescent. “And you seem to be the right type of person who would take well to mingling the two.” I sigh, and happen to glance over at Zhong Huang and Morimer as I consider this. Zhong Huang has his eyes narrowed, and Morimer mumbles loud enough for us all to hear, “Wrong person!” My gaze eventually returns to the Ace of Clubs, who merely watches me and waits. Instead of answering, I ask instead, “Okay. That question in exchange for the Black Queen’s intentions. I will answer.” She thinks about this, and then says, “Then in fairness, I will answer your question first. She wishes to make you the Black King. You are well suited to the position; you get along well with both decks, and from the perspective of the board, your defenselessness makes you very defensible. Usually, she marks the new king with just such a binding,” and she motions to the etching, “and the new king will, knowingly or not, usually kill the old one before assuming the position.” Suddenly the White Queen's request comes tumbling back to mind, and I gasp in surprise. Elizabeth foresaw that, too...! A moment, and then a second realization. But she also expected me to take the bribe, and I didn't. Hah. And I briefly revel in my tiny victory. “I thought that she switches ‘em out really often. And on that note, what’s the lifespan of a Black King?” “The longest reign of any Black King lasted one year.” I blink, and all my words leave me. “The longer a person assumes the role of the Black King, remember, the less suited to the role the person becomes.” I inhale deeply, and in a voice of stone, I say, “And now for your question.” “…if there was a way for you to relieve Peregrine of her confusion by removing the Rose Red essence from her, knowing that it wouldn’t then enter you, and knowing that as the Ace of Spades, her next target is you before killing the Black Queen, would you still do it?” "What would happen to the Rose Red archetype once the Rose Red energy is released from Pregrine?" "It would get 'released into the wild,' shall we say, and become a pure archetype once again...like the one Elizabeth would have everyone believe I am. It would continue to exist, certainly, just not within a person." Despite Morimer’s frustrated stutterings that have continued to grow in number and volume, I answer after only after a single heartbeat. “Yes.” The Ace of Clubs nods gravely, and that unidentifiable something shines in her eyes again. “I did offer the ritual without strings, but there is one string I'd like to offer, though acceptance of it is optional. The same ritual that would rid you of the mark would also free Peregrine.” She smiles again, this one daring me to meet her challenge. "You said something earlier about revolt...? This is it." “How long does it take?” (“Wrong person!”) “Less than a day, at normal tolerances.” (“Goddammit, wrong person!”) “When would we start?” (“Are you listening?! You can’t trust her!”) “Whenever you’re ready, although the Black Queen has already started sapping me of my power. It has to be soon, if not now.” (“Stop! WRONG PERSON, GODDAMMIT!”) I glance at the clock…7:45 a.m. “Alright. I will accept the offer, take the string, and go with you once I tell Peregrine.” Morimer’s voice continues to screech, and he’s losing feathers at an alarming rate. The Ace of Clubs arches a brow. “Are you sure that’s wise? Would you rather leave a note? You are still an innocent, and being Rose Black, she will try everything in her power to stop you.” “I can’t do that to her. This is something I have to tell her in person. I have faith in her. Write down the address, and I’ll meet you there.” She does, and I take this opportunity to comment, “Morimer doesn’t trust you.” (“Fuckin’ right I don’t!”) “He has good reason not to,” the Ace calmly responds. She turns toward him now, though, and says, “But ask him if I’ve lied to you thus far.” I turn to the noisy bird, the question in my eyes. He sputters, “That’s not the point! There’s something she’s not telling you! She’s not trustworthy! She said so herself!” Thus satisfied, I return my attention to the Ace, to whom I say, “I’ll meet you there.” She studies me for a long moment before asking softly, “May I kiss you?” Blink. “…uh…” Well, I’m about to let her have my body to do god-knows-what with, so what’s a kiss at this point? “Yeah…” It’s not what I expect, though—she leans close, and just barely brushes her lips against my cheek, almost as the motion was accidental. Then she says, “That will allow me to track you, if you have problems with Peregrine, and don’t show up.” I nod, and she walks out. Her footsteps are quick and sure, and their currents of motion pull the fallen raven feathers into miniature cyclones. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/14/03 8:09:45 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 283 (5/13/03 10:25 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Faith is a higher faculty than reason.” -- Philip James Bailey, Festus--Proem (l. 84) Between the two of them, Morimer complains far more about my current plan of action than Zhong Huang does (that is to say he doesn’t). It would make sense, I suppose, that since Zhong Huang has endured so much suffering at the hands of others, and because of his archetypal duties, that such self-sacrifice is familiar to him, as well. Zhong Huang, despite his understanding, still doesn’t trust the Ace of Clubs enough to allow me to go to her alone, and Morimer flat out refuses to join us. “I will not have any more a hand in this than I’ve already put forth!" "But Morimer..." "Ahh, well. I'm just an old bird..." "You're far more than that, Morimer." "I done gave you all the advice you can ignore..." I smile now, thinking of all his help, and how I generally ignored his recommended course of action. "Well..." And then, as if quite depressed, he murmurs, "I'm never gonna get those eyes." "Yes you are, Morimer..." He glares at me now, and bursts into another feathered fury. And as he paces around the room, he still loses feathers as he stalks, and bobs his head with birdlike ferocity. "I am not! You're about to go off somewhere with the Ace of Clubs, while I starve! That damned Ace of Clubs, untrustworthy..." and he continues to rant so furiously that his words don't even sound English any more (and they might not have been. who knows?) I blink, and though now vaguely annoyed, I have to fight down the urge to giggle, "'Starve?' I hardly think so...now you're speaking in hyperbole." As close to being precisely 8:00 a.m. as possible (because, really, what is time, after all?), Peregrine walks in, her face clear of all knowledge of what transpired in the room moments before she walked in. Before she can say anything to me, however, I approach and wrap my arms around her lean form. She no longer seems surprised when I do that, so I guess I made some progress on that end. “Peregrine, dear, I have to go somewhere.” “Yes. To the mausoleum.” I cup her face in a hand and I breathe a sigh of wonder at the innocence that shines there. “Actually, there’s been a change of plans.” “I will accompany you.” “…I’m so sorry, dear Peregrine, but you can’t…” She says nothing at this, but waits patiently for an explanation…and I bite my lower lip as I recall the Ace of Clubs’ words. “She will try everything in her power to stop you…” “Peregrine, I have to go somewhere with the Ace of Clubs.” Her eyes widen noticeably at this, and I wonder what thoughts are running through her head….but my own thoughts get answered pretty quickly when Peregrine bursts out, “She can’t hurt you while I’m here, but she’s not here now. Where is she?” “She left…she came early this morning—” “—has she hurt you?” I blink at her protectiveness, but I guess that’s the Rose Red essence coming to the fore, and this is the Ace of Clubs we’re talking about, after all. “No, not at all…” I sigh again, and I hold her close as I hope I can make her understand. “Peregrine, there is a ritual the Ace of Clubs can perform that will rid me of the Black Queen’s mark, and will also free you from your confusion with the Rose Red role. Remember a long time ago I told you that it’d be hard for you to reconcile your roles? I think this is the best way to get that done.” “Is there another way?” My lips purse as my desire to protect her, and the temptation to lie overwhelm me both at once. I chew nervously on my lower lip as I think about how to phrase this. “There are, but this is the most efficient.” “What are the other ways?” Drat. Sighing now, I say, “Well, the first method is to pass it onto someone else, which we can’t do, because they’d be receiving the mark unjustly. The second method is to have the White Bishop remove it from me, and I can’t do that because the White Queen is really very upset with me right now.” Surprisingly (though it makes me grin with the irony of it), the darling Ace of Spades turns to Morimer and now asks placidly, “Is she lying?” Morimer shakes his head, and then continues with his string of angry expletives. She thinks about it for a few long moments before a slow smile begins to spread across her lips. “You could pass the mark onto me. I will take it for you.” I look into her eyes, even though I know she’s perfectly serious about her “solution.” That wouldn’t rid her of the Rose Red essence, but she’d be willing to put up with it if it means the protection of an innocent… And I can feel my heart tighten a little painfully at the socially simple innocent’s nobility. “That’s very sweet of you, Peregrine, but I don’t think it works that way…” “Why not?” And I can’t tell her about the Rose Red thing, because she’d just take it… “Well, it’s a mark of the Black Court, and you’re already a member of the Black Court. Putting the mark on you would be redundant, and I don’t think it would work, particularly if it’s the Black Queen’s will we’re going up against.” “This ritual that you’re about to undergo…it is self-sacrifice for my sake, isn’t it?” “Well, it’s not really sacrifice, since I’m not going to lose anything—” “—but it is like the one you endured with the Bishop, where you suffered for the cause of the White Jester?” How the hell does everyone know about that?! Or does the Bishop have a thing for hidden video cameras, and posting vids on the net? Christ almighty! “Well, kinda, I guess…” “Then I cannot allow it to happen.” “If I am an innocent that you claim to protect, how can you stop me? You’d be interfering with the will of an innocent, and you could actually be causing more harm than good.” “…but I’m not sure how much of my fondness for you resides with the Rose Red part of myself. If the Rose Red essence goes away, I may well harm you even more then, and I must prevent my future self from harming you.” “Outside of either role, you’re still Peregrine. And I know that after the Rose Red essence leaves, you’ll still be Peregrine, and because you’re that person, I have faith that you won’t hurt me. I have faith in you.” She frowns at this, but reaches out to cup my face. She leans close, and then whispers softly, “…is this intruding into your personal space?” “No, Peregrine,” I answer, just as softly. And with that, she moves closer and presses her lips to mine. My eyes slip shut involuntarily, it seems, as I lean into her, and allow her strength to support me for this brief moment of long awaited connection. Her kiss isn’t nearly as sensual as Rose Red’s was, but I can feel the tenderness that passes between us, and I’m thankful for her trust in me. She pulls away after a moment, and then informs me, “I’m going now.” “…where are you going, Peregrine?” I open my eyes, and struggle to see past this haze of emotion, struggle to fight down the urge to reach for her and hold her close… “I don’t know. But I cannot accompany you, and I must go somewhere.” “…uh…okay…” We watch her walk off, and after a few moments to make sure she’s really gone elsewhere, Zhong Huang and I tell Morimer that we’ll see him later (he answers with dismissive wing, and some more choice words), and we both proceed to the address written by the Ace of Clubs. ______________________________________________ The address belongs to a cozy, but upscale club, and we arrive in time to see the Ace of Clubs get a key from a bleary eyed club employee who, no doubt, still feels the pulsing rhythm from last night’s party…his head bobs, as though in time to melodies only he can hear. Wow…this place must have an incredible after-hours scene, or something, for that guy to still be here… I have no idea, really, of just what awaits me, but again, I have faith that I will come out of it okay, and that Peregrine will be okay, and Zhong Huang and I will both greet Morimer again to endure several more helpings of his abuse. The Ace of Clubs spots me, motions to a door well hidden against the club’s décor, and, without a word, starts to lead us both down, down, down some dark stairs...and as we continue to go down into the bowels of Manhattan, I can feel my courage start to wane. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/14/03 8:06:04 am Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 288 (5/14/03 11:50 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's snares, She blunder'd on some virtue unawares.” -- Charles Churchill, The Rosciad (l. 137) “Trust men, and they will be true to you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great.” -- Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays--On Prudence Rapture, Part I Completely undaunted by the growing darkness as it surrounds us, the Ace of Clubs brings us further down into the depths of the old building…it’s very dimly lit, and I have to take a few breaths to steady myself as the winding stairwell begins to tighten and narrow, forcing us to move along in single file. The walls around us, I find as I run a few fingertips against a surface, are rough, unspackled cement, and jagged, protruding grains crumble and fall away under my touch. I try to think of other things as I move closer to the place of my self sacrifice…and I note that the place fits a kind of architectural metaphor…and it fits the Ace of Clubs. Upstairs is the posh club, where one of the more popular drinks is undoubtedly the dry martini, served with three olives stuffed with habañeros instead of pimientos, done for style and a more a literal flare. Down past these dark, dark stairs lays the dirty, hidden underbelly, where the force of life is summoned, manipulated, used, tossed away. Beneath the darkness of these stairs lives the pulse of the place, the origin of vitality that beats life into the synthetic rhythms of its gilded face. “… I have roots that go deeper into darker places than you know....” Finally, the Ace of Clubs begins to speak as we continue our descent, and she tells me a little about the purpose of medieval “murderholes,” about how they were used to trap others, and used to rain various forms of unpleasantness (to put it mildly) upon the poor beings trapped beneath them. With that same exacting, cold British tone, the Ace of Clubs asks, “do you have a better idea now of the place we’re about to approach?” We’ve finally hit a landing, and Zhong Huang and I follow her down the length of an equally dark corridor. “…Yes, I think so…” I murmur softly. Despite the low volume of my answer, the length of the hallway allows my timid voice to echo with a smooth vibrato, to sound like it belongs to someone else entirely, and conveys a sense of bravery that I don’t feel. The Ace strides a few feet ahead of me, and then turns around to formally announce, “Christina, you are invited in.” I quirk a brow, but follow her through, and feel a curious kind of rippling throughout my body as I do. Zhong Huang, though he follows directly behind me, audibly slams into some unseen thing, and lands squarely on his ass. I stop short, and wait for the Ace to walk back to correct this. She does so soon enough, and offers smilingly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see him there,” before intoning, “Mr. White, you are invited in.” She glances at me and continues, “There’s a ward there. Sometimes the energy exchanged here attracts…the wrong kinds of spirits.” I say nothing in answer, because I’ve finally looked around at this otherworldly space…and I can imagine it being some fetishist’s lovingly crafted wet dream. Draped around the perimeter of the room are lengths of chain over heavy velvet curtains (to help absorb sound…?), lending the space an industrial kind of appeal mingled with gothic elegance. Spread throughout the room is the continuation of this sort of theme, where steel is paired with velvet, where leather swings hang suspended in the air while metal examination tables stand ready nearby. Leather spanking chairs, benches of constraint, sit ominously in other parts of the room; near them, on the wall, hang coiled whips, various riding crops, floggers, canes of various lengths, suppleness, weight; against the far wall rest clothing racks, filled to capacity with corsets, latex strait jackets, and the like. My eyes continue to roam, and I can feel my breathing quicken at the glint of metallic examination instruments, weights, grips, clamps… This place is thoroughly intimidating…I wanna go home now… And that’s when I catch sight of various iron cages, some suspended above the rich rugs on the hardwood floors, one human kennel cage tucked unobtrusively against a raised Victorian chaise, where the Master or Mistress can reach in and stroke His or Her pet as s/he rests at the Dominant’s feet. My eyes narrow at the unbidden mental image of a captive, leather-hooded someone caged at Someone else’s feet. My vision shifts to me being trapped in that tiny space, and my heart pounds, and my throat itches to issue some indication of discomfort and anger. I can feel the eyes of the Ace of Clubs on me as I take in this sanctuary of pain and pleasure, and my fists clench and unclench involuntarily at my sides. As they do, I find my eyes lingering on other things in the room. Though I’ve no actual experience in any actual BDSM activities, and though my knowledge of it isn’t all that extensive, I do know a fair amount about it, and I’m surprised to see things I can’t even begin to identify. I don’t think I even wanna guess what those are used for… A moment more, and then, I think I should have gone to the Bishop. At least that’s only pain, and clinical pain at that. This is far more personal… And I can feel my resentment start to build. I turn to Zhong Huang, and with a tight voice and tense jaw, I flatly tell him in Chinese, “I don’t want you to witness this.” He blinks, and he innocently asks, “I’m here to protect you. How will I know when something’s gone wrong?” Without quite realizing that I am myself now issuing commands, I say, “However you go about discerning that, you will not watch. Take a seat, and wait. I’m sure you’ll know when you’re needed.” I walk a little father into the room, leaving Zhong Huang and his concerns by the door. The Ace of Clubs talks to him now, and her British coldness is evident even in this room of bold reds and muted black. “There is something that humans often use to signal the stop of a scene. It’s called a ‘safeword,’ and when you hear her utter it,” and some of her old teasing returns to her words, “that’s your cue.” I turn to watch them now, my brow arched, and I see Zhong Huang nodding like an obedient puppy. “Okay.” He really looks thoroughly relieved. Now the Ace of Clubs turns to me, and with a smile that would tempt the Devil himself, she asks, “What do you wish to use as such a word?” She pauses, and then offers, “How about ‘Peregrine?’” “Fine.” A tension has layered itself steadily over me since our time on the stairs, and I am not in a negotiating mood. I note the word, and resolve not to use it. And I’m sure she knows that, too. I will allow her the use of my body, but my will is mine. She leaves Zhong Huang looking like he’s having a child’s “time out,” with his face turned away from the heart of the space. She strides over to me, her eyes holding mine steady. Once she reaches me, she leans close and whispers, “That poor man. He really is confused—he knows that he’s expected to do something, but he knows not when or how to do it. It must be quite a worrisome state of being.” Despite my current emotional state, her comment does what it’s supposed to, and pulls a soft chuckle from me. The Ace smiles in response, and then continues as we walk further in, “If you use the word, it will signal the end of the scene. As for the ritual, I will give you option of stopping completely, or beginning anew.” She stops walking, and I follow suit. I lift my eyes to her in unimpressed question. The Ace of Clubs, with that delicious accent, orders, “Strip. Completely.” Submissives, I’ve been told, will, at the very least, follow simple commands. I must not be a very good one, because I simply stand there, and do nothing until the Ace of Club’s voice cuts through the air once more. “Now.” Then, “Pile your clothes there,” and she motions to a space near the metal examination table. My jaw clenches again, and then I do as bade. It’s weird…when the White Queen imposed her will upon me, I got mad, but at least I knew that it was her fault. Here, I have no one to blame but myself. This is willing. And this merely serves to underscore the power she has already exerted over my will. Still, it is for the good of Peregrine, and for the Rose Red archetype…I have my righteousness to see me through, like I had with the Bishop. I hope. She extends a hand to the table, and says firmly, “Lie down there, with your back to the table, hands at your sides.” Despite my misgivings, I find following her orders a little easier this time. Maybe it just takes time… It’s not a comforting thought. She follows me, and places a cool fingertip on the dark mark of the Black Queen. With another fingertip, she lightly traces the pink flesh surrounding a nipple stiffened from the cold. “Do you feel anything happening to the mark?” I frown, and am just about to say “no” when I realize that that area is becoming gradually colder. I tell her this, and she nods. “The Bishop was my student, but we differ in our techniques. He believes only in pain, and refuses to see the potential in pleasure. This mark can be removed with the extremes of emotion, pain or pleasure.” A moment, and then she removes her hands from me. “Now flip over.” I do, and I can feel her towering above me. I study her shadow as she moves to the other end of the table. I don’t know what to expect, but to my surprise, she bends my leg at the knee, and cups the top of my foot in the palm of her hand. I inhale quickly at the unexpected coolness of her touch, and then she presses down, her hold firm. Gradually she increases the pressure until it feels like she’s trying very hard to crush my bones. Despite the pain, I don’t indicate it. Not unexpectedly, she stops just at the point when I don’t think I can take any more, and continues onto my calves, then thighs, then buttocks, then my back, shoulders, to finally the neck. That’s when I realize, This is some f u c k e d up version of massage… And actually, once the pain subsides, my formerly ultra-tense muscles are more relaxed. Relaxed muscles absorb impact better, maybe…? “Roll over.” I blink, disturbed from my speculation, and do as ordered. I close my eyes as she repeats the same process, starting with the feet again until she reaches my neck once more. “How are you feeling?” Her voice is soft, and cradles me with the warmth that I hear there. “…kinda relaxed…” SLAP! Immediately after I say that, she delivers a well-placed slap to the side of my face, and my eyes jerk open at the sharp, fiery stinging that brings me to full consciousness. As I stare in open disbelief, she just regards me coldly. My breathing has already quickened, and my adrenaline has started to fill my veins. Through my teeth, I tell her calmly, “I. Don’t. Take kindly. To being slapped.” That something sparks in her eyes now as she quirks a brow and that alluring voice beckons. “Do you wish to slap me back?” At that, I’m off the table and on my feet, my chest heaving breaths of rage. My fingers curl and uncurl, and I shake in my indecision as her handprint swells bright pink on my cheek. With her brow still arched, she merely intones, “Well…?” And she motions for me to come at her. My hesitation flies with the hand that I swing with the full force of my body behind it. My aim is dead on, and—perhaps this is just my fancy—my slap is as devastating as hers. I blink in shock at the force of my physical ability, and at the emotional release I gain from it. I hit her hard enough to turn her face completely, and she stands very still for just a moment. It would appear that I’ve surprised her, as well. Before I can even open my mouth to apologize, she lands another similar strike to my other cheek. I’m furious. “HEY! What t’f u c k's that for?! We were even!” Again, “Do you wish to slap me back?” “I wanna fuckin’ punch you now!” Those lips, now redder than before, ease into another dangerous smile. “Well then?” I move a few steps closer to her, fists readied, when I stop myself. “No,” I say forcefully. “…why not?” “I’m not going to hurt you.” She looks at me curiously, and I can see the surprise surface once more. I continue, “I mean, aside from the obvious that I probably can’t hurt you. I’m not going to.” Softly then, she murmurs, “You can hurt me, you know. I’m not a combat monster…and that slap did quite hurt.” Because she still regards me with that strange look of wonder, I can’t help but murmur, “I’m sorry…” Without answering that, she assumes control again, and intones, “Back on the table. On your stomach, with your arms raised, hands at either corner of the table.” I sigh, and fight down my desire to hold her near. I don’t think she’ll take well to that, anyway. Instead, I just lie down on that damned cold table. She follows behind me, and my eyes widen as, like the Ace of Spades’ ability to shift her hands, the hand of the Ace of Clubs shifts into a flogger with long, heavy tails. Oh god… I press my teeth together I await the first bite from the flogger…but the Ace of Clubs seems to have other plans in mind. Slowly and gently, she merely drags the soft leather against my skin, from the small of my back to the middle of my thighs, perhaps to help her decide where to strike first, perhaps merely to see my reaction, perhaps simply to watch the tails follow the curves of my body. Whatever her reasons (and a million possibilities go through my mind—like, she enjoys torture, and this is torturous?), I begin to relax a little…and then a little more…until she lifts the tails, like she has so many times before, only to bring it resoundingly against the middle of my buttocks. WHACK! I gasp sharply, and I tense again. She brings the tails down, again, and again, and again, without signs of abatement. My flesh is afire, and while I don’t allow myself to whimper, I don’t have to—I attempt to squirm to force the hits to land on some other area, and that serves as sufficient testament to my suffering. It’s at this point that I learn how excellent her aim is…I fail, and she always hits exactly where she expects to have those tails land. I grip the corners of the table with my hands, and squeeze them until I almost lose the feeling in my fingers. My body, aside from the beating, feels like it’s about to snap from the tension in my muscles that I’ve created to take my mind off my pain. At just the point when I feel like I’m going to cry out, she slows, and runs a gentle hand over the areas of me that’s so tender with her abuse. “My, but you welt marvelously…” Her cold hand is a welcome respite from the leather inferno, and a ragged sigh escapes my lips as I allow my flesh to relax again, and I slump completely on the cold metal table. She continues to caress me for just a little longer before she brings her lovely lips to the welts themselves…and I realize that as she kisses me, the welts recede back into my skin. The stinging pain remains, but I no longer have the residual, dull throbbing that often accompanies welting. “As much as I adore them, I could barely see what I was doing.” Her old teasing has returned, but at this point, I don’t care enough to respond. I don’t need to, though, because thus rested, she begins again, this time with a braided crop that brings even more precision to the process…she strikes without mercy, but only until the point that I think I can’t take anymore. I have begun to actively cry out in pain, but in return for continuing to press my boundaries, I receive my reward in the form of her loving touch. In this time of vulnerability, I have literally handed myself over to her will, and I appreciate the attention and care she shows for my well being…her caresses have come to mean more to me, and I have placed my trust in that utterly sure voice. In a series of confident motions, she tests my limits, stretches them, and then leaves them behind, like clothes outgrown, in a fuzzy cloud of pain and tender reward. Her certainty reassures me, and her judgment has become mine. She wields an English cane now, and I’m more than happy to show her that I can, indeed, meet her expectations. A little longer, and she takes a whip lightly to my back. And I’m more than happy to know that through this haze of heat that licks into my flesh, I have her to guide me. The bruises and minor cuts I now bear are the physical marks of her affections, and the trust that binds us is a shared closeness that few people ever have the privilege of sharing with another person. With her doing this to me, I know that she won’t ever truly hurt me. I’m thankful for the experience. She slows once more, and moves from the far end of the table, where she has stood for most of it, to approach me at the other end. Her fingertips brush lightly against the hair at my temples as I take ragged, panting breaths, and force my consciousness fall back to earth. “You’ve done very well,” she softly intones. With a teasing smile, she also informs me, “Easily the top three percent.” “…for (pant) what…? Pain (pant)…tolerance?” She nods, and continues to lightly stroke my hair. “Although, as depressing as it may seem, Mr. President has a slightly higher pain tolerance.” Despite my quickness of breathing, I manage to chuckle just a little bit. “He must…have something…to…recommend…him, being…one of the…stupidest…people on…Earth…” She smiles, and then leans forward to place a tender kiss on my forehead. Then, softly, she says, “Now, on your back, hands at your sides.” I do so, but slowly, because even small motions cause the now dull stinging to reawaken, and rip through my entire backside. Once I’m settled on the table, though, I slump eagerly into its coldness…it eases the flames somewhat, and with that pain subsiding, my breathing begins to regain a steadier tempo. “Are you familiar with acupuncture?” “I’ve seen it done, and I’ve had it performed on me, so yeah, I guess.” “Are you familiar with erotic acupuncture?” Blink. “Uh, no…” “Few people are,” she says. She stares into my eyes, but for once, I’m not looking into those sapphire orbs—I’m staring at her hands and fingers, which have now become a series of long, sharp needles. She notices my perhaps worried expression when she murmurs with a gentle smile, “Would you prefer regular needles? I can obtain them, although, honestly, mine are far cleaner than anything I’d be able to procure.” I blink, and my next words come as a sort of surprise to even me. “No…I trust you.” She pauses, and then brings those brilliant eyes to mine. “…thank you…” I answer the wonder I see there with a slow blink and faint smile. Then she continues to tell me about erotic acupuncture. “The first part is to awaken the physical channels, and the clearest symptom of the occurrence is the physical heat you’ll feel. It takes a little while to get started, though.” My trust in her hands, I simply lie there, fully confident, as she begins to sink her needles into my skin. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/15/03 7:13:15 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 291 (5/15/03 7:13 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's snares, She blunder'd on some virtue unawares.” -- Charles Churchill, The Rosciad (l. 137) “Trust men, and they will be true to you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great.” -- Ralph Waldo Emerson, Essays--On Prudence Rapture, Part II The impossibly thin metal shafts break and bite into my skin with only a faint prickling, and my lips relax into a small smile as I watch, fascinated by my status as a pincushion. The needles flow in a line along the right side of my neck, down to the flat area just above my right breast. It’s a disconcerting sight, because I can’t actually see where the needles penetrate me; all I catch is the dangerous glint of metal as it stands somewhere high above my flesh, and lengthen still further to connect to the Ace of Clubs. After a few moments, I lift my eyes to her, and I study the look of cool precision on her face. Even if I didn’t already trust her, I have no doubt of her competence. Her evident skill and her confidence in her abilities set my heart at ease, and, as vulnerable as I am, I have already placed my life in those able hands…and she hasn’t betrayed me. “You will start to feel very warm in just a little bit,” she informs me. And then in an act that’s uncharacteristic for her, she adds, “…people have trusted me in the past…but generally not after they found about my true nature…” This growing warmth is making me vaguely sleepy, but I still note the non sequitur and say in a soft voice, “I understand…” The reputed Mistress of Pain just looks at me, as if waiting for further explanation. I don’t give one, as I don’t have any to give. Instead, I ask, “…so you taught the Bishop everything he knows?” She pauses and studies me a moment before answering. “Yes.” For no real reason at all, I murmur, “He’s fond of alkali poisoning.” A mysterious flash of light rises to her eyes before the deep blue pulls it away in an undertow. “I taught him how to best use that to his advantage as well.” I think about this a moment, my thoughts hazy in the ever growing warmth that starts somewhere in my upper torso and spreads to the rest of me. “…I think…after he performed the ritual, he was nicer to me, as though he liked me better than he had prior to its completion…” And her eyes search my face now as she murmurs, “I’m not surprised—it’s not often one will endure such suffering for another person one barely knows.” My brow furrows a bit as I answer just as quietly, “…it just…wasn’t right…” By now, the sleepiness has passed, and droplets of sweat have begun to bead on my skin. I feel like I just spent the last few minutes baking in the damned harsh Texas summer sun, and for someone who adores cold weather and loves winter as much as I do, the thought of baking in any sun always makes me irritable. Even the damn table feels like it’s heated up…What’s wrong with these people? Why don’t they have the AC on…? She seems to notice, and pulls the needles out from their current places to reposition them along other areas. “Now we’re going to open other channels, that your hormones may flow more freely.” I quirk a brow at that, and think, That sounds really corny… But I allow her to do as she pleases. In the moments that follow, I begin to realize how the process affects me. I can feel every tremulous wave of air that her breathing sends over my skin, and they coax my nerves to respond. I clench my jaw at her inadvertent teasing. My skin, as evidenced by the ready welting, is already very sensitive on its own, but with my sensitivity now further heightened by the Ace of Clubs, every sensation is intensified until I have to close my eyes to block it out. Unfortunately, all this does is leave me unprepared the sudden placement of her hand against my stomach…and, involuntarily, the muscles tighten and contract from the sudden wealth of tingling from her touch. I open my eyes as I attempt to slowly come to grips with my lack of control over my reactions to her, and this is when she leans in to very, very lightly kiss the side of my neck. Then she whispers gently into my ear, “My name…is Annette…” And despite the circumstances, her voice carries a depth of gravity that I don’t question. From both the kiss and the sudden flow of air over my tender skin, goose bumps start to form in reaction to her gentle attentions, and I turn my head slightly to look at her in wonder at her words. She meets my gaze, and I see that her eyes are as serious now as her voice…and I respond my running the tip of my nose along the underside of her jaw until I get just behind her earlobe, at the top of her neck. My nerves tingle as I do so, and when I sigh into the little indentation, I’m surprised at how warm and moist my own breath is as I place a kiss there. As I pull away, my eyes widen again in surprise—the goose bumps that formed along my skin now rise on her. Her eyes slip shut briefly as she savors the sensation, but she recovers quickly. Noticing my look of curiosity, she whispers with a half-challenging, half-embarrassed smile, “You didn’t think I’d be treating only you, did you…?” Then she leans in close to nibble playfully at my neck. My response is immediate—my eyes close, and as my breathing deepens, I release a shuddering sigh. The hand that rested so quietly on my belly before comes alive now as the fingertips begin to trace patterns up along my ribs. The Ace of Clubs, eyes impossibly deep and blue, now kisses me full on the mouth, and I revel in her taste as her tongue slides skillfully against mine. I reach out for her, and as I play with the live thing in my mouth that causes a pulsing ache to spread through me, my fingers caress the back of her neck…and when she breaks the kiss, I can barely think, so I say with labored breathing, “…this table…thing…isn’t wide…enough…” She’s so lovely as she stands over me: her eyes, normally so dazzling with the promise danger, are just a little glazed; her breasts, so carefully supported by the corset, quiver with the release of every breath, as they come and go as quick as mine. Her aura of composure has begun to slowly fray at the edges… …still, even now the show of her control impresses me, because as soon as I say those words, the table simply widens to accommodate both of us with room to spare, and she slides onto it beside me. She studies me for a quiet moment, and then she begins to kiss me again, tenderly, as she cups the fullness of my breast in her soft hand. I return the kiss with fervor, and arch my back now, wishing to give her as much of myself as possible when I think, How unlike Peregrine she is…Peregrine! My eyes fly open, and all my motions cease as I remember her dark, flashing eyes and the purity of her sweet kiss… The Ace of Clubs furrows her brow as she leans in to kiss my cheek instead while murmuring, “What’s wrong…?” I stumble for an answer… “Well, I…I can’t…it’s hard for me to participate in this kind of thing when I don’t know that there’s an emotional connection being returned to me…” Oh my god that was lame! And so not true! .. Well, usually it is, but right now that’s not true… She looks at me for a moment before answering softly, “As I said before, I do like you. And in the deck, Diamonds and Spades are the more emotionless suits. Hearts and Clubs are almost never without passion.” She pauses, and I’m sure she notices that I’m not looking at her. She adds, “But that’s not all that’s bothering you, is it?” I return my gaze to the beautiful Ace, and I watch as her breathing slowly comes back under her control. “I can’t help but feel that this is wrong…” “Why?” “Because I’m thinking about Pe—” and I bite my lip, remembering the safeword. She smiles gently now, understanding. “Ahhh, yes. That person. But this is for her sake…” “Yeah, but…I know this sounds stupid, but I can’t help but like…like I’m cheating on her, or something. Which is ridiculous, I know, because it’s not like I have a relationship with her, or anything…” “I see.” She sighs, and then says almost wistfully, “I can draw out perfect physiological response,” and she lightly drags a fingertip along the outside of my left breast to demonstrate, “but my techniques cannot cure emotional turmoil.” And she half rolls away to allow me some room. I sigh. “But…if I allow it to stay, we’ll never get this ritual done, and she won’t be free, and I’ll still have this damned mark.” “It’s alright. We have all day; I’d rather you were comfortable with the procedure before we continue any further.” “But we’ll never get this done…” We spend many long moments in silence, both of us on separate sides of the table, until I reach a tentative hand out to stroke hers. She returns to my side, and props herself up on an elbow as she looks at me in question. I do nothing in answer, and she begins to stroke my cheek with her free hand. I close my eyes, and she takes that as permission and encouragement to continue. The Ace starts with gentle teasing again, and though I don’t openly respond, I don’t object, either. My physical responses are as can be expected. Her expert attentions begin to stir that predictable ache, and in my still highly sensitized state, I yield to it. She trails a series of kisses down my chest until she reaches a nipple, and swirls the tip of her tongue against it before taking between her lips. Lower, her hand strokes first one thigh and then other before slipping between them, and my breathing becomes more than audible as her every caress further teases me to madness. Our heated kisses now carry a greater sense of urgency, and in this frenzy of sensation, my desire overwhelms me, and I can’t speak, can’t think. I know nothing but this wanting that makes every fiber of my being yearn for her to possess me. With a voice now broken by heavy breathing, I give her a fervent whisper. “…please…” My body strains against hers, and in response, her movements are a little harsher. She bites down into my flesh even as she strokes me so lovingly, and as her hands pass over my back, her sharp nails deliberately reopen the lacerations left from the whip. And my delight is thus mingled expertly with the bloody pain borne of our trust in each other. Higher and higher she takes me, until finally she grants my request, and takes me still further. Possess me she does, as the shapeshifter fills me to capacity, and then, as with the beating, stretches me further until I feel like I’ve left even the confines of my mind. I continue to transcend everything I’ve ever known, and if she required me to beg it from her, I would have. I no longer have knowledge of what my own hands are doing, or what hers are doing to me; I forget where I am, and why I’m even doing this. Somewhere in the back of my head, I hold a vague hope that I’m giving her at least a small fraction of what she’s giving me, but even that thought’s hazy, lost in this delicious tapestry. I know only that I don’t want her to stop, and she obligingly doesn’t slow or rest. I spiral and spiral, and I endure burst, after burst, after burst of mental color and physical rapture. At least for now, I am hers to do with as she pleases, and I unabashedly reward her with cry after strident cry of pleasure. ______________________________________________ Eventually, I collapse on the table, and she holds me near. I rest my head against her chest, panting from mental and physical exhaustion. After a few moments, as my heart eases its pounding from my head back down to its place behind my ribs, I glance down to see that the mark has vanished entirely. Softly, I murmur to the Ace, “…you’re…surprisingly gentle for an Ace of Clubs…” She smiles down at me, and kisses the top of my head. “Thank you…” I blink as she frowns, and then she adds, “But we’re about to have more to think about than that.” A great clashing comes from the area of the stairs, and I turn my head to see Zhong Huang standing ready, a sword in his hand. “Oh god! Peregrine!” And I leap from the warmth of the Ace of Clubs’ arms, and I hurry to get my clothes back on, feeling rather like a cheating dog who’s getting caught by a spouse. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/15/03 7:30:01 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 295 (5/19/03 3:15 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. Caesura “…what are you doing?” asks the bemused Ace of Clubs as I struggle to get everything on. “Preparing to talk to Peregrine.” “She may or may not still want to kill you, but if we let her in, I’m fairly certain that she’ll at least tear me into bloody, meaty chunks.” Her words don’t surprise me, but I do pause in my dash for clothing to stare at her for the sentiment so coldly expressed. “I don’t think so. I have faith in her.” The Ace continues to look at me, her expression doubtful, but I’ve more pressing things to consider currently. Where’s my other sock…? I spin this way and that, searching, until the Ace extends a long finger to point at a far corner, revealing a little orphaned black sock. Relieved, I grab it, and pull it on. “How the hell did it get over there…?” Luckily, I do get to pull my clothes on hurriedly before Peregrine bursts into the room. Ha. Let in, my ass. Once more, the Ace of Spades wears a look of cold calculation…the rose vines are gone, but the knives formed from her fingers are unsheathed, and ready. I take a deep breath and approach her cautiously, hands open and outstretched. “Peregrine…” Her eyes narrow as she watches first me, then the others in the room. As if to compensate for the lack of ever twitching vines, her hands now quiver in tense readiness. “Peregrine…” and I move still closer to her, step after step, until she interrupts, and forces me to still. “Stop. I must be free and unfettered.” Well, at least she hasn’t started to tear into me yet… “Alright.” And I stand where I am, just a few feet from her, and keep my hands where they are, knowing that in this tension, my actions with her have to be rather delicate. She’s free of the Rose Red essence, but she’s still somewhat confused… Though she stares now at the Ace of Clubs, Peregrine continues to address me with that clear enunciation. “Forgive me. I have had my trust in others betrayed, so it doesn’t come easily to me anymore. There are few here that I trust.” I take another step closer. “I understand, Peregrine, and it’s alright.” I pause, and then take still another step. “You used to trust me, though, I think…Do you still?” She takes a long moment to respond, as though carefully checking through the file of facts in her head, and then double-checking her reasoning. “You have freed me of the Rose Red essence, so innocence is no long er a limitation on my thinking. But because I know that you are an innocent, it means that you can be trusted.” The Ace of Clubs, so quiet before, now asks, “And me, Peregrine?” Without hesitation, Peregrine arches a delicate brow and answers, “I wish to kill you.” The Ace of Clubs looks completely unsurprised, but I think, But there’s hope! She hasn’t done it yet! Out loud, I burst, “What? No! Why?! She had a hand in giving you your freedom!” “The reason I won’t kill you is the reason I wish to kill her. She is the Ace of Clubs, which means that she used pain to perform the ritual.” Zhong Huang snorts here, and when Peregrine turns to look at him in question, he answers sheepishly, “It didn’t sound very painful to me…” I ignore that little bit from Zhong Huang, and fight the blush in my cheeks as I think, Aww, hell, I forgot to tell him to stop up his ears, too… But I continue, “But she freed you! And me! Look, the binding’s gone!” And here I unbutton my shirt enough to reveal the area of my chest that’s now conspicuously without the Black Queen’s dark mark. Peregrine’s eyes widen as she looks upon my skin, and she reaches out a hand to stroke it. As naturally as breathing, the knives retract as they come close to me, and her hands become as soft as I remember them…and as her skin touches mine, because it’s still so soon after my experience with the Ace of Clubs, my body releases an involuntary shudder of delight. Peregrine marvels at it for a moment before intoning, “Then she has hurt you.” “What? No…” and I keep quiet about the newly closed lashes on my back. “If she didn’t use pain, what did she use?” She regards me now with the same cold eyes and arched brow. I blink in answer, and even Zhong Huang has turned his eyes toward me in interest. I mentally stumble for an answer, and a guilty blush starts to creep up into my cheeks. “…uh…” “Pleasure, sister. Pleasure,” cuts in the Ace of Clubs. I blink again and stare at her for her boldness…she answers me with an unimpressed shrug, and says calmly, “Well. If she’s going to kill me, she’s going to kill me.” The Ace of Spades just looks at the other black Ace, her own eyes steady. “She is the Ace of Clubs, and is by nature given to inflicting pain. If she used pleasure instead of pain, she has reasons for doing so. I would know those reasons.” That Ace of Clubs, unperturbed, says flatly, “Because it’s more efficient than pain, dear.” “That is the reason?” “One of them, yes.” “What are the others?” The Ace of Clubs, so sure of herself before, now seems strangely uncomfortable, and her cool British voice is ill equipped to carry the mumbled words that come next. “…because I have affection for you, and for Christina.” She pauses, and I blink again, this time at the unintended (?) confession. Lest I dwell on it for too long, though, she adds quickly, “And because the Black Queen has done things that I simply find inexcusable. And, yes, I’ve only recently become a Bishop, but still.” That doesn’t have much to do with her question…unless Elizabeth gets less from pleasure than she does from pain…but oh well. Peregrine answers this simply with, “Oh.” A few very long moments pass as we await word from the deadly Ace of Spades. Am I hearing gears…? Out of curiosity, I ask, “…how did you get here, Peregrine?” She brightens slightly at my question, as if impressed with her own cleverness. “I followed you here. And then I broke the ward.” At my shocked look (because it knocked Zhong Huang flat on his ass, after all) she offers placidly, “It’s just energy.” Eventually, the knives on the other hand retract also, and Peregrine appears satisfied with the answers we’ve given her. “Well. I think things worked out best this way, then.” Almost timidly now, I ask, “…so…everything’s okay now, right? Can I hug you now?” It’s not so much that I want to hold her near (though I do), but I want to remind her that though she has lost the Rose Red essence, nothing else has changed between us in terms of our relationship. She considers this for a moment before flatly intoning, “Yes.” I grin and think, Yep, still my simple Ace of Spades. Such a darling… and I wrap my arms around her and pull her close. As I lean into her to savor her now roseless scent, she, of course, just stands there. She allows me to hold onto her for just a moment longer before stepping away to announce, “I’m going now.” I open my eyes and blink, sorry for the briefness of the moment. “But…where are you going?” And now she blinks in return, as if the answer should be obvious. “To kill the Black Queen.” Uhhh…. “…I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Peregrine…” I look now at the Ace of Clubs, seeking confirmation, and she gives her head a vigorous shake in answer. “If I don’t go soon, the Queen will have time to prepare.” “One of the reasons we had to get the ritual done so quickly, Peregrine, is because the Black Queen had already started to sap the Ace of Clubs’ power. Trust me, the Queen’s already prepared.” Peregrine blinks now with a furrowed brow, and I resist the urge to smooth those lines away. Eventually, she speaks again, her words more prudent this time. “Then I will prepare. Thank you.” “…uh…for what?” “Your advice. I’m going now.” And with that, she turns on her sharp heel and exits the red and black space, heels clack-clacking on the hardwood floor as she goes. Now I’m left with the Ace of Clubs again, who appears vaguely surprised at her continued existence. We just look at each other for a few quiet moments, and I allow my genuine affection for her to shine in my eyes and smile. Then, I ask a question that’s been in a quiet corner of my mind since she first offered me the ritual. “…so…why did the Rose Red essence not enter me when Peregrine was freed of it? You knew about it beforehand, so it must have a reason, and an answer…” “You didn’t get it because you didn’t kill Peregrine.” And even as I open my mouth to point out Snow White’s melding with her archetype, the Ace seems to already know what I’m about to say. She counters, “Not all archetypes work the same way. The Rose Red archetype specifically is one that requires a sacrifice of sorts before one can take it on.” How unhappy… I think as I look at the beautiful Ace before me. And that’s when I notice that despite our recent…exertions…not a single black, black hair is out of place. Those ethereal blue eyes continue to glint with as much daring as they ever did, and I blush in remembering the sweet sensuality of those red, red lips. But she’s an actress…it’s what she does. Seeking Annette within the Ace is like seeking the center of some brilliant jewel, while my vision’s being constantly diverted by the angled refractions of light from her other facets. What lonely life she must lead… “You know…I think I understand you more than you think I do.” And then, pointedly, I add, “You don’t have to…pretend…with me.” Hey eyes widen yet again with some mild surprise (and I don’t think it’s an emotion she often experiences), and she’s very, very quiet for a few moments. Just as I’m getting ready to reach out a hand to give her a touch of reassurance, she answers. “I’m not sure how to answer that. That is, I can’t in good conscience encourage that kind of development, but I’m not going to deny it, either. I suppose it would be best for me to just say nothing.” I frown slightly, and bite my lower lip as I look away. I know not to expect that our previous tumble together would yield any more emotional connection than we already have, but I suppose something in me still harbored a faint hope that I could ease her suffering just a little…but to push these thoughts from my mind, I ask instead, “…so…was the Black Queen watching that ritual?” The voice of the Ace of Clubs, though her face doesn’t display it, regains some of its characteristic coolness, as though she’s relieved, too, to have left that topic behind. “I’m not sure. She can spy on things through the use of shadow, but she is very subtle. She may or may not have been watching.” I quirk a brow at that non-committal answer, noting that even Matthew the Monk, who isn’t attuned to his Queen, knows when she’s watching, so it’s unlikely that one who is both an Ace and a Bishop wouldn’t know…but she is right in asserting that the Black Queen’s subtler style is one that could be easily missed, so I just let it go. “…So I’m supposed to be replacing the Black King. Who, exactly, am I replacing? Prometheus?” Casually, she answers, “No.” “Then Epithemeus.” And now, not nearly so casually, she returns her gaze to mine, and her smile shines. “Yes.” Great. So I was right about the Harlequin thing…except that he’s not Harlequin so much as Pierrot. Ahh, poor Dr. Ostrog! “And the Black Queen…since she probably did know what’s going on, what do you think she’s doing?” “Well, since Peregrine’s made up her mind on going after her, I would say that Elizabeth is now going through all the necessary steps to make sure that killing her without first entering her line of sight is impossible. “Peregrine is excellent at what she does, of course, being the Ace of Spades, but Elizabeth is the Queen of Spades. I’d say that the odds that one or the other will succeed is about fifty-fifty.” But if she’s a vampire… I think, which brings another question to mind. “Hey, you won’t tell me how you know about who you call ‘the sun person,’ but he did incinerate the butler. I thought that the butler had died after suffering through that, but then Peregrine went and killed him later on. What happened there? Did he not burn the first time?” The Ace of Clubs tilts her lovely head as she studies me a moment, as if wondering how I missed something so simple. “I would say that the butler did not die at all; he was merely banished, and he left behind cinders, or some such, that signaled his departure.” “But now he’s dead?” And that dangerous smile forms once more, teasing, mocking, testing. “My dear, any successful death related action that Peregrine takes is always permanent.” “…uh. Right.” I sigh now, still somewhat confused by the way the day’s events turned out so far. “Man, I still wish I can get my body back.” “We can, if you wish. Do you still want to continue your search?” “Yeah, if we can.” “Well then, let’s get going.” “…wait, I need to grab Morimer before we go.” And here, the beautiful Ace doesn’t say anything, but she gives an uncharacteristic grin that makes me wonder just what she’s thinking about. So I ask. “...what?” She continues to smile in that thoroughly amazed and amused manner, but does eventually answer. “You want him to come along so you can finally give him your eyes, don’t you?” “Well, yeah. I mean, he’s done so much, it’s the least I can do.” The smile remains, and I’m beginning to feel vaguely as though she’s laughing at me, so I ask again half-jokingly, half-defensively, “What?” “Nothing. It’s just…you really are a delightful creature, aren’t you?” I blink, and I don’t answer. What the hell does that mean? Before I can think on it any longer, though, she murmurs, “I’ll meet you there.” “Wait, you know where it is?” “Yes. Though I’ve never been there, I can surely find it, because I know where it is elsewhere. Her house, her towers, all connect to other places besides their positions here, in this realm.” I bring a fingertip to my temple, remembering the first time I almost had a nervous breakdown when Snow White told me about those messed spatial laws. “Right, right. Why won’t you go with me to get Morimer?” “It’s probably best that I meet you there. Morimer will likely have advice that he may not give you while I’m within earshot. He doesn’t trust me, and it’s probably best that you learn from his example.” I sigh now, and take gently take her hand in my own. “Okay, look. Maybe I wasn’t being clear earlier, but what I meant to say was that I know you’re the Ace of Clubs. I know you’re a black Bishop. But I trust you as Annette.” She keeps her eyes on me, and doesn’t remove her hand from mine just yet. After a moment, she calmly and clearly intones, “I understood you the first time. But understand that…” and she pauses here, and her voice sounds heavier, as though burdened by some dark weight that she can’t bring herself to share. “…those that I most want to trust me, are those I most need to push away.” “I understand that. But I also want to make sure that you know I offer you my trust willingly. I know and understand the risks involved with doing so.” She takes her hand back now, and her smile softens. “Alright. But I feel better knowing that I’ve given you reminders along the way.” Was that supposed to be a joke? And speaking of jokes… “This is completely out of the blue, but does the Black Court have a jester?” “The closest thing the Black Court has to a Jester, my dear, is me.” Oh, those poor people… “Ah. I see,” I offer, somewhat uncomfortably. “I guess…those long winter days must just fly by…” And now, half-teasing but mostly serious, she arches an amused brow, and says firmly, “They do.” With that, she exits the room now, leaving me alone with Zhong Huang, who wisely kept silent throughout the entire exchange. I look at him and sigh, seeing that he expects me to take the lead. I comply, and with the Shining Knight in tow, leave to find Morimer. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/19/03 3:39:32 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 298 (5/21/03 9:09 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “We have to distrust each other. It's our only defense against betrayal.” -- Tennessee Williams “What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?” -- George Eliot, Middlemarch Zhong Huang and I eventually get back to the apartment, and we find Morimer perched atop the hood ornament of the butler’s crashed vehicle, peering over the shoulders of puzzled policemen as they scratch their heads in wonder. I wave a hand vigorously at the feathered creature, and Morimer gives the cops a dismissive shake of the head before fluttering over to us. He drops gracefully onto my shoulder, muttering gleefully as he does so, “Heh. Clueless. Absolutely clueless.” I give the wrecked car a lopsided grin. Well, it’s not every day a car turns up looking like it was eaten by a can opener… “Not that I really blame them. Anyway, Morimer, I’m pleased to note that you don’t seem particularly surprised to see us.” “Yeah, well.” And he gives his feathers an annoyed bit of shuffling. “Maybe not, but I still don’t trust her, and I don’t think you should, either.” I’ve already started to walk toward the train station, but I decide to pick up my pace a little as we continue our conversation.“But why?” “Look, she already gave you some hints. She said that she doesn’t lie not because she’s bound to tell the truth, but because she prefers a challenge. And she’s said that the hooks she leaves in people are emotional, rather than physical. Does that sound trustworthy to you?” Has she said that…? Oh, perhaps she has… “She has said that her past isn’t trustworthy, but she has yet to betray me. And until she does, I have no reason to doubt her.” I quicken my pace still more, and use my physical exertion to hide and work out my growing sense of irritation…I know that Morimer means well, but I’m really beginning to tire of his unfounded accusations. He goes on, and on, and on further still, until my guilt and anger both bubble up, and I cut in with, “Hush up. We’re going to the fuckin’ mausoleum so you can get your eyes.” He, of course, doesn’t care one whit for my trust in my own judgement. “Yeah, and at least there ain’t going to be any fuckin’ there.” When I blink in surprise and flush in embarrassment, he continues, “Hah! Didn’t think I knew about that, huh? I can smell it on ya. Just ‘cause I don’t have a nose, I’ve got a beak that knows!” Are we there yet…? ______________________________________________ When we finally get there, I see that the Ace of Clubs has beaten us there, and stands ready at the marble structure, crowbar in hand. The only reason I know her as the Ace of Clubs is because she has the same gleaming, royally blue eyes. Otherwise, she appears to be a reasonably attractive, middle-aged woman who rather looks like she works at the cemetery, instead of being interlopers like Zhong Huang and me. Once we draw near, she wedges the crowbar into a crevice and begins work on budging the door. I find myself rather impressed with the structure itself, because there are things about it that I hadn’t noticed the last time I was here—the door isn’t actually a door, but an ornately carved, thick slab of stone that slides, rather than swings. I’ve never really been one to just stand idly by while others toil, so I offer a hand. “Hey, need some help?” She stops for a moment in her struggling, and turns to look at me, her breath ragged from her efforts. In that same tightly British accent, she informs me coolly, “I wouldn’t mind some…if you were, perhaps, five or six times stronger than you are.” And though I feel rather ridiculous for not having thought of that little detail, I’m relieved to see the gentle, fond smile that softens the harshness of her words a little bit. After a few more moments of waiting, the door finally creaks, budges, and the competent Ace pushes it open all the way. Then she turns to look at me, and I look all around, half-expecting Elizabeth to show up with a head of snakes, and a shriek of fury in the air. All, however, is quiet. “…uh…did that break-in set off a magical alarm system, or something…?” The Ace dusts off her gloved hands, and offers off-handedly, “No.” “Well then. Let’s get what we came for.” And I take a step toward the darkness. With an arched brow, the Ace opens her mouth for a moment as if to protest, and then appears to think better of it as she says instead, “Be my guest,” and waves me in with a gracious gesture of her arm. I stop short, remembering the wards that prevented my entry in the first place. “Oh yeah. I forgot.” And I release a nervous giggle. As we think about ways to get in around the wards, I exclaim, “Wait…! What if we don’t even have to break them? I’m just energy at this point, and the wards won’t let me in. You,” and I motion towards the Ace, “have a connection to her, so they probably won’t let you in…but what about you?” And I look at Zhong Huang, who merely shrugs. The Ace of Clubs looks at him for a moment before intoning, “Well, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to try—I’d rather not break the wards if I don’t have to. She will certainly notice that.” Zhong Huang shrugs once more, and then strides purposefully toward the mausoleum…and then into it, as if the wards were no more than mere words that hung impotent in the air. He looks around briefly, and then walks back out again. “It doesn’t seem to have any effects.” “Ooh! Great! Let’s get my body.” He moves back into the darkness, and retrieves my body. Once outside, he lays it on the grass, and I wrinkle my nose at its completely unappealing state. While trying to fight the urge to pinch my nose shut, I say to Morimer, “…uh…I don’t know if you still want those eyes…” “Sure I do!” comes his unabashed reply. “Whatever, man. You’re the one eating them, I guess.” “Yep, I am! Besides, I can fix ‘em!” He drops down from my shoulder and waddles excitedly over to the rotting corpse. As he nears it, I can see the sagging flesh of the eyes begin to fill and freshen, until they become as they were when I lived, and they glisten with moistness until the irises sparkle. Then, beak smacking with anticipation, Morimer plucks one of the orbs from its socket, and keeps it in his beak for a while, as if chewing on a gulp of wine. How does he manage to keep it in there…? After a few long seconds, he swallows it, and prepares himself for the next one. “You got nice eyes. I’m gonna savor this one,” he murmurs quietly before gently wedging the eyeball out from its place. Eventually, he gets it so that it’s still attached to the optic nerve, and merely dangles there for a moment before he takes it into his beak, and bites down, slowly and gently, until some vitreous humor bursts forth, and dribbles unbecomingly down his beak to puddle gelatinous on the grassy ground. Finally, he forces the bulge lower, bit by bit down his esophagus, slowly, carefully, like a sword-swallower. Once he’s done, he gives a hearty sigh, and then motions his beak towards me. “Ahhh, that was good. Well, c’mon, let’s go.” Oh, he can’t still be on that… “Morimer, I can’t. I have things I need to accomplish first.” The little bird actually seems rather disappointed in my answer. “Awww, I was hoping to convey you to the afterlife.” “That’s very nice of you, but you know I can’t…” And I walk with Morimer a little away from the rest of the group, where, I ask about how to tell the true Elizabeth from a projection, and, after sighing again, he tells me to try using the dragon scale as a third eye. I try, and I visualize. And I’m amazed at the new version of sight that’s been bestowed upon me. Morimer himself is a white ball of energy, raven shaped, but with the shadow of a well armored, human warrior…and though he seems to consist only of energy, his whole demeanor appears more darkly celestial—fiercer, and hungrier, somehow. Zhong Huang, unsurprisingly, appears very much the same as he does when I look at him normally. In “dragon vision,” he appears even more like a Chinese knight. The Ace of Clubs, however, appears as a child of 14 or 15 (because she is immortal, and ages very, very slowly), and whose pallor is a dazzling, deathly white. I blink, and that causes me to open my “physical” eyes, which leads me to see a transparent overlay of the disguise she currently wears. The human shell she wears rests draped over her childlike form, and rather reminds me of a young girl wearing mommy’s shoes… I let Morimer in on some of what I’m seeing, and he murmurs, “Well, since it’s the dragon lady’s scale, my guess is that you’re seeing everything through her ‘eyes.’ Isn’t white supposed to symbolize sorrow, or something, in Chinese culture? I d’no, I’m not up on my Chinese symbolism.” My head drops a little in a small, small nod, and I think, Poor, poor Annette…that’s why she loves Peregrine and cherishes her as much as she does. If her specialty is emotional pain, then it’s no wonder that she must push away those she cares most about. No one, not even she, is immune to her effects…Peregrine alone remains least susceptible because of the fact that she is so logical and emotionally simple. I heave a sigh, and that’s when my gaze drops down to see the manacles clamped around her delicate ankles, and the longass shadow that stretches far, far, far off into the distance, against the sun. Morimer tells me that he’s not sure exactly what Elizabeth will look like without the projection, but he does speculate that perhaps she will look older than twenty-seven, since she’s supposed to be more along the lines of four hundred. And as he tells me this, his eyes blink quickly, and his voice carries his evident sadness. He ends with, “Well then, the only blessing I can give you is that I hope your suffering will be minimized. Because you will suffer, but I can hope that you don’t too horribly.” He sighs, and then says, “I guess I’m off to some nursing homes, then. Old folks’ll probably be needing someone to tote them around, and I figure they’re more likely to take advice than young, stubborn people.” I nod, and grin, despite the clenching in my chest as I realize that I’m losing yet another friend. But still, at least it’s at the hands of another that they’re going away…he’s at least leaving of his own accord. “Bye, Morimer. Take care of yourself.” Without waiting any longer, he flaps away, and I’m left with the others. I walk back to them now, heart heavy at both Morimer’s departure, and my sudden realization about Annette. I want to pull her towards me, and whisper reassurances into her ear, but I can’t. And not only because she’s the Ace of Clubs; blindly giving such reassurances, no matter how well intended, may later prove to be lies that I can ill afford to utter. So I sigh, and bear my knowledge with as much grace as I can muster. With feigned cheer now, I ask her, “Well, are we off to the house in White Plains, then?” And without quite realizing it, I address her, but I don’t look at her at all, for fear of giving in to my instincts. Without having a hint of what my thoughts are, the beautiful Ace casually gestures to the eyeless corpse at our feet. “Alright. But first, we will take care of this.” I nod, decide to take it to a cemetery official, and look at Zhong Huang pleadingly. Without complaint, though, he lifts it, begins to tote it, and answers my look of gratitude with the stoic words, “It needs to be done.” To the Ace at my side, I ask, “…so…you said before that Elizabeth has trouble seeing into areas that are filled with sunlight.” I glance up at the cloudless sky, noting with some worry the grayness of the winter blanket that covers New York, despite the early afternoon hour. “Can she come out during the day?” “As far as I know, she follows night. That is, when it’s not night here, she is elsewhere. But I’m not sure how strongly that affects her…” And it’s at these very words that my lovely Ace simply collapses, and lands on the grass in a heap. I immediately kneel and cradle her head in my arms, and I murmur pleadingly, “Annette, Annette, please, please wake up…” And a voice coming from behind informs me coolly, “She is not asleep.” I look up and turn my head, slowly, though I already know what to expect. Coming casually toward me, from the mausoleum, is Elizabeth Catherine Adelaide. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 303 (5/22/03 7:27 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “It is the right of war for conquerors to treat those whom they have conquered according to their pleasure.” -- Julius Caesar, De Bello Gallico (I, 36) As I kneel there on the ground unmoving, Elizabeth continues her smooth gait towards me, and her gaze holds mine captive. I watch as she moves, and beneath the shell of a smug woman in her late twenties, is the face and form of a young girl hardened by decades of suffering. That poor little ghost girl… But I have neither the time nor patience for pity. With narrowed eyes now, I hiss, “You killed her…” I absently stroke the side of the Ace’s smooth neck with a nervous thumb, and check for the pulse that just a short while ago pounded so persistently against my breath and beneath my lips. In a voice that’s just barely able to be heard across the thirty feet or so between us, she off-handedly answers, “I did not kill her. But I do know that she is dead.” My eyes widen at the callousness shown for a loyal servant of so many millennia. “I can’t believe what you’re saying! How can you be so cold to someone who served your Court for so long? My god, even unappreciated wage slaves get pension plans at the end of their tenure where I come from!” She moves closer toward me still, and at this point, she has reached my side. Without changing her tone of voice, she continues, and gives me a smile so cold that it could rival even the brisk breeze that stirs all the foliage around us. Her voice now drops to a purposeful whisper as she leans in a little closer to murmur, “Then consider it freedom.” I have no answer for that, and so I bite my lip for a moment instead. In a moment of sheer frustration, I burst out, “What’re you doing here, anyway?” “I noticed that the corpse was missing, and I came to check on it.” And she glances here at the noble looking Chinese man who currently plays the role of body thief. “Well, yeah, it’s missing. I came to take it back. It’s my body, after all.” She regards me for a moment with a coldly arched brow, and then asks, “By what law of property is it yours?” When I get flustered to the point of genuine annoyance, my words leave me. I hate experiencing those moments, and, unfortunately, this is one of those moments. Though a million possibilities run through my head about how I can respond to her, the best I come up with is, “‘Law of property?’ It’s obviously mine! I mean, look at it!” She obligingly casts the rotting, eyeless thing a casual glance before returning her attention back to me, and the silent question still hands valid in the air between us. In a continued fit of contrariness, I supplement my other words with, “It was a gift, given to me by my mother.” The Black Queen now gives a smile that makes me feel like I just had a gulp of iced tea after a brisk run—though cool and quenching, its bitterness leaves my mouth feeling drier than it did before the sip. Still, my words appear to amuse her enough that she decides to change the subject. “As the Ace of Clubs has told you, I am offering you the position of the Black King. The Black Court needs a more human touch, and it’s not something I can provide.” “A more ‘human touch?’” What’s that mean? Then I remember the assertion that the Black Court is mostly archetype. “How can you even claim to want that? You’re the one who convinced Peregrine that she has no value outside of her role as an Ace. Christ, you didn’t even give her a name!” She breathes a careless sigh, and then says steadily, “The Ace of Spades has no depth.” “Even so, she’s a living, sentient being who deserves to be treated as more than a tool—” “—Why? Even some humans have little purpose beyond acting as tools.” “How can you say that? And how can I believe you when you killed one of your own subjects for displaying traces of the same humanness that you purport to desire? How will your other subjects respond to such an example?” And those deceptive lips emit another sigh before she answers, “She was killed for her blatant disobedience. The…connection…you shared with the Ace of Clubs was something I strictly and expressly forbade, and she chose to go against that order. Humans can be made obedient.” How weird that her logical processes, at least on the surface, sound a lot like Peregrine’s… “You know, of all the members of the Court, I bet you’re the one who needs the most help.” She quirks a brow now and allows her surprisingly full lips to relax into a tightly conspiratorial smile. “Well then, it’s your job to either help me improve, or to convince everyone that I have.” “I don’t help people lie, Elizabeth.” And, in my annoyance, I can feel a small nervous tic go off in the left side of my jaw. I’m sure she notices, but she says nothing, and that icy smile remains on her lips. “What if I say no?” “Of course. Truth be told, I would rather you say yes—I’ve…invested…quite a bit in you already. And you’ve said that you want to effect change in the realm. That is more easily done when you’re in a position of power. And you would make a good king. Whether you know it or not, you weren’t merely chosen. You were chosen, and tested. You’ve survived, and beyond that, you’ve inspired enough loyalty in others that they would throw their lives away for you…quite an excellent trait for a king to have.” I frown, and I continue to cup the beautiful Ace’s face in my hand. “And if—” “—If you say no, I suppose I must find some other way of convincing you. Although, in bringing you that choice, your resistance would likely only hurt more people.” And she throws another unconcerned, half-hooded glance at the motionless Ace. I take a moment to think, and remember what the Red King said about the Red Queen’s habits. “I heard from someone else about certain…compulsions that can overtake one when one first takes on a role of power. What is the Black King’s compulsion?” With a voice of silk, she answers, “To survive, mainly. And you seem to be doing admirably.” Now, I throw my head back and laugh with some gusto, and pepper my response with intermittent giggles. “Hah! A compulsion to survive! And the longest reign of any Black King has been one year! Either you’re terrible at picking your Kings, Elizabeth, or the job’s suicidal. Or both. Hah!” Unimpressed with my outburst, the Black Queen calmly says, “I picked them that way because they would perform poorly. Since you actually have a job to do, I’m willing to allow you a longer lifespan.” I roll my eyes at this. “Oh. Really. How utterly gracious of you.” “Yes, rather.” And, much like the late Ace of Clubs, some glimmer of something rises to her dark, dark eyes, though her voice carries no trace of humor. “You will begin with your own Court, and then we’ll progress from there.” “…so I would start by being the Black King of chess, but not of the deck.” “Correct. If you do well, you will become the Black King of cards as well.” “And how, exactly, does one measure this greater ‘touch of humanity’ that I am to bestow?” There is no mistaking the amusement in her eyes now, though it rather reminds me of a cat whose paws have chanced upon an unsuspecting mouse. Except that it wasn’t at all left to chance. . . .And I’ll be damned if I’m just a fuckin’ mouse. The glimmer of engagement spreads from her eyes down to her mouth, her tongue darts out to stroke the lower lip, and leaves it gleaming in the afternoon’s gray light. “Well. I suppose I shall have to ask Rose Red.” She’s toying with me…and not she’s not even nearly as charming as the Ace of Clubs when she does it… “And is Ostrog now the Black King?” And just as smoothly now, “Yes. I needed a temporary king between you and the last Black King.” I blink. “What…? Oh…” And though I say nothing out loud, I wonder, Wait…no one’s heard from the Black King since Elizabeth took power. Sixty years ago. I met Ostrog like a week ago, and as far as I know, he wasn’t King yet. But in order for Elizabeth to take power, she would have had to take the previous King…Which means that, one, some kings are missing from the list; two, the previous king lasted far longer than anyone’s let on (but how can that be, with the longest reign being one year?); or three, Ostrog’s been King for a while…and he just…forgot, or something. Or Elizabeth wiped his memory of it. Which is possible. She’s a scary woman… “And I’d be able to replace pieces, right?” “The roles are currently all filled, but you may replace those currently in power with others of your choosing, yes.” “Can I talk with the Black King’s Bishop?” “He is the King’s to command. I can call him here, but he may not choose to obey. Will you speak with the Black King instead?” “…uhm…can he? I mean, the last I heard, you strung him out over a mile…” “Yes. You’d have to go to him.” Uh… “Okay…” And I give Zhong Huang a look as he murmurs in fluid Chinese, “I ought to go with you.” I almost jump out of my skin at the absurdity. “Are you mad? Thanks for the gesture, but stay here and watch for any strangeness. She hasn’t killed me yet because she wants something from me. She has no need of you, could easily kill you, and I’d rather not tempt her by having you there.” All is in Chinese, and though I remember Zhong Huang telling me that her grasp of Chinese isn’t great, she left me with the impression that she’s actually quite capable with it (as with everything else I’ve witnessed). She probably understood everything… I glance at her, and she merely waits for me to join her, her face betraying nothing of her understanding (or lack thereof). Motioning now to my corpse with a small jut of my chin, I add in rushed Mandarin, “Take care of that. I’ll have need of it later.” Then I give Annette’s cheek one final stroke, and stand with a heavy sigh. Elizabeth arches a brow, and then intones, “Before we go, we must tend to this.” This? This what? And that’s when she reaches for Annette’s collapsed arm, and jerks it forcefully upward until the body follows the motion, and lands against Elizabeth’s rounded shoulder without the smallest hint of grace. I blink. How…ungentle… Without waiting for a reply, the Black Queen turns and strides purposefully back to the mausoleum, evidently expecting me to follow. I do, and I slow as we reach the slab of stone that bars our entrance…when Elizabeth, with Annette still a dead weight on her shoulder, simply reaches out and slides it back as if it were nothing more than a patio door. I blink…and then I breathe, “…you’re a scary woman…” But maybe it’s a Spades thing, because Peregrine did that to the bars of my cell at the Black Tower… She steps in, turns, and smiles as if she heard my whispered comment, and then formally announces, “Christina, you are invited in.” I inhale deeply, gulp, and then exhale as I enter the stone structure for the first time, and fight the urge to retch as the stagnant air assaults my nostrils without mercy. Not wasting any time, Elizabeth unceremoniously dumps Annette’s body into the open coffin thing with a solid, painful sounding thunk. And for the first time, as the head bounces against the stone, and I hear its slam echo through my brain, I’m actually glad the poor woman’s dead. I wince, and squint my eyes in futile empathy as I murmur to Elizabeth, “…can’t you be a little more gentle…?” And she gives me a glance that makes me feel as though I were a puppy that left marks on a freshly waxed kitchen floor. With patience that carries a hard edge, she asks, “Why? At this point, without a soul, it’s just meat.” I bite my lower lip and say nothing. Elizabeth begins to trace a mark against the back wall, and as she moves her hand over the unfeeling stone, a black mist seems to appear and settle over it, like a kind of spray paint, only much more exact. Once the symbol is complete, a doorway just appears on the face of the stone, and Elizabeth turns to look at me. I blink at her, and then peer into the doorway, and into the darkness that seems to spill out from it. How ominous… Before I can think anything else, the voice of the Black Queen slips into my ear and I involuntarily shiver from the coldness that I now associate with the Black Queen’s presence. “You wished to speak with the Black King.” I inhale deeply once more, and, with breath held, I step through the doorway and into the embrace of deepest shadow. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 308 (5/23/03 11:11 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "For you catch your next fish with a piece of the last." -- Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., Verses for After Dinner "Here lies our sovereign lord, the king, Whose word no man relies on, Who never said a foolish thing, And never did a wise one." -- John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester "Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown." -- William Shakespeare, King Henry the Fourth, Part II (III, i) Once I set foot into the darkness, I fall still, and blink rapidly in an attempt to adjust my vision to the sudden and encompassing lack of light. After a few brief seconds of splotched green sight, I realize that the hallway is lit, but by old torches whose orange glow flickers, and then almost fades, before springing abruptly back to life. As I stare in silence, Elizabeth steps in behind and then around me, to lead me deeper down the corridor. The light of the torches never overlap, and I blink at another realization that strikes as the air we disturb pushes against those fragile tongues of flame. We’re in a series of catacombs… And I angle my head a bit so that I’m able to peer into the recessed spaces in the walls...and perhaps fortunately for me, it’s too dark to see much more than what the torches afford us. Almost timidly, I murmur to my guide, "..uh…nice décor…" Without turning her head back, her voice cuts through the darkness, and bounces off the dark stone to reverberate against my skull. "I didn’t choose it." Further and further into the labyrinth we go, until I lose track of where we’ve been and where we’re going. I hope I don’t run into a minotaur down here… Finally, we reach a room that’s still lit by torches, but for some reason carries some faintly blue, ethereal illumination. I look around, seeking the source of starlight, until my gaze falls, and my mouth drops open. Littered across the rough stone floor are bits and pieces of flesh, stretched and torn beyond repair or easy identification, and attached to each other only by thin strips of ligament. With a vague sense of amusement, and perhaps curiosity to see how I respond, Elizabeth flatly intones, "Here is the current Black King." Oh, no way… "…uh…well, which…piece of him…do I address?" She motions easily toward a bit of skull that looks as though (unlike its brethren) it was forgotten in its relative intactness, since the eye still rests in the eye socket. And it’s at this point that I lift one foot self-consciously up, and then the other, to make sure that I’m not accidentally trampling on other bits of him. Once I’m satisfied that I’m not, I ask with a quavering voice, "…Doctor Ostrog…?" The eye blinks in silent recognition. Okay, this is not going to work. "I can’t…I mean, he’s not going to answer back this way." Elizabeth arches a cool brow, and then intones, "Ah. You wished to have him also answer you. You will have to piece his face together then. You will the necessary pieces strewn about." I frown at that…so not only am I gonna put him back together again, but she’s not gonna lift a damned finger to help. She stands very still, and watches me sharply with those same cold, half-lidded eyes that catch my every move. I know she’s watching to gauge my reaction, to see how well I respond to such grotesqueries, and despite knowing that, I can’t help but murmur in awe of her cruelty, "…I can’t believe you just left him like this." She inhales deeply, and follows my movements with her eyes, as if casually bored, but rooted to the spot by responsibility. "As he is now, he is very difficult to kill. And as one of the original Titans, his regenerative capabilities are astounding." Then, after a moment of contemplative pause, she adds, "This is nothing." I go about picking up pieces from here, there, everywhere, seeking the proper bits to fit against the growing landscape of a human face. Ah, this fits. And is this part of the forehead…? Oh, no, it’s not. Toss! "This like some messed up game I’m playing…" Like a cat proud of her flaring tail, Elizabeth answers with an icy smile, "Or a jigsaw puzzle." She’s toying with me again…testing, still, perhaps. I detach from the experience, and I respond to it instead as an intellectual exercise in spatial relation, even as the flesh pulls together once pieced, as both eyes start to blink, and as air wheezes into and from the nostrils. Eventually, enough of his face is put back together that "normal" body functions resume as they would normally, except this these circumstances are anything but normal. Air has started to flow as expected, but he hasn’t yet regained his voice—his breath escapes his lips in a manner that would almost be described as ‘chortling’ except that I can’t imagine the current situation humor-worthy. He gasps and chokes as he hurries to overcome the week of having inner tissue exposed to the dank air, and subsequent disuse of his throat. To my look of reined horror, Elizabeth informs me calmly, "He will be able to speak in a minute or so." I shift my weight idly from one foot to the other as I wait in the uncomfortable silence that’s broken only by the sound of Ostrog’s moist choking, as he struggles first with controlling breath, then wetness as the salivary glands begin to work again. Elizabeth, of course, merely stands ready and waiting, without the smallest hint of unease. "Ah. Christina," begins the good doctor, with tightly accented words. "It is good to see you." I blink as I look down at the head by my shoes. "He-hello, Doctor Ostrog," I stammer. "Uhm…I wish I could say the same about you, but I can’t…not like this," and a gesture with a hand to the bits and pieces of him that trail away from the room, further into the darkness. For probably about a mile… "Yes, well, this will, I believe, eventually pass," he offers, and I marvel at his rather zen acceptance of his predicament. "I’m so sorry…" How many people have I uttered that phrase to? Dammit… "No, no, you’ve no reason to be. No one to blame but myself." My eyes are pulled involuntarily to the strips of meat strewn about, and I wince a little before the doctor’s voice addresses me again. "But you shouldn’t be here, Christina. It’s dangerous for you." My wincing ceases as I turn to stare at him in lazy, half-lidded disbelief. He can’t be serious… But, of course, he is. He tells me this. Now. While Elizabeth’s already standing at my side. When I’ve already gone to the place of the Black King’s torture. No, he’s not very bright at all… "I’m afraid it’s a little too late for such warnings, doctor, though I appreciate the sentiment. Actually, it’s why I’m here—I wanted to talk a little bit with you about your Court." "Oh. But I don’t really know them. I met them all, once, briefly, but that’s all." This visit can’t be so completely futile… I sigh softly now, and then say, "Well, the Bishop, at least, is yours to command. Will you call him here so that I may speak with him?" He nods (as well as he can, having no neck), form the corner of my eye, I catch a glint of metal. The glint grows and grows until it catches all the eerie wisps of light and harnesses them as its own, and I have to blink before I can piece together exactly what I’m seeing. A rather diminutive Asian man (smaller than Zhong Huang, even!) emerges from the shadows, led first by the bright light that shines from his flesh. The light isn’t holy, it’s reflected. This man has piercings throughout the entire length of his lips, his brows, nostrils, ears…and along his square jaw are sharp metal bolts that protrude dangerously from his skin. As my gaze roams over his small form, I pause, and blink again at the look of severity that resides in the man’s eyes and the jut of his chin. This is the Black King’s Bishop…? My eyes widen involuntarily, and I swallow hard. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 312 (5/28/03 2:07 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The court is like a palace built of marble; I mean that it is made up of very hard but very polished people." -- Jean de la Bruyere, Les Caracteres (VIII) The small man before me brings his folded arms to his sides, and bows at the waist in greeting. As he does so, I catch another few glints of metal that shine at his hands…and I see that his fingers extend from the tips into long, sharp needles, not unlike the Ace of Clubs’ when performing the acupuncture ritual. I unclench my throat, and return the bow, instinctively taking care to do so with the same level of depth as he had in his. "Our Mistress tells us that you are a potential Black King." His voice echoes easily against the stone dome that surrounds us, and though the grammatical form of his sentence is fine, his words remain firmly accented by the Japanese syllabary.* "…potential, yes." "It is a pleasure to meet you." And he bows again, a little lower this time. "Likewise." I respond in kind, and take this tradition of subtle hierarchical expression to establish our current equality. I wonder if I should actually be bowing lower, because I’m not King yet, and he at least already has an established position. . .. .. Ah, well. If nothing else, he will interpret my expression of equality as an act of an impertinent little snot. In which case, he’d be right. Hah. Once we’re both upright again, he says, "From what I understand of what our Mistress says, if you are to become the new Black King, you would enjoy a longer reign than previous Kings. We will certainly appreciate having a King upon whom we can rely." With a quirked brow and lopsided smile, I ask, "As the Bishop, your role is to provide trusted counsel…aren’t you supposed to be the steadfast one?" In a manner now as brisk as the Queen herself, he smoothly counters, "There is limited usefulness in the advice I give if there is no possibility of long term application." "Ah." Scary… "I understand that as Black King, I would have the ability to replace those who are currently in power with others of my choosing, but I wanted to first meet the Court that I would be inheriting." "Very reasonable," he offers. "It is certainly your right to replace those who currently have the roles. I would like to request, however, that if you choose to replace me, that you at least keep me on as a pawn." I blink at his boldness, but I also find myself inwardly admiring his straightforwardness. Unlike Elizabeth…but, of course, Elizabeth is at the top of the food chain, and I might end up being this guy’s boss. It’s probably more advantageous for him to make his requests up front, especially since I’ve not met the other members of the Court yet. "Well, actually, I’m not quite sure what ‘replacing the roles’ entails, or even how such a process works. I was also hoping you could tell me more about that, as well." Now, he sidles his sharp gaze over to Elizabeth, whose expression so far has betrayed no hint of anything, and who so far has just stood, and said nothing during this exchange. The Bishop, after fixing his eyes on her for a moment, says pointedly, "I see that our Mistress has not completely informed you on the implications of your role." He pauses for her reaction, and when she does not give one, he continues, "If I am to serve my role as Bishop, and if she is to properly fulfill her duties as the new King, I must be able to speak freely. Do I have your permission to do so?" Elizabeth arches a delicate brow and then nods, as though she has no more reason for concern than a cat has while watching a butterfly flit past. The Bishop, upon seeing the nod, continues, "Pawns are extensions of your desires, and through them a mutually beneficial relationship is formed. Once you create pawns, they will feel compelled to serve you, and to carry out your will, and you will feel compelled to protect them. You have as many as you need, and they serve whatever purpose you designate for every pawn. If I become a pawn, for example, I might serve some information giving capacity. Other than that, there isn’t much to them." "...but I don't have any power of my own. I'd be getting my power from her, wouldn't I?" And I throw a quick glance at Elizabeth. The Bishop arches a cold brow at the Black Queen, perhaps irritated at just how little she's shared with me. "No. Your power is derived from your own Court." My own court... I blink, and suddenly recall the young man leading a headless Rose Red on a leash. In a flash of vivid recollection during which I can feel the rage and resentment start to build, I describe him to the Bishop and ask with clenched teeth, "Was that guy a pawn? One of mine?" He pauses a moment, as though noting my sudden change in demeanor, and then murmurs, "No. He is your Knight." Knight, indeed. And I force the anger down, that I might concentrate on this rather vital information, and not get blinded by fury. "What about rooks? Is there a rook I could speak to?" At this, the Black Bishop actually allows himself a small smile. "No, there are no rooks you could speak to—they are actual structures. I would advise replacing your Knight, however." "Why?" I was planning on doing so anyway, now that I know who the swaggering young fool is, but I’m curious to find out why the Bishop’s so eager for it. "The current Knight of the Black King started out as something of an experiment, brought to us in an earlier attempt to humanize the Black Court. He suffers from psychosis, and is uncivilized. I don’t recommend speaking with him, as he is a dangerous individual, especially since you’re not King yet. Our Queen lets him continue to do as he’s been doing, and continues to observe his effects from afar." "And how do I replace him?" In the same cold, almost unerring fashion that both Elizabeth and Peregrine have, he answers,"Either kill him, and then have another take his place, or make sure he’s very, very far away before you name his replacement." "So why do you ask to be a pawn rather than a Knight if you are to be replaced?" "I would make a very poor Knight—I could protect you for perhaps a second to a second and a half before the threat would overpower me." He tilts his head ever so slightly, and the pointy bits of his face catch still more of the firelight as it winks and plays over the darkness. "The Knight must be strong in combat; he is your enforcer." I am an Enforcer, comes the voice of the butler as the word ricochets from one end of my understanding to another. "The Black Knights are supposed to be hunters…" I stammer. And no matter what anyone else says about my decision making abilities, I’m damned glad that I got sucked into the Black Realm—whereas everyone else has ‘facts’ based on hearsay, I at least have a little bit of first hand information on which I base my questions and subsequent conclusions. "Yes. Hers," and he motions to the Black Queen, "is a Knight wrought of iron, able to be pounded into whatever shape necessary to get the job done." "Right. But if the Black Knights are supposed to be hunters, why was the King’s Knight leading around Rose Red as a hunting hound? Shouldn’t he have been able to find me himself?" The Bishop’s tight lips ease into another, rounder smile now, and I marvel at the tendency of all Black Court members to have deceptively tight lips until they relax enough to reveal all kinds of hidden fullness. "Ahh, yes. That was the…rabbit incident, was it not?" And now, with face angled toward Elizabeth, he murmurs, "Perhaps that is a quasi-member of the Black Court that she could meet?" Confused, I jerk my gaze toward Elizabeth just as her own mouth slips into a beguiling smile that immediately puts me on guard. "What? What are you talking about?" And, finally, as she begins to lead us elsewhere, Elizabeth speaks. "I had the choice of killing him outright, or saving his life. Since he seemed to rather value his life, I offered him life, and he accepted. You’re going to find it terribly gruesome, I’m sure." What the hell…? To bring my mind away from questions whose answers are surely not forthcoming, I turn to the Bishop instead, and ask, "I’m sorry, I never got your name…" His smile broadens just a bit more, and I can feel my muscles tense in protective response. Before I can think on that, however, he answers clearly, "Okinami. Shinobu Okinami." I blink, noting the western format of first-name first, before intoning almost absently, "Okinami-sensei, yoroshiku onegaishimasu…" ** And completely without thinking about it, I give another little bow. He responds as favorably as he has so far, by gracing me with an attractive smile, and a returned bow. "Yoroshiku onegaishimasu." Out of curiosity now, I glance at Elizabeth with a relaxed grin of my own before returning my attention to the Bishop to address him further in Japanese. "Okinami-sensei, she understands Japanese too, doesn’t she?" "Yes." And I release a held sigh through deceptively curved lips as I look at the impassive Elizabeth again. And, then, in English, "I thought as much." She merely watches me with that same arched brow. I shake my head at her obvious indifference, an then ask the butler in Japanese (because I need the practice anyway), "Is there a language she doesn’t understand?" He supplies a rather bland response. "I don’t believe she’s very familiar with Navajo." With my eyes still on Elizabeth, and with a vague sarcastic edge, I murmur to her a Chinese phrase that commends her ability and competency. *** She answers almost in the way that Peregrine would. After a moment of brief pause, she merely intones in Chinese, "Thank you." Despite the simplicity of her words, I could swear I see a flash of challenge burst to the surface in those dark, dark eyes…but perhaps it was a trick of the firelight. With my eyes forward now, I say to her, "The notebook that’s a so called artifact..." She keeps her eyes on me, and waits a moment before she speaks…but when she does, she does with the aura of assurance that befits her position. "Yes. I gave it to you, curious as to whether or not you’d find a way into it. I see that you have not." I narrow my eyes and clench my jaw now, irked and embarrassed at the jab at my shortcoming. Before I can comment on it, though, Elizabeth stops at the face of another wall, which before her becomes another doorway that leads out into a posh, 19th century study. With a sudden burst of understanding, I realize, This is her house…! But my thoughts are interrupted as Elizabeth, her presence physically cool against my skin, announces, "We’re here." *Japanese accents are generally fairly easy to pick out (if you know what to listen for), because the Japanese language is formed from a collection of syllables rather than individual letters. Thus, the katakana of "potential Black King" becomes "po-ten’chi-ru bu-ra’ku Kin’gu." The Bishop doesn't talk in katakana, but the sounds are still there. **Japanese language notes: a) Okinami Shinobu: Okinami = weather phenomenon of very quickly rising ocean waves. Shinobu = to endure. b) Sensei = not necessarily restricted to teachers; used to show level of learning in one’s chosen field of expertise, whether it be law, cooking, art, etc. By using this term for Okinami, I hoped to show my respect for him as a political advisor and tactician. c) Yoroshiku onegaishimasu = used during introductions. Likened to the English "how do you do," but more formally translates into "please look favorably upon me"; expresses your own wish to meet someone else’s expectations. d) Also, to further openly establish my respect for him in his position (despite my imminent rise in the hierarchy), I would have used the more formal and polite versions of words and sentence structure. (the Japanese are huge-big on respect, and expression of it) *** The phrase in Chinese is: "Ni3 zen1 neng2gan4," meaning, "you’re so able." Holds particular bite, though, when used in a sarcastic manner. Elizabeth's response of a mere "thank you" holds significance, too, because the culturally appropriate response would have been to deny any aptitude. Edited by: Indigo Veil at: 5/28/03 4:12:09 pm Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 333 (6/3/03 11:44 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "With strength and patience all his grievous loads are borne, And from the world's rose-bed he only asks a thorn." -- William R. Alger, Oriental Poetry, Mussud's Praise of the Camel "Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet." -- Jean-Jacques Rousseau Though I am no more aware than usual of Elizabeth’s sharp eyes on me, I know she’s watching to gauge my reaction—she watches everything I do. I’m not sure if she watches to confirm all her thoughts about me, or if she watches only because I amuse her, but I know she watches. And it doesn’t matter which reason she chooses in deciding to watch me…as soon as I step into the study, my facial expression doesn’t disappoint. Before me, tucked unobtrusively between two massive, antique armchair things, stands a looming grandfather clock…and it bears Rodentus’ ears, fur, face, and voice. I blink, start at the foot of the clock and slowly move my gaze upward. Stretched over the face of the entire clock is his body, and as my eyes finally come to rest on his rabbit nose, his voice rings out, "’At smells loike cat butt t’me, if ever I smelt one!" I blink again. Yep, no mistaking such a voice and such a greeting… My eyes slip shut for a moment as I try to understand how he could possibly be in such a jovial state, and then I turn to Elizabeth, not believing Rodentus’ tone of voice to be genuine. "Y’know, Elizabeth, though he’s technically alive, you’re missing the concept of ‘quality of life,’ which is an important aspect to being alive." As usual, she regards me with eyes so cold that I find myself suppressing an unpleasant shiver. Her smile softens the hardness of her shimmering gaze somewhat, but her words don’t help the impression along much. "He simply asked for life. I gave him that. Besides, he keeps very good time." I quirk a brow at that, wondering, How is that possible, for one to keep objective time when he’s from a place where time is completely subjective? .. .. Unless.. because of his suffering, and how he understands time, time in this ‘real world’ realm is quickened or slowed for Elizabeth…? I sigh as I take a few steps closer to him, and outstretch a few nervous fingers to stroke his gleaming white fur. Why else would she put him here, as a clock, instead of in the Black Realm? But it seems a bit too far-fetched, even for her… "Oi! Good t’see you. I’m glad you’re still aloive—" "—I don’t know if I can say the same for you…" His ears pull up before dropping nonchalantly back down again, as if compensating for the fact that his shoulders can no longer shrug. "Well, this is goin’ t’pass, y’know." Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, he says, "I’m goin’ t’get out one day. And when I do, that’ll be it. She’ll be sorry she ever messed with Rodentus. Loike th’lahst bugger ‘at tried. I got ‘im good a’fore I was caught an’ brought ‘ere." I breathe an incredulous whisper of my own now. "How can you endure this…?" His answer is yet lower than his last. "Loike I said, this’ll pass. Whot’d you think was makin’ th’ clock move? ‘S’all me bones, stretched an’ fit’ed into th’gears." I glance down, and the swinging pendulum is none other than his foot. Lucky rabbit’s foot, indeed… But he continues in that barely audible manner, "Anyway, I’ve got one o’ me bones loosened a’ready. They took Foxsticker away, though. D’you, by chance, have somethin’ loike it you could give me?" Immediately I call the thorn to mind, but I’ve already got other plans for it. Plus, if what Morimer said was correct (that Rose Red put enough of herself in me so that I could operate the thorn), then I’m not sure that Rodentus could even use it without experiencing bad consequences. "Well…not really." "Oh. Roight ‘en. When you do, you know where I am." I nod, and though a wave of guilt washes over me for what some might call blatant selfishness, I’m glad that I gave him nothing. Elizabeth has sharp, sharp ears, and I would have felt uncomfortable giving him if she weren’t present. But she is, and she continues to watch me with those ever piercing eyes. And I bet she heard every word that Rodentus and I exchanged, no matter how softly we spoke. She seems to be an excellent eavesdropper—why else would she learn all those languages and then allow native speakers to assume lack of competence on her part? To eavesdrop. I stroke Rodentus’ fur one last time as I give him a meaningful look, and then I say to Elizabeth, "I’ve seen enough. Take me back to New York." With efficient, but elegant motions that I’ve come to dub "Elizabeth-smooth," she motions to the door. I inhale deeply, bow my goodbye to Okinami (who does the same), and as I step back out into the mausoleum (how’d we get here without walking past Ostrog?), I resolve, Once I’m Black King, I’m going to try to free Rodentus. The least I can do is try. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 334 (6/3/03 12:52 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "Blood is a juice of rarest quality." -- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust (I, 4, 214) The rustling of antique skirt hems startles me out of my reverie, and I find that I’ve been staring into the unmoving, unbreathing face of my beautiful Annette. Those skirts stop just beside me, patiently waiting. My eyes drop from Annette’s face to the black embroidery of the dress, to move further up the full cascade of material up to the (probably corseted) waist…to the full chest with the conservative collar…up the pale, wide-and-sturdy-looking neck…over the curves of lips that appear both harsh and delicate at the same time…up the proud jut of her nose…to finally stop at the pensive eyes that remind me of a deep, deep lake illuminated only by a starlit sky. How am I to compare with her? Then another thought strikes, and I have to struggle to keep from laughing. We each are to be the other’s consort. HAH! I allow myself a tiny smile, though, and she doesn’t respond. I sigh at her lack of reaction, and I plunge forward with my next words, lest I change my mind. "I will accept your offer of the Black Kingship, on two conditions." She arches a brow and says nothing for a moment. For all her impenetrability, I almost think I see a hint of amusement tinged surprise surface over the dark water of her eyes. "And what conditions would you impose?" I blink, not really having expected her to consider my terms. "Well…" I clear my throat in an effort to recover. "Uh, first. I’d like you to bring Annette back," and I add pointedly, "as she was before. With the same personality, memories, all that. I know you know what I mean, and since you’re a woman who likes for people to abide by the spirits of their contracts rather than finding loopholes in the letters, I expect you uphold that good faith." She says nothing for a moment, and I blink again, this time at my own boldness. Did I just…did I just say I ‘expected’ some mode of behavior from the Black Queen herself? Oh, jesus. She merely continues to stand there, unmoving and unblinking, a hint of a smile upon those strange, otherworldly lips. Still she says nothing. Oh well. Already said it. Too late now. After a moment, she calmly intones, "And your other condition?" She speaks! "That you give me three days before I start. New York is my home, and there are things I still need to do, people and places to say goodbye to." Elizabeth tilts her dark head just so, as if trying to figure out exactly what I mean by that, as if attempting to decide if there’s something she’s missing. "Because you’re going to be continuing on as the Black King, it’s not like you’re never going to see these places again. You could still visit." "But not as me." She looks as me rather curiously, and I counter her thoughts with, "It’s a human thing; I’ve still traces of sentimentality left, if you haven’t noticed." The Black Queen doesn’t answer, and I take this opportunity to pop another question. "Uh…also, if the chess Kings are supposed to be weak, isn’t wandering around the city, like, begging to be murdered?" The Black Queen’s lips ease into a small smile, and I’m amazed at how easily her smallest motions—so completely confident!—draw reactions from me. I have to force my eyes to focus, and concentrate on making my knees continue to hold me up. "Well," she says without a hint of emotion, "you wouldn’t be going unescorted, certainly." After a pause, she adds, "It is about 12 pm now. You can have the rest of today, and all of tomorrow until midnight." I frown severely, going through my plans in my head. I could do it, yeah, but that’s cutting it awfully close… "I can’t believe you. I’m going to basically sign myself over to your Black Court for who knows how long, and you’re being damned stingy with a coupla days." "That’s my answer to your condition." That’s it; case closed; no further arguments. Again, I marvel at her self-assurance, and I envy her for it. A few moments of silence pass between us, and Elizabeth merely stands as unmoving as she has since our return to the mausoleum. Eventually, I sigh, and I breathe out, "Oh, fine. I’m too damned tired to argue with you, especially since it’s going to do no good anyway. So’re you going to revive Annette, or what?" The Black Queen looks at me hard for a moment. Because I still can’t tell what she’s thinking (as if anyone can), I wonder what I must look like to her. All my emotions tend to be rather painfully easy to read, and I don’t take very many precautions to hide them (though I’m sure I’ve surprised her a coupla times). Now, standing before her with a furrowed brow, and hands on my hips in blatant irritation, I wonder what she thinks of me, her soon-to-be new Black King. To hide my insecurity about being scrutinized so, I burst out with an annoyed, "What?!" In answer to my outburst, she reaches out a hand, her long fingers curling in invitation. "Give me your hand." "What? Why?" Calmly, then, "I can revive her, yes. It’s more difficult to bring her back as someone who isn’t one of my kind, but it can be done. However, one of the necessary elements in the ritual is some tie to her or affection for her from someone else, and I can assure you that person isn’t me." I breathe a sigh, and though I still don’t trust her, I don’t think I have much choice. I extend my right hand to her, eyes narrowed to slits in careful attention. She takes hold of it, and I release a ragged exhalation in response to her cold touch. Without warning, explanation, or other preamble, she brings my exposed wrist to her mouth, where I see her canines grow and lengthen. Without ceremony, she sinks those fangs deep into my flesh, and I bite my lower lip hard to keep from releasing a soft whimper of pleasure. No, not to her… But I’m sure she knows. Even so, her face still betrays no hint of anything, and she remains on my flesh for even less time than the butler remained. And it’s over. That’s it. No drama, no extended anything…it was almost as though she gave me no more than a passing glance on the street, and just as I’m about to ask, "What, do I taste like rotten stew, or something?" she opens my hand to show my whole palm. Her index finger shifts into a sharp needle now, like the Ace of Clubs’ did, and begins to etch something into my palm. I watch carefully, as always, but I don’t cry out or even wince. The word looks like Arabic, and once more, I resolve to learn this damned language, just so I can figure out what I’m being cursed with, if people continue to insist on cursing me so. When she’s done, she places my hand, open and bleeding, on Annette’s chest. A moment passes, and, even under Elizabeth’s gaze, I can’t help but stroke the Ace’s soft skin with my free thumb. Annette’s eyes suddenly fly open, and she gasps for breath with the same intensity as a deep sea diver just bursting over the surface of the water for life-giving air. I have my torn hand back, and with my left hand now, I run my fingertips over the Ace’s dark hair. With an arched brow, Elizabeth calmly informs me, "She will be fine in just a moment." When I don’t answer, she adds, "You can will your wounds shut." Without turning my head from the still gasping and choking Ace, I answer nonchalantly, "Yes, I know." And despite her suggestion and my own answer, I leave the skin open, with my blood leaving a red smattering of droplets against the stone floor. Elizabeth allows herself another rare smile at my pleasant surprise of an answer. I don’t know why she finds it so amusing, but her smile does show that. "Well then. I will meet you here tomorrow night at midnight." I nod, and I don’t even watch her go. Eventually, Annette is conscious, with enough of herself to speak intelligibly. "I died…I died…I died…" To help her over the shock a little, I ask first, "Annette…do you remember who I am?" Still gasping somewhat, she murmurs, "I remember." Before I can say anything else, though, she murmurs with rapidly blinking eyes, "…I can feel you. You’re inside me, and I know I was brought back because of you. I’m confused…I have to know. What, exactly, do you feel for me?" I’m caught off guard, and I’m sure my face shows it. "Well…I do like you. Quite a lot, actually." And I give her a smile, and a friendly pat on the arm, to lessen the implications of my vague words. That’s all I allow myself. She doesn’t respond, but she understands enough not to pursue it further. In these quickly passing moments, she seems to have gotten a better grasp of herself again. Taking this as encouragement, I continue with the former line of questioning. "And do you remember who you are?" "…I am…the Ace of Clubs. I am still the Ace of Clubs—I can feel that—though I am no longer the Black Queen’s Bishop." "Good, good…" and I’m genuinely relieved. I can’t very well have her be my Bishop if she’s still Elizabeth’s… then I hold out my hand to her. "Elizabeth used this to bring you back. Other than that intended purpose, what else is it, or does it do?" She squints at it carefully for a moment. "It just says 'heart.' It's the Arabic word for 'heart.' That's it." I'm almost surprised. "Huh. Okay, good to know, I guess..." and then I will both the symbol and the puncture wounds shut. "I have to go." That’s sudden… I blink, and I look at her questioningly before another thought strikes. "Oh, no. Has Peregrine gone to do something precipitous?" "She will in a moment. I need to stop her." She’s back in full Ace mode, and I smile at the welcome change. "Right. I will summon you in little while; there is something we need to discuss." She nods, and immediately turns into a mere mist that seeps into the stone ground. I blink at that. Shapeshifer, indeed… I turn to walk out of the mausoleum when I’m greeted by another surprise. Zhong Huang, whom I’ve all but forgotten, stands just outside the structure, ready and awaiting my return. My lips slip into a warm smile as I stride out of the stone enclosure, and my voice rings new confidence and newfound authority. "Great. You’re here. Lead me to my body. I need to get my heart." Though confused by these orders, he nods, and leads me through the maze of tombstones and marble angels. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 359 (6/10/03 12:31 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "What one has, one ought to use; and whatever he does he should do with all his might." -- Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero), De Senectute (IX) Prepping and Planning, Part I Zhong Huang finally leads me to where he hid my body, and from it, I remove the physical heart. It’s a nasty business (as the corpse has had a little longer than a week to decompose in open air), but easily enough done, since I almost always carry a swiss army knife on my person. I take the communion wafers, lay them flat against a sweatshirt that I fold up carefully, and put into the duffel. Now I slip the heart into the ziploc baggie (because I’m sure as hell not putting that larvae infested thing against myself), and I’m ready for the next step. "Alright, Zhong Huang, take me to Zhi Ming." ______________________________________________ Now, with Zhi Ming sitting impassively before me, and with the room securely warded, I let her and Zhong Huang in on my plan. I had come to Zhi Ming with the hope that she will be able to free the White Spider from the White Queen’s command. He will be useful to me, and I’ve felt sorry for him since I first saw him. Peregrine has already decided to kill the Black Queen herself, and I am armed with the Manticore’s quill. I figure that with the White Spider, I can at least come closer to coordinating a concentrated effort using all three of us to attack simultaneously. And with each of us using the others as diversions, I can hope that one of us that will not fall within the Black Queen’s deadly line of sight. To help that theory along, I will also attempt to gain the Rose Red archetype. That way, I will, first, be more difficult to kill (and not be so dependent on the kindness of the Black Queen for my survival); second, I will have the advantage of unbelievable speed on my side. Plus, I would get to be Rose Red, an archetypal role to which I’ve been attracted since I got here. As payment, I offer Zhi Ming a return favor as either Rose Red (because I’m pretty sure I’m going to get it), or the Black King (since it’s a position I’m guaranteed). Zhi Ming is not impressed… …especially not since I warn her of Elizabeth’s potential meddling in Zhi Ming’s own mythology if she chooses to accept a favor from the Black King. "So in return, you are offering me uncertainty in either case—one from an archetypal role which you have not yet gained, the other a favor from a poisoned position." Oh, damn. Why don’t I ever think of these things before I open my big mouth? Now stumbling for an answer, I offer nervously, "Well, I’m almost certain that I’m going to get the role of Rose Red, but even if I don’t, as Black King, I can do my best to prevent Elizabeth from—" Luckily for me, Zhi Ming has no fear of Elizabeth’s possible meddling, and she interrupts and tells me so with no small amount of smugness sitting upon her noble features. In the end, she accepts as payment a favor from the Black King, with the understanding that I can swap it out for a favor from any other archetypal role I gain, be it Rose Red or not. I nod in answer to her terms, but give an inward sigh—I know that in actuality, I’d have to repay her twice; her acceptance of such a lame exchange was already a favor on her part. Oh well. Nothing to do now but to bear it, and deal with the debt once I have something to bargain with, or have some power of my own to offer. The procedure goes smoothly. The Spider’s poison, which once ran painfully through my veins, provides quite a strong bond that Zhi Ming easily manipulates. The original fifty-cent-piece-shaped scar on my chest that came from freeing Zhong Huang now has another like it to keep it company. As the White Spider gets pulled from the White Queen and through me, Zhi Ming pops the White Queen’s other eye. The procedure is done, and the White Spider gives a nervous skitter before us, all eight eyes gleaming in the gray afternoon light. "What isssss the meaning of thissssssss?!" Okay…like Peregrine, here’s another one not accustomed to small talk. "Well, with this person’s help," and I motion to Zhi Ming, "I accomplished several things by bringing you here. Since you and I first met, I wanted to free you of the White Queen’s command. I have done that. And by doing that, I have deprived the White Queen of one of her most useful tools, one upon whom she relies most heavily." I pause, and then he responds with a cold edge to his hissing. "Again, I asssssssk. What issss the meaning of thissssss?" I blink before continuing. "And in addition to that, I would like to ask for your help in a matter of my own…but I guess you already knew that, judging by your words. The difference here, at least, is that you don’t have to aid me. Unlike the White Queen, I won’t be using you against your will. As I said, I wanted to free you, and I’ve done that." He remains silent during my pause, and I take that as encouragement to continue. "So…I need your help in killing the Black Queen. I don’t know if I’m going to do it immediately or not, but after that task is complete, you are free to do as you please." I smile, and then add, "If what I’m told is correct, you used to rule over your own dark realm of ‘silken webs with strings of pearls adoring their strands,’ or something like that, and you’ve not seen that place in a while, eh?" The Spider appears to consider this for a moment, shifting his weight from one long leg to another, to another, to yet another before he answers. "I will asissssssst you in doing this thing." I can’t hide my grin, but I don’t even really bother to. "Awesome. The next place I need to go is the Red Queen’s place in the Red Realm." "I will take you there," breathes the Spider in an unearthly, but not unfriendly, manner. "Cool. Before I go, though," and I turn to Zhong Huang, "can you go about locating Elizabeth’s body? It’s because she’s a vampire that I can’t just try to kill her now...even if I damage her spiritually, I might still lose in the end if she can use her physical body to reconstitute herself. If possible, I’d like to time our attacks so that if she’s injured spiritually, she’s got nowhere else to run." He nods in understanding, and I thank Zhi Ming once more for her help. Then, turning to the White Spider, I murmur, "Ready?" My lips are still curved in that jaunty, lopsided grin, and I can’t help that my excitement and giddy nervousness surfaces so easily in me. Alright, things have been put into motion, and are coming into place...for better or for worse. No looking back now. I grab hold of the Spider, and we’re off. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 362 (6/11/03 10:05 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "What one has, one ought to use; and whatever he does he should do with all his might." -- Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero), De Senectute (IX) Prepping and Planning, Part II We get to the Red Queen’s cottage, and I murmur to the Spider, "Are you going to wait elsewhere? They might not know that you’re free of the White Queen’s control yet, and we don’t want to freak them out…" A hissed voice reaches my ear, and the breath leaves my skin feeling oddly cold. "They will not sssssssee me, or know that I’m presssssssent." I blink at the sensation and the words, and I realize that while I was staring at the door to the cottage, the Spider shrank himself down to a tiny thing, and scuttled up my shoulder to hide in my hair somewhere. My upper lip jerks in a nervous tic at the thought of a bug in my hair (because, despite his godliness, and the power of his poison, when it comes down to it, he’s still a bug), but I resist the urge run my fingers reassuringly through my hair…I don’t want to insult him, after all, and even though he agreed to help me kill the Black Queen, there isn’t much to prevent him from killing me as well. Marvelous. Anyway. I knock briskly at the door, and am almost immediately greeted by that booming, audibly rosy voice. "Well, if it isn’t Chris’ina! Aloive an’ well!" The Spider still "outshines" me in terms of power, but the squat Red Queen ushers me in without hesitation, and I so figure that the Spider has really hidden himself well if the Red Queen hasn’t noticed him at all. "Good afternoon, Your Majesty." She emits her predictable fit of girlish giggles, and I continue, "It is good to see you again. Is His Majesty well?" "’Ee is, ‘ee is. Come, come, sit ‘own." "Before I do, I was wondering if you could do something for me…" "An’ whot moight ‘at be, dearie?" "The first night I stayed here, in your realm, you had an enchantment that banished shadows. May I have one of those?" "A’roight…’tisn’t much of favor, though, if ‘at’s whot you wunted." Thank god. I owe enough people favors as it is already… The portly royal swings the door open again, and waddles back out to a bush of roses, from which she delicately plucks one, newly blossomed. She recites the same poem that I vaguely remember hearing that first night, and hands it to me once she’s back inside. "’Ere you go." The door slips shut, and I stand to check that the enchantment’s working. Satisfied, I turn to her and say, "Well then, Your Majesty, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to hear some of what you know about gaining the Rose Red archetype. How does one go about acquiring it?" She tilts her head upward, and taps thoughtfully at her chin with a stubby finger. "Well…I don’t know too much about it, mind, but from whot I do know…let’s see…you have t’make a sacrifoice of yourself somehow…an’…you’ve got t’wunt it badly enough…and…you have t’be th’roight type of person." She nods definitively now, as if sure her list is complete. I blink as I try to process these seemingly too-easy steps. "…but what does that mean…? A ‘sacrifice’ of myself? How? And just what is the right ‘type,’ and who judges if I’m it?" The Red Queen waves her wide palms at me, stopping further questioning. "I’ve told you whot I know. If you need any more, you moight wunt to try askin’ th’Red King." ______________________________________________ The Red King, I notice, finally greets me today with some sense of genuine welcome. In the past—while he was certainly always friendly—I always felt he treated me like someone to chat pleasantly with, but someone he ultimately dismisses. There resides little sense of that dismissal in his features today. I’m not sure what brings the change about, but I’m glad that, after all my suffering, he’s not responding to me as though I were returning "from holiday," the way he always has before. The Red Queen seats herself nearby, and the King and I get to chat about the Rose Red archetype. "Well, you’ve got t’kill ‘er, first." My face falls. "But…but I don’t want to kill anyone, least of all Rose Red. And even if I did, could I? The role of Rose Red is now pure archetype, and if previous holders of the title are killed, and the pure archetype is what the role defaults to, is it even possible for someone to kill it? It isn’t possible, is it, because then killing the archetype would eliminate the role from existence. .. .. I think. .. .. Right?" From the corner of my eye, I can see the puzzled face of the Red Queen tighten and strain as she struggles valiantly to keep up with my confused question. I’m not at all surprised by her reaction. Hell, the way I phrased that question, I’m surprised even I managed to keep up with myself. The Red King’s pretty sharp, though, because he keeps up without a problem. "Wait…all you ‘ave t’do is kill th’Ace of Spades…unless, by ‘pure archetype’ you mean t’say that she’s already not Rose Red." "Right. The Ace of Spades holds only the role of the Ace of Spades." "…an’ she’s still aloive." "Correct." "An’ th’Rose Red archetype…" "…has been ‘released into the wild,’ I’m told, where the position is held purely by the archetype itself." His Majesty leans his muscled body back, his eyes sternly on me. And I wonder if he’s looking at me through the eyes of the King of Hearts, rather than the King of Diamonds. God, I hope he needs the help of his Ace to see into my heart, because if he’s as scary and mysterious as the Queen of Hearts… His next words interrupt my thoughts completely, and I blink at the way they cut. "’Ow did th’Rose Red archetype get released from the Ace of Spades without ‘er bein’ killed?" And he continues to watch me, his eyes plainly expressing the fact that he knows I know. Instead of answering immediately, I get a vivid flash of sudden memory ... I recall the feel of Annette in my hands, and my lips tingle at the memory of her pulse beating just beneath them. I glance up to meet the still expectant, but not unkindly gaze of the Red King, and I have to clear my throat as I push the memories aside. Oh, god, I hope he didn’t see that…dangerous to have such memories in the Court of Hearts… "Uh. There was a ritual…" My words trail off softly, and when the Red King arches in brow in silent encouragement, I add in a rushed breath, "…performed by the Ace of Clubs." His eyes widen a bit as he considers this last piece of information. "Th’Ace of Clubs. Really? Interesting." He casts the Red Queen a glance, and then breathes out, "Maybe we could—" Before he can even finish, she shows a burst of her now familiar temper. "No! Absolutely not!" "…but we’d free up more of th’other positions, an’—" "No. I won’t ‘ave you ‘ave anything t’do with ‘at tart." I allow myself a half-grin at the description. Tart? The Red King shrugs in acquiescence to his wife’s order, and continues, "Well ‘en, the th’Rose Red archetype is one of th’ more primal ones. 'At's why you 'ave t' kill the previous holder normally. T’gain it now, you’ve got to eat a piece of it." Ick. "Uhm…that means that I’ve got to take a part of it forcibly, and…well, won’t that annoy her, and make her more inclined to keep the role from me?" "’At," and he leans back again, "I don’t know." "Oh, dear me!" the Red Queen bellows in mock despair. "’Ee doesn’t know something! Dear me, th’Heavens are going t’fall!" "Anyway," and the King gives his wife a look of feigned hurt, "you eat a part of ‘er, and ‘en it ‘as t’be consummated, somehow." I wonder how much time has passed in New York…and if this is all they know…well, it’s better than nothing. "Alright then. Thanks for everything. I’ll be off now, and get outta your hair." As I rise, the Red Queen waves merrily, but the Red King also stands and looks at me in concern, before asking, "D’you need me t’go with you?" I blink, not having expected such an offer. "Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind the company." ______________________________________________ Rose Red’s house is not as I remember it. Thick, long thorns jut out and intertwine in a cocoon around the house, starting from the gate itself. I wonder what it thinks it’s protecting itself from… Beside me, the Red King intones, "D’you need me t’go in with you, or is it more a private endeavor?" "Private, I think," I breathe, while remembering that the Spider still sits quietly in my hair somewhere. "Alroight. I rather thought so. I’ll wait ‘ere for you." I nod, and I open the gate with my left hand as I grasp Rose Red’s thorn in the other. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared…and besides, the thorn blade might keep the other thorns all around me at bay, somehow… The barrier of thorns parts just enough to let me pass, and I follow the path up to the closed door. Once I’m inside, the thorns retake their former positions, and grow even further so that I can no longer even see the Red King. Like cancerous ivy crawling up the stone faces of very old buildings, thorny vines completely cover the smooth face of the wooden door, even though the vines have nothing to hold onto for vertical support. Prickly points jut out every which way from the doorknob. I can’t even touch it. After searching for a relatively clear spot on the door, I knock, and scrape the skin of my knuckles a little bit. The wiry bits of vine part, just enough to allow me to quickly turn the knob. The door creaks open, and with a nervous breath, I step into the house of roses. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 370 (6/20/03 1:33 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "The Rose saith in the dewy morn, ‘I am most fair; Yet all my loveliness is born Upon a thorn.’" -- Christina Rossetti Not wanting to further walk uninvited into the space of a dangerous and primal archetype, I simply stand in the drawing room area of the house, and I bellow, "Hello! My name is Christina, and I don’t really want to intrude! I’ll just stand here until you give me a sign that you’re ready to talk!" I hope I didn’t sound unfriendly because I shouted… Suddenly, a path before me opens up, and a blossoming of petals marks the way. The trail leads down the hall and to the left, past the areas of the house with which I’m already familiar. As those velvety folds unfurl, the scent of roses weighs so heavily upon my tongue that it taints my every breath. I follow the line of open roses, only vaguely aware of my surroundings until I find myself in the center of the house. It makes sense that the center of the house should be Rose Red’s bedroom—it’s her place of power and repose, nestled securely in the heart of a flower, past a barrier of dangerous thorns. No bed rests in this room, though…there’s no furniture in here at all. There’s just one gigantic rose in the middle of an otherwise empty space. Lounging atop the petals is a woman. (I think? That is, she doesn’t look human…which makes sense, since she’s pure archetype…) Her skin appears more velvety than the young horns of a proud fawn, and shines with matted, otherworldly radiance. Her hair, a wild tangle of tapered vines, drapes over one shoulder and one side of her chest. As I bring my gaze up to meet hers, I realize that the shade of her green, green eyes rivals even the most verdant blades of grass I encountered in the Manticore’s Realm of Nightmares. As I stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the vision of an archetypal role, she speaks. It takes me a second to realize that I’m the person she addresses. "What do you seek here, in my home?" Blink. Okay, not one for small talk, either… Unfortunately, I’m not nearly as smooth as I hoped I would be. "Well. Uh, I came hoping to, uhm, gain the Rose Red archetype." She stays silent for a moment, and I vaguely wonder if she’s going to attack me for my impertinence with those whippy strands of vines… I squint slightly to see if thorns stand upon them, but before I can clearly make anything out, vines appear from nowhere, wrap around my unsuspecting form, and pin me to the door. I don’t even have time to breathe. Rose Red slides off the rose and comes toward me now. Her eyes remain on mine, even as she leans in close to my face. I blink, thinking that perhaps she’s going to either kiss or bite me for some reason, but she inhales deeply instead. What the hell…? When she appears satisfied with whatever she ascertained from that action, she returns to the rose, and sprawls herself across it once more. With eyes half-lidded in lazy calm, she remarks, "I have no need of you. Others like you in the past have made the role impure. I have resumed my role, and will fulfill my duties as only a pure archetype can." I can feel my temper rise as I attempt to puzzle out her words. And I have to at least try to be diplomatic about this… "What do you mean by that, ‘as only a pure archetype can?’" The impressive rose woman fixes her gaze upon me, and begins to study me in a way that rather reminds me of Elizabeth. "As a role, Rose Red protects the innocent by pursuing those who would do harm to them. The previous Rose Red failed because she developed unnecessary attachments. Though she had no reason for doing so, she helped you, and died for it. Rose Black failed because she trusted you. In killing the butler, she did not heed the Rose Red archetype’s sense of reason, but merely relied upon her trust in you, even though she had no reason to do so. "I am Rose Red, and I will not suffer such failings. There will be no question about those I protect, and those I hunt." Despite being pinned to the door by vines that obey even the slightest flexing of the other woman’s will, my temper continues to inch further up along my flushed cheeks. "That doesn’t make sense. Things aren’t ever that easy, and allowing yourself to follow such rules that rigidly will only result in a lack of flexibility that your enemies will certainly use to their advantage! "Like the Black Queen. Let’s use her as an example. If she knew that Rose Red is that predictable, don’t you think that she would take the route that will most likely circumvent those simple rules?" "Alright, using the Black Queen as an example, if she didn’t use the innocent Ace of Spades as protection, I would have killed her long ago. Now, she uses you as a shield. To get to her now, I would first kill you after you become the Black King, and then she wouldn’t be very difficult to finish off in the time after that." Wait a second… "How did you already know that I’m going to be the Black King?" She quirks a brow and once more rakes her eyes over my immobile form. "You are marked for it. It’s in your scent." Creepy… "But as the Black Queen of chess, she can only kill someone who falls within her line of sight. If the Ace of Spades is supposed to be death incarnate, I assume that her role as the Queen of Spades is pretty significant, too, and I don’t know that I can exert any influence on the suit aspect of her role. At least starting out, I’m going to be the Black King of chess, not of the suits." The delicate brow remains quirked in cold curiosity. "Really? Interesting. You have been marked by her, openly slated to be the next King of Clubs and Spades." "Oh." A pause, and then, "Wait, what? No I’m not!" "Yes. You. Are." I exhale slowly and try to calm myself…there is something very irksome to me about this strange woman having access to knowledge about me that I myself lack. She makes me terribly nervous, and I begin to wish more than ever than this audience concludes itself quickly. And then, a flash of memory. "It’s the Arabic word for heart. That’s it," was what the words were, but the puncture wounds…! I release a pained chuckle. Damn, but you’re impressive, Elizabeth, but Rose Red interrupts. "If you were to gain the archetype, how would you be able to succeed any better than I will be able to?" "Well, I can’t answer that so specifically, but I know that I can offer a greater amount of flexibility in reaction to particular situations, and I have the feeling that I hold a greater amount of compassion in myself than you have. And I feel a protector without compassion is a poor protector, indeed." "And you think that in facing the Black Queen, you could match her level of skill in subtlety? Can you see that many moves ahead?" Duh. No. But neither can you. But I answer instead, "I’ve never been one for that kind of self-assessment." As briskly as a cool autumn wind, then, she answers, "Then I will assess you." The vines tighten around my body, and though it’s unpleasant, it’s not entirely uncomfortable yet…but it does serve another purpose: it reminds me yet again that all this woman needs to do is will my death, and it’d be over. Just like that. She’s in front of me again, and her lips part just slightly as she continues to stare. Then she leans in close to my neck, and inhales deeply again. Once more on the other side, and then she straightens to face me fully. She leans close to my mouth, and breathes the scent that lies there, as well. The is the damned weirdest assessment I’ve ever undergone…I almost would rather get a colonoscopy than take more of this… Then she leans back and murmurs, "You walk the twilight between innocence and guilt: not quite guilty, not wholly innocent. But because you carry no guilt, you are considered an innocent." She pauses, and then asks, "Would you kill her, this Black Queen?" I frown slightly. "Well, I have my own code of ethics to follow regarding that, but since I have a promise to keep, I will eventually, yes." "Whoever takes on the role of Rose Red cannot be an innocent. Rose Red is a predator. This is why, in passing on the role in the normal fashion, as a debt repaid, one Rose Red must die as a sacrifice before a new Rose Red can rise. If you were to gain the role of Rose Red, would you would steep your thorns in the blood of predators?" I rather feel like I’m being inducted into a cult. My lungs heave a sigh, and despite my misgivings about answering such a question, my answer tumbles forth in a breath of hurried air. "Yes, yes I will steepmythornsinthebloodofpredators." She nods, satisfied, and then announces, "Then know now that you have already consumed a bit of me, and the transfer of the role is allowed and consummated." And before I can ask her what she means, she leans forward, and presses her lips to mine. I feel a surge of warmth, and an indescribable pull of some kind. I have just been tossed to the will of a rushing river, and its strength floods my nostrils, pushes past my throat, flashes behind my eyes, and pounds in my ears, all as it drags my limp body along like a broken rag doll. A moment more, and it’s over. I take a breath, and I can feel a new fierceness pulse in my veins. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 372 (6/23/03 9:42 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. ". . . So often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow." -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Death of Wallenstein (act V, sc. 1) Practice Makes Perfect, Part I Rise of Rose Red I take a deep breath in response, and I glance around in a fog of surprise that’s half-mingled with expectation. Rose Red is nowhere to be seen, and the house, I can feel, has become mine. I can sense every living bud, every quivering vine that laces the entire structure. I know now how utterly alive this inanimate structure has always been, and I realize that I am it, and it is me. Before I can test or play with this new extension of my will, I stride first to the bathroom mirror to see what physical changes have occurred to my person. The first image I notice about the reflection isn’t myself, though—it’s that rose blossoms actually float in the air behind me, as if someone suspends them by wire to dance unbidden in the empty space. Once I turn around, of course, they vanish. I attribute these dancing roses to my own inability to force them to still, and then I focus on my own reflection. Even to myself, I’m a startling sight. My clothes have shifted from stark black slacks and grey blouse to a tasteful suit of muted iridescence. As light strikes each thread and moves along its length, the short spectrum of color begins at black, and then shifts to a rich burgundy before settling to a shade of red that reminds me of newly closed wounds. The suit itself emphasizes the feminine form of my body, which lures, but does not invite. And in the lapel of the jacket rests the rose plucked from garden of the Red Queen. …And my hands feel different. After peering at them closely, I realize that a tiny but sharp thorn juts out from the underside of each fingertip. Upon closer inspection, these supplemental claws also shine blood red in this rose-tinted light. As I stare again into the mirror in disbelief, I notice still other changes. The strands of my hair have gotten a bit longer in the transformation. They wind and curl a bit, stylized in their barely tamed wildness as they frame my face. My ears, which hold some of the locks in place, may now be called somewhat elfin: the folds of flesh protrude more noticeably, and the tips come to sharp points. Wow. They make the piercings look really good…all feral, and stuff. The shade of my lips has deepened. My eyes remain the same shade of brown they’ve always been, but around my dilated pupils, my irises now look less spherical and more…well, like the shape of petals. And longer, harsher lines in my eyebrows, nose, and jaw minimize the curves in the rest of my face. My entire body, now carrying the essence of Rose Red, has become more angular, wary, unforgiving. After a moment of impressed realization about my new self, I recall the vines I saw flying out of Peregrine when she was Rose Black, and I wonder if I can manage the same effect. Also briefly, I remember a scene from the Spider Man movie, when Peter attempted to get his webbing to work. "Shazam!" "Go, go, gadget webbing!" "Fly…!" I have no such trouble. All I have to do is merely envision what I want to occur, and it happens. My will has become stronger than the rest of me combined. I aim at a particular spot on the wall, and from underneath the sleeve of my jacket, I feel a hint of something unraveling, and a single thorny vine shoots out from me in a blur of motion. It hits the envisioned spot with deadly accuracy...and I didn’t even have time to blink. Damn. In a nervous habit picked up from long ago, I run my fingers quickly through my hair before coming upon another startling realization. Then, naturally, my lips slip into a dashing smile in an involuntary response. I’m a badass. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 375 (6/24/03 11:46 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. ". . . So often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow." -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Death of Wallenstein (act V, sc. 1) Practice Makes Perfect, Part II Debts Defined I take a few uncertain steps out to the front courtyard, where the cocoon of briars and thorns has receded to reveal a verdant garden of deceptive invitation. The eyes of the Red King widen considerably as I step into his view, and I give him a rather shy smile in response. "So! It was successful, eh?" "Well…so far so good, I guess." I breathe a heavy sigh now, as I remember the complexity of my plan, and realize that I’ve only accomplished half of what I need done. And my smile fades to a wan curve that fails to hide my sudden fatigue. His Majesty, oblivious to my obvious lack of enthusiasm, continues to grin. "Well, you’re quite a soight. Are you coming back wi’ me to the cot’age? Th’ Red Queen’ll be wantin’ t’see ‘is." I lift my gaze to the sky and peer into the sun’s unerring rays, now so free of shadow. Being here, I can almost feel the sun burn away all feelings of apprehension and doubt. How nice it must be, to live here…but I wonder how much time has passed in New York. I hope not too much…but I don’t really want to risk insulting the Red Queen, especially after she’s done so much for me. "Alright, I’ll accompany you back to the cottage." We begin to walk back the way we came, and just out of curiosity, I ask, "…is there a new Ace of Hearts yet?" "Yeah…but not much ‘as been ‘appenin’ at th’Court of ‘earts. ‘Appens, occasionally, when someone gets a lit’le overly ambitious, and things’re turned upsoide-down. Th’ ‘Eart Court’s been hoidin’ under a rock for a lit’le while, and th’Whoite Queen’s been trying to make alloiances with anythin’ ‘at moves, she ‘as." Without really meaning to, I allow my mouth to curve into a smug smirk of self-satisfaction. "Really, now." Heh. I bet life’s a lot more difficult for her without her speedy spider of spying. I’m not at all sorry. After a bit, I realize that the speed at which we’re walking is a bit slower than I’d prefer, especially given the tight schedule I have to work with. "Your Highness, would you mind allowing me to lead us back to the cottage?" Then I add with a grin, "There is something I wish to test." I wonder how fast I can go… I grab the Red Royal’s hand after he nods, and I simply take off. As soon as I envision being at the cottage, the entire landscape stretches and blurs past in a whirl of color, where one shade bleeds into the next in a kaleidoscopic rush. I don’t really feel my feet move, but I know I’m moving. Before I can even giggle in delight, we’re there. My motions cease as I reach the front door, and without any further thought, I release the good King’s hand. He goes tumbling headfirst into a series of rose bushes before slamming into the wall of his home. I blink as the King rests there in an undignified pile of long limbs and fine fabrics, dirtied now by sprinklings of moss and mulch. He blinks at my wordless blinking, and then gets up and brushes himself off with admirable grace and aplomb. "Uhm…I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was…" "No, no, quite alroight." He gives me a grin of genuine fondness, and then opens the door and ushers me in with a sweep of his hand. I nod in thanks, and am greeted by the Red Queen’s bustling as soon as I step into the cozy interior. "Well! Christina! Don’t you look foine!" "Thank you, Your Majesty." I stand there and withstand her study as well as I can, even as she continuously circles around me. I can feel her eyes scrape every little visual detail off my unflinching form. "’Ubby, lookit! It changes color, dependin’ on ‘ow an’ where you look!" "’At it does." "I want ‘at kind o’material." And I could swear she shoots me a half-challenging look, as if mildly angry that I dare to own something she does not yet possess. "I dun’no if you need—" This is obviously not something Her Majesty wishes to hear. "Are you, or are you not th’King o’Diamonds?" Without really processing his wife’s words, the King answers, "Yes, I am your loving ‘usband." "’At wasn’t my question!" The Queen’s good humor thins still further at this point, and I rather wish I were elsewhere. She repeats the question, and the King does his best to confirm that he adores her, and to let her know that he will comply with her demand. Once her status has been thus reassured, she goes back to feigning the awkward charm exuded by coquettish schoolgirls. Amazing. Once the Red Queen has returned to her normal state of joviality, I thank them both and take my leave. If I’m to do anything at all as Rose Red—and I’m not even expecting myself to be all that efficient—I’ll hafta at least know what I can do. When I return to Rose Red’s house, I wonder, I wonder how I’m supposed to get back to New York… The pure Rose Red archetype appears in the courtyard to answer my question. In a soft voice, she murmurs, "Your petals are multi-faceted. They will fold over you, and when they drop away, they will bring you to the realms in which you have a presence." Wow. Cool. At that, I close my eyes slightly, and let my instincts guide me. Darkness engulfs me as a velvety softness wraps around my form. What’s new about this darkness, though, is I don’t sense any hint of fear or dread…only vague welcome. When I open my eyes, I can still see the darkness as a nearly tangible thing, interrupted only by points of fuzzy light. I focus on those for a moment, and when I do, I can feel warmth emanate from them. Without really thinking about it, I stretch my hands out in an absentminded attempt to brush my fingertips against those shining points…and the closer I get to them, the more the tingling warmth spreads into my limbs. I give a sleepy smile at that, and I realize intuitively that all those bits of light are realms in which I, as Rose Red, have a presence. By now, the daze has worn off a bit, and tense excitement soon replaces the languid salve of belonging. I hop to and fro, learning the points of presence, within themselves, and in relation to each other. It’s not difficult, as every realm has its own "feel," and each remains distinctly different from those of its siblings. Eventually, I get to one that looks startlingly familiar, and as I blink at the fields of grass, and at the cool, gentle breeze that stirs them, I hear an unmistakable voice from just behind me. "I REMEMBER…YOU. YOU ARE NOW…THE NEW…ROSE RED, THOUGH…YOU WEREN’T…ALWAYS." Oh dear. It’s the Manticore. I turn around to face him, my face immediately respectful. I still have a favor to repay… I bow a bit in answer. "AS I REMEMBER…YOU WERE ONCE…A TASTY LOOKING…MORSEL, WHO TRAVELED…WITH ANOTHER…TASTY LOOKING…MORSEL." "That’s correct." "TELL ME. THE OTHER…MORSEL. HOW…DOES HE FARE?" "He’s…off in another realm of the dead. A Norse one." "THAT’S TOO BAD." "Well, I believe he’d be better off there than he would be here." "PERHAPS SO. STILL, I RATHER ENJOYED…HIS COMPANY…WHILE HE…WAS HERE, AND WHILE YOU WERE…CLEANSED OF POISONS." I nod, and try not to wince. Here it comes… "MY QUILL…REMAINS ON YOUR…PERSON. YOU HAVE NOT…YET USED IT." "No. At the time that I was most able to do so, I had not yet confirmed that the person I confronted was actually the Black Queen. Without that certainty, I hesitated, because I did not want to make a mistake." "UNDERSTANDABLE. WERE I IN…THAT SITUATION…I WOULD NOT…WISH TO MAKE…SO GRAVE…AN ERROR, EITHER." "I have since confirmed her identity, however, and while I still hope she can be ‘saved,’ in a sense, and though I have my own ethics to follow about such things, I will fulfill my promise." "GOOD. I NEED NOT…REMIND YOU…THAT THE BARGAIN WE EXACTED…DEALT WITH NO ETHICS. AND I DO NOT…WISH TO BE…BOTHERED WITH THIS…AGAIN UNTIL…THE DEED IS DONE." I swallow, and nod. Pained as I am by what he’s outright telling me, I know he’s right, and it was what I agreed to do. "IT WAS A PLEASURE…SEEING YOU AGAIN…AND IT WAS…AN HONOR…TO MEET THE…NEW ROSE RED." I nod again, thank him for the audience, take my leave, and then hide for a bit in the reassuring darkness. Unlike the rose I wear in my lapel, I feel dry and wilted. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 385 (6/26/03 9:59 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “. . . So often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow.” -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Death of Wallenstein (act V, sc. 1) Practice Makes Perfect, Part III Heart of Hearts; Incensed Nonsense It’s in this warm darkness that another familiar voice greets me, unbidden. “Well. Fancy meeting you here.” And the thick, rolling voice wraps around me with all the suffocating closeness of a winter quilt. “Hello, Cheshire,” I offer flatly. “Yes. Fancy that.” I rub one weary eye as I try to break my foul mood. “I’ve not seen you in a while…come back to torture me further, have you?” My lips curve into a forced smile that does an admirable amount to hide my sudden irritation. I wonder why I’m so damned testy…all he’s done so far was show up. Poor kitty, I ought to be nicer to him. It’s not his fault, after all, that… … that, what? That I have to repay a debt I incurred of my own will? That I have misgivings about the role I have so desperately sought, and just gained out of stubborn perseverance? My smile fades to nothing as I come to grips with the overwhelming realization that, once again, Elizabeth has outplayed my hand; my own ambition, spurred by her, has won against me. Oblivious to the persistence of my ill humor—or perhaps indifferent, despite having full knowledge of it—the six-foot long feline predator stretches his lips into a gaping yawn of boredom. “It’s difficult to find the right ones to torment, you see, and so I’ve returned.” In the face of such obvious absolute nonchalance, I can’t help but emit a chuckle. He really doesn’t care about anything, save his own rules and amusement. It’s kind of refreshing in a messed up kind of way… “I was wondering where you’d gotten to. It’s been a while…I think I quite missed you and your…charming…mannerisms.” “Well. Regardless of where I’ve been, I’m now here. And ‘here,’ incidentally, is both everywhere and nowhere. And so here I am.” I nod, because I knew that already, and because I quite expected him to phrase it that way. Now I answer him with only a grunt of agreement. “In any case,” and he studies my new clothing (and my new aura of power, I’m sure) with appraising eyes, “I also wished to tell you that I think you’d make an excellent killer.” And now a hunter reassesses his former prey. This could be interesting. “Could you be a little more clear, please? It’s really not very fair to bring a loaded sentence like that to the table without elaboration.” “Clear?” His pointed teeth display themselves proudly, and they gleam an eerie shade of white in the darkness that lies so heavily on us both. “I am no one’s fair weather friend. I am the storm that rocks the boat. And so are you. You are good at doing that, I’ll grant.” I blink. Of all the answers he could have given, I wasn’t quite expecting that. My lungs heave another tired sigh (like the millionth one today), but I think, At least he’s starting to make some concessions… I’m so tired. I don’t think I’ve slept (at least not well) in quite some time, and I have quite some daunting events before me as I embark on a new path as the embodiment of several archetypal roles. I try not to worry too much about potential conflicts of interest, and I scramble to come up with an appropriate response to the Cheshire’s comment. “Better to have the boat rocked and survive or die than to always live in fair weather, and not know your own abilities and limitations in times of trial and crisis.” I think my comment falls far, far short of being Cheshire-worthy word play…mainly because…well, I’m blunt. And none of those words invited play. While I enjoy such games from others, I’m no good at delivering the same cleverness myself. What’s worse, though, is the dawning realization that I said that more to temper my self-doubt than to answer the Cheshire. The Cheshire falls silent for a moment, and examines me closely as he completely changes the subject. “I have been here to test you. And whether or not you pass this juncture, this will likely be the last time we meet. That heart you have with you. You can gain insight from it, if you choose to.” “I can? But…I haven’t received anything from it so far, and I’ve had it with me ever since I retrieved it.” Apparently, the Rose Red archetype comes with its own set of perceptions that aids whoever carries the title and fulfills the role. It’s from this new skill set that I instinctively know the Cheshire is attempting to offer me his help. I also get the distinct feeling that despite his best intentions, he’s not sure he’ll succeed because of the rules imposed upon him by his own archetype. More unhappy than that understanding is the hunch that those same rules will cause him to fail. The strange grin clings tenaciously to those feline lips, and stretches his skin still further. “You could eat it.” I blink again, my mistrust of him rising upon the heels of the earlier recognition of his purpose. But then I note, Hey…that’s the same thought I had about Zhi Ming’s scale…I wonder why I didn’t think to eat my own heart. As I pull the sealed heart from its place in my bag, my nose gives a very unpretty scrunch. Probably because this is the least appealing thing I’ve ever seen in my life… I’ve never quite understood why people always think of the heart as one of the nobler organs in the human body. It looks like a fat, misshapen potato without the veins and arteries. With them, it rather looks like a mutated squid with stunted tentacles. Either way, with or without them, it’s just plain gross. Add onto that picture a week of decomposition in open air, throw in a few hearty helpings of squirming larvae, and you have what I now hold in one hand. I force down the urge to retch as the Cheshire calmly intones, “I could help you…freshen…it, if you’d like.” While I look at the big cat askance, he merely flops down at my feet, paws stretched comfortably before his toothy grin. Then he adds, “You may also pet me as you decide.” I chuckle and then begin to run my free hand over his unnaturally delicate coat, taking care to give soothing scratches to the underside of his massive jaw. He lifts his chin up a bit to make the angle a little easier on my wrist, but he still continues to watch me with patient intent as I come to my decision. As I continue to smooth the fur of the giant creature that could have my entire forearm in his maw if he so chooses, I stare at the crusty organ in my right hand and note the heart's gassy bloatedness as it continues to decompose before me. I tilt my head for a second, and without answering the Cheshire’s offer, I simply will the heart fresh. Thorny vines curl outward from under my sleeve, and twist around the rotting bio-mechanism before sinking deep into its fullness. The gasses that hid within it merely fade into nothing in the nothingness around us, and all elements foreign to its natural state are somehow magically expunged. Like a rusted machine that someone sanded, then cleaned and polished, the heart now sits gleaming in readiness in my hand, almost as good as new. I stare at it some more. As if nothing out of the ordinary were occurring, the vines retract with motions as natural as breathing. My. God. I knew my will was strong, but I had no idea that…it extends this far. It’s like Morimer’s power to bring eyes back to the their fresh physical states. The Cheshire, still lying motionless at my feet, spreads the grin across his lips still further, and says significantly, “It would appear that you didn’t need my help, after all.” After a brief pause, he asks, “Now,” and his eyes shine with supernatural brilliance here, “are you going to eat it…?” My brow creases into deep lines as I consider this and remember the intuitive warning I received as hints at the Cheshire’s motivations. Well, it’s my heart to begin with, so I wouldn’t be taking in something that I didn’t already have. And since I didn’t need help freshening the heart, and I did it myself, everything I consume is from myself, without the taint of others on it. The perceptions I got earlier about his attempts at ‘help’…well, if the Cheshire said that I didn’t need his help, then he was saved the pressure of succeeding or failing at his own purposes, since my own efforts made that moot. And besides, if this is a place of archetypes, the action is more symbolic than literal… …isn’t it? I still don’t quite trust that fiendish curve of those misleading feline lips, but I am satisfied with my own line of reasoning, and I pray that that’s all I need as I take a hearty bite. Crunch. I blink in slow disbelief. Did it…did it just…crunch? This raw human heart—my human heart—carries the density, texture, and taste of an apple in its prime. I chew upon it as carefully as a sommelier would his wines, and it’s curious to consider how I can taste the terroir: brisk winds skirt my tongue, and leaves scrape against my palate, both signaling harvest… …and I remember another thought which came to me so long ago in that orchard of black apples. “Snow White was poisoned by an apple such as this…” But this is different. This feeling is crisp, clean, pure. And I now have another thought to serve as a counterpoint to the last. Snow White would appreciate an apple such as this… Still, it’s an odd sensation, eating one’s own heart, and then likening it to a red apple borne on autumn’s gold. I look at the unmoving Cheshire, seeking validation, encouragement, even triumphant scorn or gleeful contempt…anything to signal, or betray some hint of right or wrong. Instead, with that infernal smile still upon his mouth, he informs me, “Opportunity comes but once. This is it, knocking, and it flees, even as I speak.” I inhale deeply, and shut my eyes as I try my best to gobble the rest down as quickly as I can. Might as well, since I’ve already taken a bite. If anything was gonna happen, it’s gonna happen anyway, because of the first bite. Since nothing has happened (yet), I’ll take that as a good sign. With my right hand newly emptied of its rather gruesome contents, I look tiredly at the Cheshire. I’m not sure why…maybe I still seek his approval somehow. But I do notice that my perceptions of him have shifted a little bit. When he first appeared, I felt no apprehension. Now, he seems different: bigger, more forbidding than I know he is…like an abandoned house no one dares demolish for fear of stirring the ghosts that might still haunt it. In short, I am more nervous around him than I was before. But it’s also at this point that I remember something else. Peregrine mentioned that Rose Red’s need for knowing a person’s innocence or guilt was a limitation on her thinking…which means that the separation between the Ace of Spades role and the Rose Black role was very real. But because she had to consider innocence before she came to any decisions, the Rose Red archetype dominated within her, and won over the Ace of Spades role. If I’m more nervous than I just was as Rose Red, and that was my own physical heart that I consumed… …then…I just regained more of my own personality, both its flaws and its strengths. Either way, I’m less restricted by the limitations of Rose Red. At least, that’s what I think. That's what I hope. And I shoot the Cheshire a grateful smile. The ever-grinning Cheshire merely states, “You seem to have survived that fairly well. I’ll take my leave now. Good luck to you, Christina.” And slowly, his form fades from view until only his very dangerously toothy grin remains…and after a few seconds, even that vanishes in the darkness. My shoulders slump in tired relief for a moment. I think I just passed the final test of an archetypal Nemesis… …but I still have much to do. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 390 (7/1/03 8:14 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. ". . . So often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in to-day already walks to-morrow." -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Death of Wallenstein (act V, sc. 1) Practice Makes Perfect, Part IV Secret Masks and Shattered Mirrors The first order of business is to repay the favor that I owe Zhi Ming. After taking a deep breath in the warm darkness of the "Everywhere and Nowhere," I give myself a nod of reassurance, and will myself back to New York. It’s early evening now, and I’ve only got a couple of hours before I have to meet with Elizabeth. Nearly frantic now, I search Chinatown for Zhi Ming, knowing full well that if I don’t repay her now while I can, I may never be able to again. She’s nowhere to be found. The kiosk isn’t where it normally is, and no one familiar stands in its stead. My walk over to the run down shop of the old charlatan is brisk, and the sharp clack clack of my four inch heels makes me an even more imposing figure. To supplement this, my open jacket flashes black-burgundy-red as it flutters in the quickly fading afternoon light. The diminutive man still doesn’t see me, and tells me with no small amount of nervousness in his voice that he doesn’t know where Zhi Ming currently is. He does suggest that I return in the morning, as she will likely return with the dawn. That’s too late… But I have no choice. I thank the little man and shake my head as he answers in kind, facing the completely wrong direction as he does so. There are still just a few more loose ends to take care of… ______________________________________________ I half lean against the impressive stone table that stands so proudly in the main dining area of Rose Red’s house in the Red Realm as I prepare myself for the last little bit before I go off to meet Elizabeth. The obsidian Bishop rests in the easy hold of my left hand while the fingertips of my right lightly clasp the obsidian Knight. With most of my weight supported by the table, I allow myself to cross my ankles and give off an air of unconcerned attention. Better to let her have that impression than to find herself in this place where shadows are banished, in this place of my will, alone with a potential, defensive-looking enemy. I recall the time when she whispered gently to me, "I am not a combat monster…" and I know without a doubt that I am, now. In a fight, she wouldn’t do well against me, I’m certain. Almost lazily now, with a hint of a smile playing at the corners of my mouth, I murmur, "Pathos." And I give a casual brush to one outstretched leg, as though clearing it of some unseen piece of lint. The Ace of Clubs appears as soon as I say it, taking the true form of the deathly white fourteen-year-old girl. I lift my gaze from my lint-free leg to meet her eyes. Not surprisingly, she’s a little disconcerted. She doesn’t turn her head, but I can see her eyes take in carefully just where I’ve summoned her to, and her realization hits her fully when her sight alights upon my iridescent form. I watch as her eyes start at the clean, sophisticated lines of my black suede pumps; and then move up to the crossed ankles; then follow still further along outstretched legs, where the lint has fallen away; to the open jacket that reveals the feminine, carefully tailored, solid black silk shirt and tie; then dart over to my lapel, where a rose whose petals remain faintly aglow; and finally to my own playfully questioning eyes. During her examination of me, the Rose Red essence I bear conducts one of her. The first thing I notice about her is a potential discrepancy between what I see and what she’s told me in the past: she is actually more archetype than she is Annette…in fact, there is only enough "Annette" within her to draw upon when convenient for her to do so. And I instinctively know that, during all her time of prolonged existence, she has never killed anyone…but I also know that she’s set victims up for death quite without any qualms. So many deaths has she arranged, in fact, that my human mind cannot comprehend it all; the sheer number of them extends beyond the scope of my understanding… Now I can feel a slow but persistent anger begin to mount somewhere in my solar plexus, and it climbs higher and higher until it meets the thudding of my heart and swells against my ribcage. I break the silence as her gaze finally meets mine. "Hello, Annette." The Ace of Clubs takes a moment. "…Which form would you prefer I take…?" The smile that previously flitted against my deeply red lips spreads, half in genuine emotion, half in confident challenge. "It doesn’t matter to me." She nods slowly, and says, "Then it will be safer for me to take this one." And she takes the form that I’m most familiar with: that of the completely lovely British Dominatrix…except that she’s sensibly dressed now. My expression that plainly conveys my appreciation of her beauty—false though it may be—and I get another flash of insight into the lovely Ace of Clubs that relates to my earlier understanding: whatever or whoever Annette is (or was, at one point) has been completely lost in favor of the series of masks the Ace now wears. Her personality depends on which mask she chooses to don, and she’s got quite a catalog of them. This, of course, leads to another inevitable conclusion: she cannot be trusted. I bite back an inward sigh, remembering the closeness we shared, and the bond of trust we so painfully forged, and I know that despite the realizations afforded by the intuition of Rose Red, I’m not going to turn my back so easily on what I learned before. I haven’t forgotten the genuine love Annette has for Peregrine, and I haven’t forgotten how I have placed my life in her hands, and how she hasn’t yet betrayed it. However, that she glanced around the room with suspicion before looking at me in mistrust, before using those words, doesn’t bode particularly well for me now. Though I could beat her in a fight, I need her. "‘Safer?’ What do you mean? I didn’t summon you here to hurt you, you know. It doesn’t matter to me which form you take simply because I already know your true one; I’ve seen it before." "Well," she says with a calm that doesn’t betray the unease I can sense in her body language, "you did summon me here. I assume, then, there was something you wished to discuss." And now I’m truly saddened. It’s almost as though she thinks I’ve betrayed her when that’s not the case…she completely doesn’t trust me anymore, it seems, and she wants to leave here as quickly as possible… I’m no longer sure how to approach this…my former confidence has fled, and I feel as though I have to be as delicate with her as I was when Peregrine was newly freed of the Rose Red essence. But, Rose Red or not, I’m still me… And I stride over to where she stands somewhat defensively, and I gently take her hand in mine. "Annette, I’m still me." I search her eyes for understanding, but she refuses to give me any such sign. Overcome by desperation, I simply pull her into a close hug to show her that, at least so far, nothing between us has changed. It takes a moment, but after a moment, she grudgingly wraps her arms around me too. It’s only then that I let go and take a step back. "Annette, I brought you here because there are things I need to ask you." I sigh heavily and run a weary hand through my hair before continuing. "Well…you see…when you died, I accused Elizabeth of murdering you. She told me to think of it as granting you ‘freedom,’ and while I didn’t consider it then, I can’t help but think myself thoughtless at not considering it. So my question," and I rush forward in a hurried breath, "is whether or not you do seek it as a release…because if you do, I could…well, I could grant it to you." She says nothing for a moment, and only blinks at me. …and, as always, in the space of such silences, I feel the need to justify myself. "Because I thought that way, I’d know for sure, you see…I couldn’t stand allowing you to die that way, the way Elizabeth had done it, because it was completely without warning, especially since you’d served her Court for so long…" And I blink, and then cease my rambling. As if she’s unsure of my sincerity, she gives her dark head a slow shake, and keeps her brilliant blue eyes unwaveringly upon me. I breathe a sigh of relief. Cool. Now for the hard part… "The other thing I want to know, Annette, is if you would consider being my Bishop." The Ace glances around at the rose tinted house (because I’ve not yet willed it to be different from the way Rose Red left it) and then answers, "I wouldn’t make a good Jiminy Cricket." "Jiminy Cricket?" And I release a smooth, rolling laugh. "No, Annette, you need not worry about that—unlike the last Rose Red, my moral compass is not lacking. I have a conscience, and it resides within me. I don’t need an external source for it." She tilts her head just so, and raises a curious eyebrow. "Then…?" "Well, Okinami seems like a fine Bishop, but you do have five thousand years of knowledge and history at your disposal, and having that much history tends to do wonders for one’s tactical abilities. I need you as an advisor and tactician. And even aside from that, before your stint of rebelliousness against her, Elizabeth thought you made a fine Bishop, and that’s example enough for me; she doesn’t tend to appoint incompetent people to her own side." I pause, and then add, "I could just appoint you when I become King, but I ask because, as always, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do." I don’t say this, but I also think, …you’re also one of the few on the Court who has had the ability to see into Elizabeth’s heart. Would you allow me that information? I can make you my Bishop, if you accept, and Peregrine my Knight, if she accepts. This way, though I’m only King of Chess, I can hold at least some control over the Aces of the Black deck. This might have been a better plan when I still had your loyalty; then both you and Peregrine would have been bound to me twice over. But I wonder if you’ll allow me to…you don’t really trust me anymore, do you, Annette…? The beautiful Ace blinks once…twice…and then answers, "You’re not King yet. I’ll consider it." "Alright. That’s all I can ask for right now," I say with a gentle smile. The suspicion still occasionally comes to the surface of her eyes, but the tension in her muscles seems to have eased somewhat. I take this as a good sign. "And, Annette, Okinami suggested I replace the current Black King’s Knight. I’ve never met him personally, so what do you recommend?" Now back on familiar ground, she relaxes still a little more, and answers without hesitation, "I would answer the same. He’s a capable killer, but he doesn’t fulfill all the requirements of a Knight. Knights must seek to obey your will without question. We’ve yet to see the current Knight carry out that part of his duty adequately." I sigh heavily now, and ask the question whose answer most frightens me. "And…and Peregrine? The last time we met, you went to stop her from doing something precipitous. Did you succeed? Where is she now?" "I did find her, although she was a little annoyed with me. She replied that if I were to stop her again, she will do her best to prevent me from doing so. Right now, she is in the middle of doing something precipitous, I believe." My hand flies to my forehead, and I release an audible groan. "Dammit, Peregrine, I needed you to wait, so it’d be a unified attack…" I worry momentarily about the location of Elizabeth’s physical body before I feel a tug just behind my heart: the Rose Red intuition tells me with quite some certainty that it rests at the house in White Plains. Before I can think on that any further, the Ace of Clubs interrupts. Her lips carry that beguiling smile that so entranced me, and her thoroughly British voice spirals around me until I’m quite tangled in her teasing tones. "Have you ever known Peregrine to do anything on anyone’s timetable save her own?" At the very least, the Ace of Clubs has returned to normal… My lungs heave another broken sigh. "You’re right. Well. I suppose we ought to go aid her." I stand up from the stone table, and extend a hand to Annette. She takes it smoothly, and I step in close behind her. With an arm lightly encircled about her waist, and my lips just barely nuzzling the tip of her right ear, I have my petals enfold us both, and I shut my eyes against the ominous, thudding finality of my actions. Now holding onto the Ace, I experience first the warm darkness of the Everywhere and Nowhere, and then the cold, starlit darkness of a dazzling night sky as the petals fall away. We’re in White Plains, and we stand tiny and insignificant against the proud lines of Elizabeth’s massive house. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 392 (7/7/03 10:30 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way." -- Charles Mackay, Clear the Way, in "Voices from the Crowd" Illusions and Delusions, Explicit and Illicit, Part I The Black Tower looms before us, and the spire remains the only thing tall enough against the horizon to break this vast expanse of shimmering sky. The stars twinkle merrily at both me and the Ace, but they do nothing to ease the swelling knot in my stomach. I release a shaky breath, and smooth out my jacket in a nervous, self-conscious action. "Well. Since you found Peregrine before, I’m guessing you know of some way to summon her that I don’t. Where is she now?" The Ace looks at me askance, and murmurs softly, "I found her last time because, as mist, I covered the city until I found her. I can’t summon her any more than you can." With my face now crestfallen, the Ace turns her attention from me to look a little more closely at the impressive structure before us. "It suits her, really…" I sigh as I, too, bring my eyes forward once more to stare at the gate that bars our entry. "Can we even get in? Are there wards about that we have to break?" "Not that I see…" In a burst of frustration, I ramble, ‘God, I just wish I had more time…! There’s so much I needed to get done before—" "That you had as much time as you had is already telling. She allowed it to you because she needed to prepare, as well." "I still think she was being damned stingy." With a cold and careless turn of her head (that rather reminds me of Elizabeth), she answers me flatly, "She could have been more stingy." I say nothing for a moment as I just glare at the Ace. Well, someone’s moody…Whose side are you on, anyway? I force my tone to calm a bit before saying,"Right then. Anyway, I’m not going to bother with fumbling with keys, or attempting to break things that need not be broken. I’m gonna try to teleport us in." Annette arches a fine brow and stares at me a moment before nodding. If my calculations of time are correct since my jaunt into Chinatown for Zhi Ming, it’s about 10:30 pm now. A little early for my appointment, but… With steps surer than I feel, I move smoothly behind the Ace, take her in my arms again, and move past the locked gate, past the long stretch of lawn, and past the presumably locked front door, into the drawing room that I know well from previous visits. As the petals fall away once more, I release Annette, and take a few cautious steps further into the house, my eyes narrowed to slits, my muscles tensed and ready. The drawing room area remains as I remember it. The large mirror stands by the door, and reflects the room as my eyes see it: dark, and still, as if all the heavy 19th century items weigh upon the room so oppressively that even sound lacks the freedom to travel. Other than the expected eccentricities of the house’s mistress—evident in how she chooses to adorn her home—nothing else seems amiss. The only image jarring to my memory is the lack of the butler’s ready presence by the door. My newfound intuition tells me that much more lies beyond the surface than I can immediately see, though. In the same way I instinctively felt the deaths of others caused by the Ace of Clubs, I can feel strains of many, many forgotten lives as they existed within these walls. I can hear layered echoes of their last cries as they reverberate within my skull, and in a sudden wash of color, I can feel the rush of spilt energy as their lives were finally put to rest. This doesn’t help my already fluttering stomach. Before I can exchange a meaningful glance with Annette, however, the piercing clack clack of sharp heels meeting hard wood greets our ears. I turn toward it immediately, and note with a frown that Elizabeth has come to welcome us. "Ah," purrs the Black Queen as she continues to descend the stairs, "I rather thought you had arrived." She spares Annette only the briefest of glances before she rests her attention on me, and gives me a smile so alluring it challenges my will. "I would have greeted you properly if you had but knocked." Now looking at her with the dragon scale, and seeing that she’s solid, I mutter, "Yeah, well. I didn’t want to bother you, so I figured I’d let myself in." With that mysterious smile still curving her lips, she murmurs quietly, "Well. You are always welcome in my house." I quirk a brow, and think about those four words so impressively uttered so long ago. "Get off my property." I refrain from answering that, though, and think instead, Weird…she’s not responding at all to my new look. But that’s probably because she knew long ago that I’d get it eventually…Dammit, Elizabeth…! And I seethe in silence over my complete transparency. Not at all acknowledging the deep lines of displeasure that crease my brow, she calmly intones, "You’re ready for the ceremony, then. Come with me." Then she turns and begins to walk to some other part of the house, plainly expecting me to follow her. I open my mouth to protest, and then shut it again, noting that there isn’t anything really I can say to this…even that’s buttressed by the fact that I knew coming here early would likely force me into the ceremony a little early. Had to happen sometime…I hope Peregrine’s getting along better than I am, anyway… Elizabeth leads both Annette and me deep, deep into the dark house. In this time of quiet, I take this chance to study my impressions of Elizabeth from behind. As I expected, Elizabeth is the most formidable of her entire family circle. Aside from her position as the Black Queen of Chess, Spades, and Clubs, she is the most competent sorcerer and mesmerist, and the most powerful vampire among them. She didn’t come by her abilities easily, however: she died as a child before her family intended for her to die, and before they had the chance to turn her into a vampire. Flashes of her experience seep into my conscious mind, and I have to work not to gasp in horror. Elizabeth as a young girl, surrounded by family…then strong hands press against my throat, cutting off air…something thick and clothy pushed roughly against my nose and mouth to further prevent breathing… My eyes flutter open and shut rapidly as my breathing quickens…I place a hand against the wall to keep balance, and I allow the sharp clack clack of her heels against the stone floor to guide me as I concentrate on walking forward. …flailing arms to fend off an unseen assailant as my tightly shut legs are forced apart…muffled weeping and unintelligible pleas as something hard and rigid pushes its way up and in…blackness that shrinks my vision until no sight, sound, or sensation remains… I choke back a cry as I wonder desperately, How am I seeing this…? I’ve never gotten such clear impressions before…is she sending them to me…? …my body, weightless…something liquid that surrounds me completely, that I instinctively know eats away at my skin, tissue, muscle, bone…Elizabeth’s family, again… suddenly knowing Elizabeth’s assailant was caught and killed, but her family’s going to go through with their original plans, anyway…Elizabeth’s family binding her terrified, confused spirit into the body of some random girl they killed… I squeeze my eyes shut, and take a few calming breaths. …the spell works, but doesn’t hold well in long-term application….flash of understanding that every twenty five to fifty years another young girl needs to be killed and possessed, lest the poorly bound spirit fly away completely… The persistent clack clack sounds have ceased, and I blink as I remember where I am. I stand before a room that houses an open, lavishly padded black marble coffin. At the coffin’s head is a square, black pillow that bears a carefully embroidered, two-dimensional rendering of a chess King. The coffin isn’t hinged, but has a matching stone slab that slides over its face, and it, too, has a chess King smoothly etched into its surface. Lastly, a plexiglass-like panel has been fitted into the slab where the occupant’s eyes would be. I glance at Elizabeth in question. With a faint smile softening her mouth, she gestures me into the room with a sweep of one long fingered hand. "We’re here." Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 396 (7/8/03 9:49 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way." -- Charles Mackay, Clear the Way, in "Voices from the Crowd" Illusions and Delusions, Explicit and Illicit, Part II Without pausing to allow me time for understanding, she continues, and her voice wraps around me as brisk as an autumn chill. I mentally scramble to get a hold on what she’s saying, and I continue to blink as I force away the impressions of Elizabeth’s past, and try to catch her fleeting words. "The rise of a new King must follow the death of the old. Because you so adamantly refuse to kill Ostrog, we’re going to achieve the same effect by fooling the archetype into believing that a death has occurred, and begin the transfer of the position from Ostrog to you. It will be more symbolic than anything else." Though I look at her in plain doubt of the ritual’s likelihood of success, my face must carry with it some look of horror, because she adds in a rather bored fashion, "Yes, yes, it’s horribly deceitful, I know. Regardless, when you emerge from the coffin, you will have secured your position as the new Black King." Her eyes narrow a bit, and as she looks at me, she lets a slow, slow smile curve her red lips. I’m momentarily transfixed as her sharp teeth, gleaming white, dart about that redness with her next words. "Now then. Are you ready?" I stare at the stone floor and resist the urge to rub my eyes like a tired child stirring from a dream. "I guess…but before I do, there’s something I want to give you." Elizabeth’s eyes narrow further until they almost become slits. "What…?" Her former confidence has been replaced by a singular mistrust, and her question sounds more like a defensive hiss. I blink, not having expected this transition. "Well…y’know, it’s not…it’s not tangible, or anything," I mumble, feeling lamer with every passing second. Dammit, I shoulda just kept my mouth shut… Without waiting for her to respond to that, then, I close the distance between us, and I murmur softly, "It’s not going to hurt you; I just wanted to give you advance warning…" I wrap my arms tenderly around her, and as I inhale the scent of her hair, echoes of her past come suddenly flooding into my mind once more. They’re all jumbled, these mental flashes and sensory impressions—a faint cry rides upon humbling shame, sorrowful regret licks tenderly at searing pain. My poor Elizabeth…I would forgive you, if it mattered… "I’m so sorry," I whisper. "I’m so sorry for all the pain you’ve caused others, and I’m sorry for all the pain you’ve suffered." Against me, her jaw tenses, and she tightens her entire body down to her bones. She holds her arms rigidly at her sides, hands clenched into unmoving fists. Her voice as taut as the rest of her, she spits out, "What pain that I’ve suffered?" She’s not taking well to this at all… I don’t bother answering her question. With a sad, ragged sigh, I stroke her hair once before I release her and step away. Elizabeth quivers a bit as I leave her, and her pallid face appears to have lost yet more color. …Yeah, not well at all…She looks angry. But at least she hasn’t killed me yet. Oh, the joy of small miracles. Without further cues from her, I stride over to the coffin that’s propped upright against the wall. Before I step into it, I look at her still unnaturally stiff form, and I ask timidly, "…so…are you mad at me…?" Not the best mood for her to be in, since she now controls my fate… With the same cruel, tight tone of voice, she squeezes out the words, "I haven’t decided yet." I sigh, nod, cast her one last worried glance, and I lie down in the marble coffin. Once I’m in it properly, Elizabeth strides over to it, and slides the face atop it so that I see no more of the room than is afforded by the plexiglass panel. My sense of sound is not in the least impaired, however. Elizabeth, now having regained her composure, turns to the Ace of Clubs, who I’ve quite forgotten was in the room. "Leave here," the Black Queen commands, and after consulting a watch, continues, "and return in…ten minutes’ time." Annette tilts her head just so, and defiance surfaces in her eyes, her stance, her tone of voice. "Peregrine will be here shortly. I’m here for Christina’s protection—" "—the coffin is warded for her protection. The Ace of Spades will indeed arrive soon. I will be finished handling her transgression in ten minutes," cuts in the Queen smoothly. I gasp, and push a hand against the coffin lid…I push harder….and harder until I grunt with effort. It doesn’t budge. After slapping at the lid with the heel of my hand in frustration, I slump against the plush interior. Goddammit. Though I’m still feeling quite rebellious, I acknowledge the small thankfulness that the coffin is at least warded to ensure my survival. In a low whisper now, I murmur, "White Spider…? Are you there…?" He doesn’t answer, and I take that as an awesome sign. Well, at least he wasn’t as stupid as I am in getting into this damned box. Then, Elizabeth looks at the Ace, and exudes the confidence and regal bearing that I’ve come to expect from her. "Leave here," she says in no uncertain terms. "Return in ten minutes." The Ace narrows her eyes, and then turns and strides from the room. From my beautiful marble box, I suppress a whimper of defeat as my only ally in the room leaves my sight. Very near me, as nonchalantly as anything, Elizabeth takes a seat in a chair, and begins to read. ______________________________________________ KABLAM! The ground quakes, and from within the safety of my coffin, I blink at the smoke filling the room. Without thinking about what I’m doing, I raise my hands to the plexiglass panel, and swipe ineffectually at the smoke that doesn’t get into my reluctant place of rest. I mutter, "Get outta the way! Damn smoke, I can’t see!" In front of me, Elizabeth’s black clad figure shuts the book, and places it beside her chair. She doesn’t turn her dark head as she remains near me, but I can just make out the otherworldly glint in her eyes as they move in the darkness, methodically scanning the room. "Clever girl," murmurs the Black Queen, the small smile upon her lips betraying her surprise and delight. She takes a step forward, and calls out, "Give yourself over, and I will spare Christina. Keep resisting, and I shall kill her." Without waiting for a response from Peregrine, I shout, "Don’t listen to her, Peregrine, and don’t say anything! It doesn’t matter what happens to me! Just get done what you need to get done!" The Black Queen pauses in her pursuit, and turns to me, her eyes meeting mine through the plexiglass. The small smile curving her lips becomes more generous, and I can see the long, sharp teeth flash in the little light that remains. Softly and dryly, she murmurs, "Right noble of you. Too bad it won’t do you much good." Somewhere close to the door, but closer to Elizabeth than I’d like, I hear Peregrin’s plaintive call. "…but she’s your King!" Dammit, Peregrine! I told you not to say anything! Now you’ve given your position away! I slam harder at the marble lid. Despite the mild bruises I’ve sustained in doing so thus far, it’s no use. "Goddamnit, lemme out! Fuckin’ box!" Elizabeth’s smile angles itself a bit so that it looks more menacing than usual. "She’s not King yet. I can easily procure another…one who won’t prove to be so much trouble." "Don’t listen, Peregrine! She’s not going to kill me, because I’ve already come this far, and because I’ve cost her so much! It wouldn’t make sense to kill me now! Just do it, Peregrine! Dammit, just do it already, before she strikes back!" Elizabeth remains as she is, stance ready, body poised for action. She turns to me again, her eyes unnaturally brilliant. With a voice now unmistakably like the one which ordered the murder of the last Rose Red, she promises, "Oh, I will indeed kill you." Though her voice comes from a completely different part of the room, Peregrine once more calls out, "Don’t kill her…!" The Black Queen’s smile spreads, and she tenses still more, as though she’s about to pounce. Just then, a blur of white streaks past my vision, and Elizabeth’s arm flies out in a smooth, graceful arc to meet it. Apparently, she catches something between her thumb and forefinger, and she glances down to examine it. She chuckles a bit, and then calls out, "Did you send the Spider after me, Ace?" Peregrine, from yet a different part of the room calls out, "No…" The Black Queen arches a brow, and then shoots me an amused glance. "Then Christina must have brought him with her." She returns her attention to the space before her, and lifts her gaze in time to see something that I don’t catch. Elizabeth’s eyes widen in surprise, and then— BANG! Elizabeth’s head gets thrown wildly back from the force of impact, and before I can register the blood that spurts from her eye socket, another shot shatters the quiet. BANG! Again the Black Queen reels as the bullet tears through her second eye. The small, precise blast leaves it bloody, open, and empty. The liquid pours crimson down the ghostly white of the Queen’s cheeks, and I blink in horror. Jee-zus, Peregrine… Despite the shock I’m sure the Black Queen feels, she still stands ready, and her facial expression betrays just how much she’s reveling in the violence. Before I can do or say anything else, Peregrine blurs forward, and whisks the Queen out of the room, away from the already limited vantage point of my plexiglass panel. "Aw, fuck, I need to get out." I continue to try every way I know of to get out, including using my vines to snake their way through any available crevice. Nothing works. Just then, I notice a figure standing before me. When I look up, I release a cry of frustration at the person I least want to see right now. "Hello, Your Majesty," I manage to get out through clenched teeth at the cool and calm figure. Standing before me, with a smile of smug self-satisfaction adorning her lovely face, is the White Queen. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 400 (7/9/03 8:35 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. "There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way." -- Charles Mackay, Clear the Way, in "Voices from the Crowd" Illusions and Delusions, Explicit and Illicit, Part III She glances about the smoke filled room, her eyes alight with glee. "I heard that this is the ceremony during which you will be made Black King," she offers as smoothly as ever. Her voice threatens to twine around my consciousness again, but I refuse to give in. "So I’m told. I don’t think anything’s happened yet, though, so don’t be surprised if it completely doesn’t work. I know I won’t be," I snap back. The White Queen quirks a well formed brow, and allows a genuine smile to betray her deep amusement. "Oh, don’t worry. I’ll know when the transfer occurs." She pauses, and then adds, "And I’ll be here when it happens." Great. "Where are the Aces?" "Oh," and she waves a dismissive hand, "off tying up the Black Queen with chains, or something. "Did you know, the Ace of Spades is more clever than I gave her credit for. She set bombs about, and then detonated them to block the Black Queen’s line of sight! Then the Ace shot the Queen’s eyes out with a pistol! I don’t know how I didn’t think of it ages ago." A moment of quiet, and then, "Still, I’m going to win against the Black Court." I answer her by staring morosely through the plexiglass panel, and give a soft grunt of polite interest. Did she always used to talk this much, or is she just wishing to gloat, now that she’s about to triumph? "It’s not because I don’t like you, you understand, that I’ll take you as King," she continues, her voice now sweet and gracious from promised victory. "In fact, I’m rather sorry that I have to do it…if I didn’t have to kill you, I’d bring you to the White Court. You’d have made a good servant." I smile faintly as I remember Annette’s words about the likelihood of my servitude to the Black Court. "I don’t seeing that happening, as you’re a bit too ornery for that." With that same painted smile plastered to my mouth, I throw out, "Thank you, Your Majesty." "Well, it is rather exciting for me, because I’ll be winning against Elizabeth. She was an excellent opponent—" I furrow my brow deeply at the White Queen’s use of past tense, as if Elizabeth has already died and passed on, and I feel an almost undeniable compulsion to rush to Elizabeth’s aid and defense. "—and I’ve not seen one like her in quite some time. I hope the next Black Queen proves as challenging as she has been!" I tilt my head a bit as I stare at the woman before me. Is she on crack? The last Black Queen, who remained in power for, like, forever, willingly gave up her position because Elizabeth was better suited to it. So, with a genuine smile now curving my lips, I murmur quietly, "…you’ve never won, have you? I mean, Elizabeth hasn’t, but you’ve been around far longer, and you’ve never won." The White Queen meets my gaze squarely, and though the merriment doesn’t leave her features, her eyes glisten dangerously with the threat of unpleasantness. "I’ve always been good at chess, you know. Even in life." I burst out laughing in her face. I don’t mean to, but I can’t help it. I try—really try—but I just can’t help it, this woman’s so pathetic. Her delusions are so complete that they have formed a carapace against harsher realities. A flood of impressions comes to me of her, while in life. …the blurred features of many opponents from across the chess board…the White Queen, young first, then older…the gentle indulgence in their faces…all pandering to the very pretty pair of eyes and the cutely ambitious set of her delicate jaw… They let her win. All of them. I continue to laugh, relieved that so long as I can’t get out of the box, she can’t get in. She’s not nearly as amused as I am. In a loud hiss now, she spits out, "Why are you laughing?" My fit of giggles just won’t go away, no matter how strongly I will it. "B-because you didn’t even plan it this way. This happened for you because of pure luck. I was a wildcard, and it’s because of me that Elizabeth might lose." Her eyes narrow to slits, and her mouth—so soft and full moments ago—has regained its hard edges. "She gambled poorly. I took the wildcard and played it to my advantage." My laughter seems to fill the room. "As if! It was all luck!" The White Queen shoots a hand toward me, and lands a blow to the marble coffin lid just below the plexiglass panel. "Shut up! Shut up!" she snarls. The unexpected blow startles me, even though I didn’t feel it. I also note that my laughter has ceased. I suppose I should have known that she’d be this passionate about success or failure. Some minutes pass. The smoke has billowed out of the room into other areas of the house, and, since I’m left without any signs of the Black Court, I stare at the White Queen, and she at me. Soon, archetypal power fills me, and my knowledge of danger heightens. Like seeing CAD lines of a grid in perspective, I come to know exactly how far away the items in the room are from me. More importantly, I know exactly how far away the White Queen stands from me. The coffin has barely enough space in it for me to duck, but that knowledge does me little good now: the White Queen has kept me in her line of sight this whole time, and will be quite unwilling to let me escape it. I also realize that holding onto the Manticore’s quill poses an immediate threat to my well being: I stand before a person who holds the ability to command me to kill myself. (And I don’t think the significance of that fact is lost on her.) It’s final now. I’ve become the Black King. Judging by the curl of pleasure to her lip, the White Queen knows it, too. I’m also still trapped in this damned marble box. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 411 (7/13/03 7:14 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Laying aside his resentment, he stores it up to bring it forward with increased bitterness.” -- Tacitus (Caius Cornelius Tacitus), Annales (I, 69) Retribution, Part I My mind races as I go through possibilities of breaking out of Elizabeth’s warded coffin. While that goes on, impressions of all those in my command fill my being: I know where they are in relation to me; I can feel their disparate purposes, abilities, and moods. Before anything else can happen, I will my Knight present. Oh, please, please let calling one of my subjects result in instantaneous appearance. I mean, it works that way with summoning Ace of Clubs…it should be that way with everyone, right? Hurry up, you damn Knight, hurry your ass up! Somehow, I know that he has received the command, acknowledged it, and works now to comply. But he doesn’t show up immediately, and this worries me. The White Queen, oblivious to my efforts, allows her smile to spread further across her lips as she murmurs, “Ah. You’ve become the new Black King.” Oh, crap. Goddammit, Knight, hurry the fuck up! I shrug in mock insouciance. “Well, I don’t feel any different.” I give the door a (hopefully) surreptitious glance, and then I realize with no small amount of horror that she has quite a clear view of it, too. Still, I half-expect my Knight to materialize there when I set my gaze upon it. If he dies defending me from the White Queen—even if the battle lasts only a moment, because that might break her eye contact with me if he does something clever—it would prove a tolerable loss, especially since I plan to kill him myself anyway. But he thwarts the loveliness of my plan by not showing up, and I don’t have time to wait… Her Majesty’s mouth softens a bit as she pushes out her lower lip into a sympathetic pout. Then she delivers a command so cool, it could only have come from the lips of royalty. “Kill yourself.” Because she spoke the order out loud, but failed to specify a method, I set my jaw, and choose to be spiteful. Fine. If I die at all, I’ll die by starvation, then. That ought to buy me some time, at least. My former anger at her comes rushing to the surface, and I vow once again to have her pretty ass on my platter. Now the look of petulance sits upon her features as I try her patience. With a bored but impatient sigh, she spits out, “Kill yourself faster.” Before I can decide on a pleasingly slow method of dying that still meets her requirements, she modifies her command. In the same contemptuous manner, she intones, “Oh, just throttle yourself.” A vague thought forms somewhere in the more nebulous parts of my mind, and, even as all this goes on, I wonder if she’s making me suffer on purpose to gloat…and to pay me back for all the times I messed up her plans… I still find loopholes to slip through. As I wrap my right hand around my throat, I clutch the obsidian Knight in my left, and wheeze, “Pathos…” Thankfully, the Ace of Clubs appears in the doorway as quickly as always. Rather unhappily, however, she can do nothing to help me while standing in the White Queen’s line of vision. Rather unhelpfully, she calls out flatly, “May I help you?” Disgusted at her inability to assist, and frustrated with my own ineptitude, I quickly switch out the obsidian Knight for the Bishop, and wheeze with the last of my breath, “…logos…” My vision is fading, and with no air to aid my impending hyperventilation, I panic. I remember briefly Peregrine’s words about Elizabeth’s small knife, that it binds the spirit to the body, and replace the Bishop with it. I hope for the best, and use it. A flash of pain deep at the left side of my neck, where the point sinks with ease…smooth metallic fire as I run its edge across my neck as far as I can, up to where the fingers on my other hand meet with the palm…my right hand, slipping from my throat, now slick with wetness… Everything goes black. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 412 (7/13/03 9:14 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “Laying aside his resentment, he stores it up to bring it forward with increased bitterness.” -- Tacitus (Caius Cornelius Tacitus), Annales (I, 69) Retribution, Part II …Am I dead…? Hell is a lot more temperate than I imagined it’d be…and it looks a lot like Elizabeth’s basement, for some reason. Slowly, I pull myself up from the stone cold floor, and I realize with a shock that it is Elizabeth’s dungeon area. I’m surrounded by Dr. Ostrog (who still lies on the floor, and continues to painstakingly piece himself together), the Ace of Clubs, and Okinami, who bows to me in greeting. My clothes and neck remain as they were before, and I still have all the same impressions and knowledge of the Black King’s court as I had before. Deep, deep lines crease my brow now as I try to figure out just what the hell’s going on, and my words tumble out of me in a rush. “Okay, what happened? Did someone pull me out? Did I castle? I didn’t think I could, because I was pretty sure that the rooks had moved already… “…and where the fuck is my Knight? I’m going to have his ass, I swear it!” The expressions on the faces of all three inform me that they have no idea what I’m talking about, but Okinami is the first to speak. “Your Majesty, if I may be permitted to do so, I can ascertain the whereabouts of your Knight.” Exasperated beyond what my meager words can convey, I wave a hand and answer, “Then go already!” He bows and then vanishes. Once he’s gone, I run a hand roughly through my hair, already sorry for my misdirected rage…and that only irritates me further. I pace, and cast angry glances at those around me, who wisely keep silent. Annette watches with wary eyes, though I can see hints of amusements surface in them. Mercifully, after only a few seconds, Okinami returns. “Your Majesty, your Knight physically cannot follow your orders at the present time.” And he goes on to detail how the Knight’s limbs have been torn off him, and how the remainder of his body had been thoroughly sliced open. Those methods sound familiar… Annette and I share a meaningful look. Okinami ends his little speech with, “Right now, he continues to drag himself closer to you, that he may comply with your command.” I’m impressed…but there are more important things to consider. “I’ll deal with him later. Where’s Elizabeth? I need to know what happened.” And I fill them in on the situation with the White Queen. When I finish, I feel a small surge of pleasure at how well the grim expressions on their faces finally match my own mood. “I’m not sure how you ended up here, Your Majesty, but it’s clear you reconstituted yourself somehow. In any case, I will find our Queen.” This is the second time he’s offered his services in a very short while, and I don’t allow the significance of that to escape me. He vanishes again after I nod, only to return just a second later. “Your Majesty, the Black Queen is just upstairs, chatting and having tea with the White Queen.” His features cloud and his lip curls with disdain as he speaks his next words. “As expected, the White Queen is having tea in order to gloat…and I get the distinct feeling that our Queen is allowing her to do so.” But…wait, does she think I’m dead? She could, although…with this being her court, she would have felt me reconstitute myself, as Okinami said. If that’s so, then she’s just waiting. Perhaps because the Black Court’s in disarray, the Black Queen can’t simply kill the White Queen outright—the White Queen did say, after all, that after the Black King dies, the Black Queen will be left in a vulnerable enough state that killing her would be easy. The White Queen does nothing because she wants to gloat, and still believes me to be dead. Elizabeth’s letting her to buy some time. Despite the tension in the air, a smile breaks across my lips as I feel a burst of pride in being part of Elizabeth’s court. “Alright then.” I square my shoulders as I make my decision. “I want to go after her to prevent her from doing further damage to our court…but do you think that I can rely on Rose Red’s speed alone?” Annette continues to watch me with a strange light in her eyes, but before I can question it, Okinami inclines his head forward. “Your Majesty, I can lend you my skin.” “…what?” I blink at the little Japanese man, thinking that I must have misheard him. “My skin, your Highness. It will be painful for me, but I can remove it and lend it to you. Draped over your form, her commands will only affect me, and your movements will not be hindered.” “…can you…can you do that?” He nods, and begins to remove the piercings that I now realize hold him together, in a way. After a few moments, he’s stripped of his skin, and Annette chains him to the wall as a precaution. As the metal clamps press against his bare tissue, he quivers with pain, and I wince as he breathes hissed breaths. “I’ll be back very soon,” I promise him. The small man gives a tiny nod, and I look at Annette. She pulls the skin over me as well as she can, taking care to leave enough of my face uncovered so that I have full view before me. I half expect it to contract, and conform to me the way the Cheshire’s coat did, but it doesn’t. It looks like a terribly gruesome and grotesque Halloween costume—so well made it appears real, but so ill-fitted it’s almost funny. She quirks her brow as she looks at me, as if to say, “Ready?” I answer her with a deep sigh. Then I murmur, “It’s time to steep my thorns in the blood of the wicked.” And I’m off. I take to the stairs as quickly and as stealthily as I can, and the rest of the lower levels of the dungeon and catacombs pull by in a mere flicker of sound and dark color. …her complete deception when Thomas and I first arrived here, to the land of the dead... I emerge from the stairs, my former anger and frustration spilling into my limbs, and filling me to overflowing. Elizabeth glances up from her teacup at my arrival, and her expression of cool civility doesn’t change. The White Queen, seeing Elizabeth's small upward motion, turns from her spot, and lifts a dainty hand at the realization of her fate. She barely gets to mouth the word ‘stop,’ when I fall upon her. …the White Queen’s intense concentration as she etched words of binding onto my skin, knowing that there was no other way to get me to submit my will to her… My vines unfurl and shoot from me. Long, sharp thorns jut out every which way to adorn their lines. ...the inhuman, inexcusable treatment of her Bishop, first by fire, then by drowning as punishment… Almost hungrily, they sink into her fine, alabaster flesh. …Thrace and the White Bishop both, drugged to maximize vulnerability, sliding down pikes as after-dinner entertainment… Her blood flows quickly, and the deep red mars her perfect white. My thorns, having found a hold now on the depths of her body, begin to spin and rotate outward. Chewing through her muscle becomes as easy as kneading dough, breaking through her bones as easy as snapping dry winter twigs. I continue, the vines delivering their blows like lashes from a ravenous whip. Their pain, their blood are now repaid with yours. Her mouth contorts itself in a final cry of agony, but it dies upon her lips before she even has time to release it. Panting, I stare at my handiwork. The White Queen is no longer recognizable. Her body lies at my feet in a mess of shredded strips of meat. Her lovely lips and proud nose have been quartered, and sliced clean from the rest of her face. One eye has been torn from its socket, while the other rests open in a pool of its own blood. My ragged breaths escape me quickly and feel as though they don’t fill my lungs much. Then my stomach gives a sickening lurch as I realize, now that the act is over, how much I thoroughly enjoyed it. I lift my eyes from the remains of the White Queen to meet Elizabeth’s cool gaze. She blinks once, teacup still held aloft, and curves her lips to show off that fang-tipped smile. Very softly, then, she murmurs to me, “Very good.” Without waiting for anything further from her, I turn on my heel, and descend once more into the dungeons. Guilt rides in quickly at the heels of my victory over the White Queen, and though I am confused about my own reaction to it, one thing is certain: I have finally killed. It was delicious. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 416 (7/16/03 8:50 pm) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “In truth there is no such thing in man's nature as a settled and full resolve either for good or evil, except at the very moment of execution.” -- Nathaniel Hawthorne, Twice-Told Tales--Fancy's Show Box I move briskly, and Elizabeth follows close behind. The sharp claps of our heels meeting the stone floors break the quiet, and each step’s clack provides a counterpoint to another. Eventually I reach the space where Okinami stands quivering and chained. In one smooth motion, I turn to face Elizabeth, and give a slight twist to my wrist to catch the skin as it drops from my shoulders. Then, without removing my gaze from the Black Queen, I reach the skin out to Annette, who takes it, and proceeds to unbind the skin’s owner. Elizabeth takes all this in with quiet patience, and once again, the shadows seem to coil protectively around her. Behind me, Okinami continues to hiss in pain as he steps carefully back into his own skin. Without turning around, I take Okinami’s pain as a good sign, and though I look at Elizabeth, I murmur to him, “Thank you for the use of your skin, Okinami.” I don’t turn to acknowledge his bow, and I address my Queen instead. “Well. Since the White Queen’s dead, the White Court should be in quite an uproar. They can sense her death, can’t they?” The lines and curves of Elizabeth’s face don’t change. “They can, yes,” she purrs. I stand there and stare at her, my body tense, my jaw clenched in waiting. I feel like she, for once, might actually allow me to be privy to more than what is immediately obvious, but her offer doesn’t come. When I finally see that she’s not going to allow me more than that, I sigh, and ask for the invitation with more brusqueness than is probably polite. “What happened? Did I die, or what?” Her words take to the air smoothly and slowly, and I can feel the undulation of her voice lap at the jagged edges of my irritation, smoothing and rounding them into sleepy contentment. “You did, in fact, die. The archetype of the Black Kingship was transferred to you, but no death had yet followed the action, as is normally necessary for the ritual to be complete. You find yourself here, with your archetypes intact, because you caused the death of the Black King.” She pauses as I stare at her open mouthed, and with that alluring smile still curving her lips, she murmurs, “You have paid for yourself. You’re now…legitimate.” That sounds reasonable enough… Still, I can’t help but feel as though some other detail currently eludes me… …much to my chagrin, it’s because of Elizabeth—rather than my own ability to remember—that I recall it. “Well,” she states, her voice slow and deliberate, “you still have a promise I’m sure you intend to keep.” She casts a cool glance at me, lowers her gaze slightly, and I remember the quill resting in the breast pocket on the inside of my jacket. Before I have a chance to confirm or deny her statement, she smoothly continues, “Before you do, however, I have a few last minute things to complete. I will return in a moment.” I blink at her words as her black skirts swirl, and soon, only the sharp clack clack of her heels answer my surprise. Only a minute or so passes before she returns, looking quite the way she did before she slipped away, as if there had been no interruption at all. She stands facing me, her face resolute, her back to the wall. Her eyes slip shut briefly, and she gives a small, precise nod in readiness. Something’s amiss. I quirk a brow in disbelief, and tilt my head a bit to study her. “What, you’re just going to stand there?” Elizabeth’s dark eyes flutter open, and her lips curve in mild amusement. As that small smile adorns her mouth, she leans her head forward slightly, expectant. No, something’s not right. After staring at her quietly for some moments, I finally remember to use the dragon’s scale to superimpose spiritual truth over my own vision. I had known that something about the situation didn’t feel right, but I hadn’t expected the sight that now stands before me. She looks about thirteen or fourteen, wears clothing I’m used to seeing in 2003, and stands about 5’5”. Like Elizabeth, she has dark hair and eyes, but they are dark in a way that’s distinctly different: the darkness in Elizabeth refracts and obscures, where the darkness in this girl completely reflects or absorbs. Her mouth, ruddy with the health of youth, bears a pout that mingles despair and angry defiance in the way peculiar to adolescents. My lungs heave a sigh at the innocent before me, and I gently stroke her cheek as I gaze upon her mouth (spiritually gagged) and hands (spiritually bound). I will her lips and hands free of the bindings, and I lean down to murmur, “I’m so sorry that you had to be brought here like this…” Then I hand her to Okinami, to whom I utter a soft command. “Take her back to wherever she’s supposed to be.” As he nods, I can almost taste the girl’s lingering curiosity. She keeps her eyes on me, even as Okinami leads her out. After releasing another sigh, I turn, and stride after Elizabeth. ______________________________________________ “If you believed her to be me, and killed her, you’d have fulfilled your end of your contract with the Manticore,” she offers matter-of-factly. Then, in a softer voice, “I brought the girl, and left the decision of her death with a potentially imperceptive King.” She pauses, and then gives me a meaningful look. “It would appear that I do not have one.” I don’t quite know what to make of her at this point. I can understand the rationale behind her little “test,” but I’m angered at the thought of involving an unwilling not-quite-innocent. When I say nothing to her compliment, she continues, “…you’re still going to uphold your contract with the Manticore, of course.” I look at her with slightly narrowed eyes, and, not trusting my voice, I give a grim little nod. Elizabeth gives a quick glance about, and then murmurs, “Then there are some things I would discuss privately with you before then.” I quirk a brow, and follow her lead. After glancing about, I see that Annette has followed me out, and Okinami, having completed his task, has accompanied me as well. “‘Privately…?’ What is this information, I wonder, that you would not trust those gathered, who are also your own subjects?” Though a few traces of humor remain in her features, her eyes take on that dangerous glint in the dark light. “If I am to die here, I will do so while still preserving my dignity in my own court.” I sigh again, and cast looks at the other two, who merely return my gaze questioningly. Obviously, they await some hint from me about a decision or command. My eyes slip shut for a moment, and then I give another slow sigh, this time in resignation. After all, she probably coulda killed me already, and I her. Neither of us has yet. A moment passes, and I straighten my back. In answer to Elizabeth, I sweep my arm before me, and allow her to lead the way. She brings me past the areas of the house most affected by Peregrine’s bombing spree, and past the areas of the house I’m already familiar with. Her steps slow eventually, and she gestures to a room. I step in. She follows, her steps smooth and confident. The door slips shut after us, and the latch catches with a gentle click. Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 424 (7/26/03 1:41 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “This is the way the world ends Not with a bang but a whimper.” -- T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men I want to face her, this woman I’ve known for so long as my enemy…but for some reason, I feel nervous. Worse yet, I realize with a clenched jaw, uncertainty has begun to fill my veins. The door has long since shut, barring me from my own subjects, my own allies. And though we stand but a short distance apart from the others, I can’t help but feel as though I’m floating aloft in some completely different world. Even knowing that I can will myself elsewhere fails to assuage my sense of utter isolation. Glancing about the room doesn’t help me much, either. To my right rests a heavy French armoire, and at my left looms a massive Victorian four-poster bed. Their wood is dark, and not even their polish can dispel the almost tangible gloom that weighs upon the air. A mirror stands directly before me, and I look into it to examine Elizabeth’s calm reflection. As I focus on the woman behind me, I recall a line from somewhere: “One should not look at anything. Neither at things, nor at people should one look. Only in mirrors is it well to look, for mirrors do but show us masks.” Elizabeth says nothing during these few moments, perhaps because she doesn’t wish to intrude on my moments of quiet contemplation, perhaps because she prefers to let me stew in the juices of my own insecurity. Whatever her reason, I withstand her purposeful silence only as long as it takes for the stillness to ring a sharp pitch in my ears. A bit creepy, that I’m standing in the Black Queen’s place of rest. It’s a little weird, too…I can feel the history emanate from the furniture in this room, but it’s all so finely kept…it’s like a showroom, and there’s no trace of Elizabeth in these wooden pieces. She doesn’t use this place. Where are you, Elizabeth…? Still she says nothing. Even now, she tests her will against mine. She wins. I succumb to my discomfort, and turn to face her fully. “Well, you brought me here, so I assume that there’s actually something you wish to discuss.” Elizabeth tilts her head somewhat, and gives a small smile. “You do know, don’t you, that while the Black Court’s in disarray, I could kill you?” I blink, and offer a charming smile of my own as I answer sweetly, “Yes. I could kill you, too, though perhaps not as easily.” Silence falls between us once again as we hit another impasse. Moments crawl by, and I lose to her will yet again, as I am the first the break the silence. “Elizabeth,” I begin, with a touch of exasperation in my voice…but she interrupts, and cuts my annoyance short. “You are still intending to stab me with the quill, yes?” I sigh, and take a few moments before murmuring, “It’s a deed that has to be done, but aside from feeling guilty about doing it, I also don’t really want to do it…” “Why not?” “Because…well, since this whole thing started, I’ve seen you as my enemy.” “I was your enemy. You’ve been my victim since we first met.” “Well, I’m inclined to disagree with my supposed victimization, but even if we assume that…we’re not enemies any more. I mean, like we said earlier, we could have killed each other already, but we haven’t yet. I, at least, think that’s significant.” She says nothing for a moment, and then asks coolly, “Will you consummate the relationship between the Black King and Queen?” I furrow my brow, and blink, not having expected such a question. What exactly does that mean, anyway? Throughout my time in this realm, I’ve witnessed varying levels of ‘consummation…’ God, I hope she doesn’t seriously expect me to answer…what will I say? I look at Elizabeth hard now, and try to find her behind those voluminous skirts, behind those waves of soft black fabric that end in severe lines. I blink again, and I see superimposed onto my vision the memory of the terrified little ghost girl…and I resist the urge to pull her tightly to me. …and I resist acknowledging the fact that since our meeting, whether I was a victim or not, she has been my primary motivator. She has spurred me to every action I’ve executed since my time here. “Elizabeth…I’ve become your Black King. I’ve done what you wanted. Without you, where do I go from here?” “You will continue to survive, as you have been doing,” she says as she steps closer. “In case you didn’t notice, Elizabeth, I died during the first few seconds of my kingship. Are you sure you made a wise decision in appointing me?” “You will make a fine king. I’ve tested you thoroughly, and I’m sure of your ability. That you died once when the situation moved beyond your control isn’t an indication of your failure.” I say nothing to this; the disbelieving quirk of my brow serves as answer enough. She takes another step closer, and her dark eyes bear into mine. “You still haven’t answered my questions.” “What questions?” I ask blandly as I avoid her eyes, and study the details of the ceiling. “About the quill, and about the consummation.” Oh, I’d hoped she had forgotten about those... Despite the dread filling my limbs, I clench my jaw, and answer. “Yes, and yes.” Once those words escape my mouth, I blink at the finality of my response, and feel rather like I’ve sealed my own fate in an irreparable way. She falls silent, and it’s at this point that I turn away from her, and begin to babble about whatever comes into my head. With my back turned, and with my mind occupied with the pursuit of every flitting and fleeting thought that makes itself known to me, Elizabeth slips out of her dress. As I continue to wonder aloud at the state of the White Court now that the White Queen is dead, Elizabeth interrupts. “Will you help me a bit with this?” I shoot her a glance for only as long as it takes for me to realize that she’s disrobing, and wishes me to assist her in removing her corset. Now feeling like a dirty voyeur, I whip back around so that my back faces her once again. Then I extend an arm backward, and, without looking, I fumble for the lacings of the gusseted bodice. Elizabeth allows herself a soft, throaty chuckle before she murmurs, “You’re going to have to turn around, you know…” “No, I don’t,” I offer flatly as my clumsy fingers finally come upon the knotted bow, and give it a hard yank. She sighs softly as her lungs expand with the release of the corset now unlaced, and I pull my arm back as if burned. I continue to face the other direction, close my eyes for good measure, and fold my arms across my chest as I hear her set the dress and its various trappings aside with a soft clunk. Before I can say anything, I can feel the weight of her body as she presses herself lightly against my back. “Am I so hideous…?” My eyes flutter open at her nearness; at the way her lips and breath brush against my neck, delivering small kisses with every syllable; at the softness of her voice as it cradles me. I consider the mingling of resignation and defensiveness in her words, and my arms drop slowly to my sides again as I turn to look at her. “Elizabeth, it’s not that...you know it’s not that…” As softly as before then, she murmurs, “Then what is it?” I close my eyes again as I lean forward a little bit, and rest my forehead against hers. Now, with our faces only a breath apart, I whisper, “I don’t want to do this.” She places a cool palm lightly against the back of my neck, and answers gently, “And yet it must be done, as you said yourself.” Then she adds with a bitter smile, “I am a monster.” “That’s not true,” I counter with perhaps more desperate fervor than I intended. “You’ve done some monstrous things, perhaps, but that doesn’t necessarily make you a monster…” I have to shut my eyes against the image of the abused ghost girl, the lost child I instinctively know now offers herself up in repentance. And she very, very gently, like a woman stroking a slumbering child, presses down on my neck with a hand as she leans upward to touch her lips to mine. The motion is so brief, and so light that I blink, and wonder if I dreamt it. But her eyes carry a question as they search my face, and I swallow hard. “This quill…it’ll really kill you, even if you are a vampire?” She looks almost relieved. “You underestimate the Manticore’s poison, by asking that. Yes, it can kill even a vampire. At most, the poison will take seventy-two hours run its course. I expect it to take about twenty-four.” I retrieve the quill from a pocket, and I simply stare at it for a little while before Elizabeth’s voice interrupts my thoughts once more. “Do you need me to help you? My lips curve into a harsh frown at that. “No. …I just…I’m sure now that you can be helped. I don’t want to do this.” She says nothing, and merely watches me, her face a veil of calm acceptance. I sigh, and then brace myself. Without thinking any further on the matter, I bring the quill’s tip to her sternum. I clench my jaw tighter still, and I prick her skin with the point. Elizabeth allows herself a small smile at my hesitance, and quietly wraps her hands around mine. With only that to serve as warning, she guides my hand upward and inward, until the quill bites deeply into her flesh. I feel immediately sick as full realization strikes. How terrible that this is something I’d planned to do since I first got the quill, and she’s the one who has to prod me along on my course of planned action. She releases my hand, and I pull it back, quill still firmly in my grasp. I sigh, and as I set it aside, my emotions come to the surface…my admiration, my frustration, my desire for vengeance, all tumble forth in a clumsily uttered lament. “…I wish we had more time to get to know each other better…” “We shall simply make the most of the time we have.” I give her a miserable look, and she answers that by murmuring very quietly, “It’s a bit strange to ask this of such a modern girl, but…will you dally with me?” My lips ease into a more merry curve at a request so completely out of place, given the current situation. “My god, when’s the last time I heard that word used…?” Elizabeth answers by trailing her fingertips along the side of my neck, and by brushing her lips against mine once more. A brief second passes, and she begins to kiss me a little more in earnest. Her mouth teases, plays, and coaxes mine. Finally, I succumb to her will, to the press of her body, and to the act of our consummation. ______________________________________________ I turn my head, and look away as guilt and unfounded shame surge through me. Elizabeth, perhaps sensing the emotional distance that I’m willing between us, presses lightly against me, and rests her head against my neck. Surprised by her tenderness, I wrap my arms around her, and hold her close in reward. It’s during these moments of physical and emotional connection that I learn more about my Elizabeth. She tells me her history with no small amount of bitterness and anger, and I listen quietly as her voice wraps a cocoon of sound around us both. Zhong Huang’s knowledge of Elizabeth is essentially correct. She does come from a distinguished line of aristocratic Italian vampires whose vast wealth bought them much influence. She went through most of her childhood not knowing her family’s darker traits, however. When she discovered what they were, and that they were planning to do the same to her, she feared for her soul, and fled to Rome. Once there, the Church assured her that they would investigate, and promised her protection from those who would harm her most. Unfortunately for her, the Church already knew of her noble family’s tendencies, and though she went to Rome to seek protection, it was the Church who delivered Elizabeth back to the hands of her family. I tighten my hold around her a little bit, and breathe a soft sigh into her hair. “And Ostrog…? Did he really pursue those in your bloodline?” “He did.” After tracing the line of her brows with my lips, I murmur out of sudden curiosity, “Is he still the King of Clubs and Spades?” I don’t see the curve, but I can feel her smile against my chin and hear it in her voice. “He is not.” “He isn’t? But I thought—” “At the time, I needed you to believe that. But you are slated to be the next King of Clubs and Spades. You need only will the position yours, and take it.” “Oh?” I struggle to ‘will the position mine, and take it,’ but somehow, I don’t think it works. “I don’t feel any different.” Elizabeth’s smile widens. “Well, you have to be at the Black Court, and announce your intentions there.” “Oh.” Another moment of curiosity. “…do you always, uh, get along so well with your kings?” She arches a brow in surprise, but the smile does not fade. “I get along with them, yes.” “Oh.” I’m not sure why, but I’m sure I look disappointed. “But never this well,” she confides with a smile. We say nothing for a few moments. In the quiet, I take note of the measured rhythm of her breaths, and I shiver at the exhalations against my neck. As she lies there, I ask quite suddenly, “…did I taste like rotten stew to you?” She lifts her head for a moment to look at me in quiet curiosity. “…‘rotten stew’…?” I flush slightly, knowing it to be a stupid question to ask, but… “Well, I mean, when you bit. To bring Annette back. You lingered even less than the butler did, so I was wondering…” Elizabeth chuckles a bit in full understanding. “Ah, I see. Well, the butler has a rather narrow spectrum of tastes he enjoys—pain, frustration, irritation, fear, and the like. I have a broader range.” She pauses, and then begins to describe the sweetness of my blood—mingled with the tang of my emotions—by using words usually associated with wine: plush depth of its taste, the balance of its structure, its impressive weight. Elizabeth looks at me in cool estimation before continuing, “Its natural flavor, paired with your affection and concern for Annette at the time, was more than enough to make it…pleasurable.” And then she looks at me, expectantly, knowing the thought that occupies my mind now, and daring me to speak it. I yield. “Well, I was curious, because I wondered how I tasted then, and how it would compare to now.” She continues to look at me in that expectant manner, her lips curved in mild anticipation. I yield. “…so…I’m offering, if you’re interested,” I blurt out lamely. Elizabeth gives a full smile now as I turn my head to bare my neck to her. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, and I still find myself surprised at the ease and speed with which her canines grow and lengthen. She leans down close again, and drags their sharp tips against my neck, circling, as though looking for just the right spot. After a short moment, she ceases her teasing, and bites slowly and deeply. My arms tighten around her, and for a few long seconds, I know nothing but the heat of her breath, the wetness of her mouth, the warm wave of delight that washes over me as she clamps down onto my skin. She pulls long draughts from me, and during this moment, I would surrender to her as much as she wishes to take from me. I’ve become unquestionably hers, and she knows it. I’m almost disappointed when I feel her begin to pull away. As her teeth leave me, she trails the tip of her tongue tenderly across my skin, sealing the wounds. As I pant ragged breaths, Elizabeth studies me, and I admire the way her eyes flash, and admire the pleasant flush of her cheeks. She continues to stare, and soon she murmurs, “I can still taste it on your blood, the fresh loss of your innocence. Its taste lingers, potent, like virginity newly shed.” I blink at that, and try to calm my breathing a bit. And then, in an effort to move the conversation elsewhere, I return to a thought that fled me earlier. “…uhm…so…so, since I don’t know where the Black Court is, exactly, will you take me there?” Her stare persists, and her red, red lips ease into a curve as her voice drops to a purposeful purr. “I will give you a tour, if you like. Later.” Elizabeth leans forward in another kiss, this one harsher, and her need more immediate. I don’t deny her. ______________________________________________ My appearance at the Black Court causes many looks of surprise. Some other members of the Court, not nearly so discreet, have their shock betrayed by their eyebrows as they appear to almost leap right off their faces. This hasn’t so much to do with the fact that I am now Black King so much as how I arrive with Elizabeth. The genuine warmth between us is evident, and I show up with my arm through hers. Apparently, Elizabeth hasn’t made a habit of doing that with other kings. Darling Peregrine, when faced with this change of attitude between Elizabeth and me, murmurs an audible, “…what’s going on…?” to no one in particular, though she turns to the Ace of Clubs for answers. I don’t hear Annette’s response, since I don’t have an opportunity to linger. Elizabeth’s pale, pale cheeks have already shifted to a darker shade of pink, and I know that we don’t have time to waste as we continue our tour. Worried for her, and not wanting her new weakness to be displayed before the Court, I lead her back into her own private quarters. As I take her farther and farther away from the questioning looks of her subjects, she informs me that being the King of Clubs and Spades will afford me great physical strength when I need it. I only barely listen as I lie her gently down on the bed, and touch her feverish skin. “Mmm,” I offer in absent response. Elizabeth merely watches with calm eyes as I fuss needlessly over her dying form. I do every little thing I can think of that might provide her some small comfort during her last moments. It’s a little ironic—I know it’s a futile attempt, but my efforts comfort me, and so I offer all I can. She, however, continues to think of her Court. “That girl I sent…she would make a good Black Queen. She possesses the knowledge, the strategy. Now that you’re the Black King, you could subtly make yourself known to her, and guide her through life so that she will be prepared when she arrives.” I blink as I remember the vivid dream I had of Elizabeth just before I met her, but I don’t have time to consider that before she continues. “…Help her develop. A pure archetype will fill the position until she arrives.” I nod, and exhaust my efforts at consolation. Soon, I can do nothing more than hold her, and watch as the poison takes control of her body, and bends it to the Manticore’s will. Her voice continues, tight against her constricting throat, ragged against her labored breathing. “And…you can easily kill White King now. If anyone deserves to be killed, he does. He’s a monster who can almost make even me look innocent.” “I know about him, Elizabeth…I almost unwittingly fed his appetites. You can rest assured that I will take from him that which he stole from others for the sake of his own pleasure.” “…your alliance with the White Jester will prove very useful in this endeavor.” I blink. “You mean she’s still alive…?” Despite her situation, Elizabeth blesses me with a tiny smile. “…call it the White Queen’s last mistake.” The poison’s progress comes rapidly now, and the intensity of Elizabeth’s fever almost sears my own skin as I stubbornly continue to hold her close, despite the heat’s bite. “Elizabeth…you’re taking this…far too well. I’ve been through at least a little of what you’re enduring now, and I know how painful it is. If there’s any way I can take the pain onto myself to ease your passing, I’ll gladly do it…” The small smile remains upon her mouth, and she leans close to brush her lips against mine. My jaw tightens as she does, and I feel like I’ve just been branded by molten metal. “No…it’s enough that you’re here. That I’m being held as I lie dying, by someone who doesn’t hate me, is probably more than I deserve.” “I’ll stay with you as long as you need.” And I press a kiss to her forehead, and withstand the pain that seeps into my lips. Somehow, it makes me feel better. How much time passes, I’m not sure. But eventually Elizabeth’s breath escapes from her as mist, and her voice occasionally stumbles into the air as cluttered sounds spoken in the language of diseased delirium. And, eventually, even that ceases. The heat recedes, and what lies beside me is no longer the Black Queen. ______________________________________________ In a quiet courtyard beneath a somber sky, we hold a short ceremony in the Black Queen’s honor. In keeping with proper etiquette, no matter how individual subjects felt about their once-Queen, the entire Black Court is in attendance. We gather before the casket according to rank with military precision, and members of the Court move forward in groups to pay their last respects: the Queen’s Court leads, followed by the King’s Court; the two Aces, and the numbered pairs of Clubs and Spades after. When, finally, the last pair of Clubs and Spades leaves, I bring her casket with me to the private place I’ve prepared for Elizabeth’s burial. Now, alone in my own garden behind the defensive walls of Rose Red’s Black Realm fortress, I give the former Black Queen one last farewell. As I look upon her placid face, I extend a hand and allow a shower of rose petals to fall over her still and peaceful form. “Travel safely, Elizabeth.” Indigo Veil Curiouser and Curiouser Posts: 425 (7/26/03 1:44 am) Reply | Edit | Del Re: Queen of Shadows: Alea iacta est. “There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning.” -- Louis L'Amour, Lonely on the Mountain The excitement of the Court quivers in the air, and I try my best to ignore it as I straighten the lapels of my tailored black jacket. I breathe a heavy sigh as Okinami bustles beside me, and makes sure that the Court is in complete order. I rise, and run my hands over the legs of my black pants before tugging lightly at the embroidered, deep burgundy shirt cuffs that fold over the ends of the jacket’s sleeves. I soon cease that as a sudden hush falls over the gathered members of the Court, and we all tense as her presence grows stronger. She sweeps into the room then, her steps sure, her eyes casting appraising glances about. My lips slip into a tiny smile as I think on how much this girl from decades ago reminds me of Elizabeth, and how much she doesn’t. Her dark hair cascades about her shoulders rather in the way that Elizabeth’s did then, but this girl’s eyes twinkle with gentle curiosity. Her clothes remain starkly more modern than Elizabeth’s, having evolved from almost two more centuries of style and function. She’s all grown up. I remember Elizabeth’s promise regarding the girl’s assured competence as a Queen, and I continue to put my faith in Elizabeth’s judgment. I helped her develop, after all…Dream after dream I sent her through the years, murmuring secrets and whispering truths, all to aid her growth in preparation for her arrival. The lips that were once bound in that childish pout have become more rounded and full, and they part just slightly as her eyes come upon me. Recognition and complete understanding flash through them, and my smile widens in answer. “Welcome back.” She returns my smile, and steps closer beside me to take her place as the new Black Queen.