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 o