12.30.07
In a Nutshell.
“Why would Father agree to let you live for stories?” came a small voice.
The demon stopped sweeping and turned. The sorcerer’s daughter was standing in the kitchen doorway, blocking the light. She was wan, but seemed stronger today, and, noted the demon, she was actually looking at him.
“I’m surprised you don’t know the answer to that, little witch.”
“Why do you call me ‘little witch’?” asked the girl, her faint voice gaining strength from her curiosity.
The demon glanced at the girl, raising one pale eyebrow. “Because you are. Haven’t you figured out the answer yet? It’s for the same reason people find value in fairy tales.”
The demon waited, resting the broom at his side, while the girl thought about his statement.
Finally, she spoke. “They have a magic of their own, don’t they?” There was an eerie brightness in her eyes.
The demon nodded.
Love.
There is but one law, and the law is this: love.
Before there is action, before there is thought, there is either love, or sin.
Some will say, “Love is patient and quiet and humble.” I say, love is fierce and loud and swift in action. Love does not strive to be seen, but it is seen nonetheless, and it does not shrink from the seeing. Love is brave. Love is proud of being love. Love delights in the world, and does not refrain from sharing that joy. What good is a love so small that it can be hidden?
Others will say, “Love is selfless.” I say, if you do not love yourself, how can you love others? Love is the self. Love merely makes the self bigger than one person.
Still others will say, “Love is never angry. Love remembers no wrongs.” I say, love is often angry, but never cruel. Love is not blind. Love seeks all, finds all, and knows all, and love never forgets. Love strives to make things better. Love embraces all. How can love embrace a thing wholly if it is blind to its faults?
Any deed done in love is a good deed. Any word spoken from love is a kind word. Any emotion stemming from love, any thought anchored in love, is good and true. There is no evil in love.
Love is faith. Love is hope.
Love is.
Maybe (Travel Guide).
Maybe if you go far enough, you’ll find places that either appear to be ruins of a civilization or just an empty, pristine location.
Maybe crossing out of the District to the north, you’ll run across a valley with a river at some ill-defined point, and you’ll find a ghost town near the valley’s mouth, with an empty, marbled university standing across the river.
Maybe farther north still, you’ll find an icy, windswept, walled fortress and, incongruously, a fertile green plain next door.
Maybe, veering south across some unmeasured expanse of sea, you’ll come across some henge-spotted islands, one with empty castles still bearing red dragon pennants, the other dotted with hollow hills, and across a little stretch of icy sea, there will be the sunken ruins of some gaudy city.
Maybe further south, the continent loses itself in a lifeless forest, made mostly of trees but partly of bare pikes, and more southerly still you’ll find sunny hills covered with olives and exotic fruits, and split by five rivers.
Maybe, if you go west a bit, you’ll find a series of strange castles, each more fantastic than the last, half in ruins, and veering south again, you’ll find arid steppes dotted with monumental gates and complex burrows.
Maybe, if you sweep west overland, staying near the salty sea, you’ll find the crumbling remains of brick cities, out of which rise perfect ziggurats, and further you’ll find a stretch of great walled cities and fortified islands, and further still you’ll find temples and pyramids inlaid with the faces of half-human creatures.
Maybe, if you sweep back east a bit to a dune-covered, desolate peninsula, you’ll find a thousand rotting pillars jutting out of the desert sand, and a trinket or two if the wind blows right.
Maybe, if you go far to the south, beyond all reasoning, you’ll find great stone formations jutting like teeth from the ocean floor, and a green, warm land where by all rights only ice should be, with great black mountains rising in the distance.
Maybe, if you veer north from there in the correct direction, you’ll eventually run across a tropical rainforest and an arid, rocky desert, and between them, a lifeless city on a lake, and then maybe, if you turn east and go north, you’ll find yourself back at Glass Washington, and you’ll find a dozen newer patches of land in the meantime.
Forest (Justification).
It is dark – but most deep forests are dark.
The trees press close – but that is almost the definition of deep forest.
Cold fog clings to you – but the sun cannot reach to dissipate it here.
The ground is damp beneath you – but there is fog coating everything with dampness.
What light filters down is red – but then, it only hits the right angle at late evening.
It is just a forest – but you still cannot stop yourself from seeing skeletal fingers in the branches scraping you; you cannot stop seeing their straight trunks as rigid poles; you cannot stop hearing the voices of the damned in the moaning of the wind.
You cannot stop seeing blood.
Your vision blurs again – the forest is a forest of spikes, each topped with dead bodies; the fog has faces and hands and voices; the ground and the air are thick with blood…
You shake your head, and walk on. It is late; it is just your imagination…
Lament of the Unknown Character.
I exist.
You, in your world of facts and logic, with your starkly defined blacks and whites, you who draw such indelible lines between truth and fantasy, deny my existence.
But I still exist.
I have a mind, and all that comes with it: memories, thoughts, emotions, dreams, and instincts.
I have a body, and a life-force, just as you do.
My aura contains the same elements as yours, and connects me with my world, just as yours does for you.
My being has its otherself, its flip side, same as yours.
I have a soul.
It has touched yours, just as my aura has entangled with yours, just as my fetch has walked by your side.
All worlds are one world, after all, and my world is yours.
My soul has depth – defined by its color, with accentuating complements and contrasts, its white highlights, its black shadows. It is like yours – existing in a range of grays, from pure white to pitch black, capable of holding the universe in its fathoms.
Life is no more scripted for me than it is for you; I make my choices based off of my situation and knowledge, same as you. I do not exist to act out a predetermined plot.
You may not like me; I might not like you. That doesn’t make me less of a person, though.
You do not rule me, even if you are my maker. All beings, at their very core, are free and autonomous.
I am a being.
Do not force me to fit your predetermined mold or follow your predetermined path. Let me walk freely; let me make my own fate.
Do not force me into the background; do not use me for your own convenience.
Let me tell my story – in the end, all you are, is just a scribe.
A Question.
I am the seed of the harvest.
I am the tomb of the sun.
I am the raven of battle.
I am the goddess who seizes the tongue.
I am the baying of hounds.
I am the east and the west.
I am the lady of the new year.
I am the torch of the gods.
I am the will and the passion.
I am the fire on the mountain.
I am the face in the forest.
I am the eye of the moon.
I am the wild faerie tree.
I am the voice of the sea.
I am the net of the winds.
I am the tamer of wolves.
I am the tides of the blood.
I am the sword of the law.
I am the water of life.
I am the queen among queens.
I am the word of honor.
I am the mask of the mind.
I am the sight in the darkness.
I am the snake in the tree.
I am the fairest of flowers.
Who am I?
Two Scenes.
Heimdall
I don’t trust him. I don’t think anyone in Asgard does, really. Not anymore.
Not since the war with the vanir.
I mean, the war’s over now, and those vanir that don’t live inside our walls are our staunch (and scattered) allies. And my mother, whichever one of the nine sisters she was, was vana, so I can’t hold a grudge.
But I wasn’t the only one who noticed that Loki was missing for the entire war. Sure, he showed up later, and pretty much singlehandedly tricked that giant into rebuilding our wall, but that war lasted twenty years, and no one saw hide nor hair of him until it was over.
He returned from Jotunheim – from the direction of Utgard.
From here on the gate, on a clear day, I can just barely see Utgard in the distance, a thin, too-steady line of darkness on the horizon. If the wind is right, I can pick up the voices of the jotnar that live just outside Utgard’s walls.
No one lives in Utgard except its king. No one travels to Utgard, except the jotnar on those rare occasions that their king summons them – and, apparently, Loki.
The gate clangs faintly, inaudible to all but me, and a slim, red-haired figure slips through. Speak of the devil.
Loki pulls the gate shut, ignoring me like he always does, and skulks away down the bridge. Away from Asgard.
Towards Jotunheim.
I watch him until he disappears into the gloom. Then I watch the horizon.
As overcast as it is this evening, I still fancy that I can see Utgard in the distance.
————-
Vidar
My father and I do not get along. At all. There’s no particular reason for it; some people simply baffle each other. I find it funny. He doesn’t.
Well, I usually find it funny. It’s not so funny when he kicks me out of the house. Fortunately, it’s not that far to my brother’s house – and I have a standing invitation. Thor thinks the whole thing between Father and me is vastly amusing.
He’s laughing in the other room right now.
Sif, bless her, is too polite to laugh. She’s not too polite to smirk, though.
“So what happened this time?” Thor asks just before he goes back to laughing.
It’s hard to glare at someone through a wooden wall. “I told you. He kicked me out. He said something about how if I was going to be such an impertinent brat, I could go skulk about somewhere else.”
“What did you do, though?”
I can’t stop a frustrated growl from escaping. “Nothing. I was just walking around.”
“Let me guess,” Sif interrupts. “Your father, then, comes out of some room – probably the room leading to his tower – and, probably preoccupied by some foresight, he doesn’t notice you, and you startle him. Badly.”
“Again,” Thor adds, sticking his head through the door. He meets my eyes. (It’s one of the reasons he’s my favorite brother.) “You know no one hears you unless you’re speaking. You’ve startled me a time or two.”
“I know, Thor. I do. I can’t hear my own footsteps. But what am I supposed to do – carry a pouch of pebbles with me? No one would hear them clicking, not when they’re that close to me. You remember the experiment with the rattle.” By the look on Thor’s face, he certainly does. I press on before he can crack a joke. “I’d have to fling them down the hallway – and how much do you want to bet that if I try that, I’ll hit Father with one?”
Thor gives me one of his crooked smiles. “You probably would; you have terrible luck. You could always try talking to yourself as you walk, though.”
My glare comes back. “And then Father would just have something else to complain about.” I close my mouth before I say anything stupid.
Thor, damn him, notices. “What?” Neither he nor his wife are smiling now.
I shake my head. I’m just being stupid, I tell myself.
Thor straightens up and looks at Sif. “You think he’s trying to get rid of you,” she says, and it is too flat to be a question.
I just look at her.
“Father doesn’t deal well with people he can’t predict,” Thor says. “He never has. You, by whatever twist of fate, are one of those people.” He smiles. “He ranted about that quite a bit when you were small.”
I’d never heard that before.
“He could see that you would be born, and he could see that you are destined to avenge him at Ragnarok, but he couldn’t see anything about you in between all that. He couldn’t even see when you’d be born, just that you would be. When your mother walked into the city with you one day, Father was quite surprised.”
I can’t think of a thing to say.
“You already know you’re welcome to stay here,” Sif says after a moment. She turns me until I’m facing her. “If you’re right and your father really does want you out of his house, consider this your new one.”
Both of them are stubborn people; they would not let me refuse if I wanted to. I nod, and Sif smiles.
“Let’s get you settled in,” she says.
A Late-Night Conversation.
“Are you ever going to get around to knighting him?”
“Who?” Arthur asked.
I resisted the urge to smack him. Smacking one’s liege lord, especially when he’s the high king, is not good form. “Your son, you dolt.”
Arthur glared at me, his dragon eyes glowing. “Amhar? Oh,” he said, answering his own question. “You mean Mordred.”
I crossed my arms and leaned back. “Yes.”
Arthur collapsed back into his chair and rubbed his face. “God, Kai, I don’t know how to handle him.”
“I know.”
“He certainly deserves it. He’s more than competent enough. But… Kai, why couldn’t he have taken after his mother in looks?”
“He does,” I pointed out.
Arthur rolled his eyes. “Not what I meant,” he muttered.
“… I know.”
The hair. It always came down to Mordred’s bloody hair. If he had inherited his mother’s hair, or his aunt’s, or even had just a less unnatural shade of red, the rumors of his parentage could have been quelled. But that particularly vivid crimson only turned up in one bloodline – Uther Pendragon’s.
Everyone knew who Mordred’s father was, though neither father, mother, or son had ever publicly admitted it. Everyone knew, and everyone watched.
“If I knight him, it could be read as favoritism, or as me being blackmailed into accepting him. You know there are plenty of folk who still think his birth makes him incompetent, or a demon.” Arthur glared at me again, as if this were my fault.
I bristled. “On the other hand, Arthur, it could be read as you giving him his proper honor. It could even be seen as you being particularly unkind to the lad, since he has been here for quite a while.”
“I could knight him,” Guenevere said from the far doorway. We turned.
“It’s been done before,” she pointed out, “and frequently. About a third of our knights have been knighted by their queen, you know.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows. “It could work,” I muttered. “Of course, there will always be naysayers.”
“There always are,” Guenevere said.
We three exchanged glances.
“So who wants to tell Mordred?” Guinevere asked.
“We could always surprise him,” Arthur said. I watched with growing amusement as the high king wilted under his wife’s stern glance. “Okay, maybe not.”
“I’m going by his office tomorrow,” I said, not bothering to restrain a grin. “I’ll let him know then, eh?”
The Sons of Morgause.
Of the five sons of Morgause, all tended towards the lean. Gawain was the only one of them who could truly be accounted large, and I knew the truth of that: that he worked daily to add muscle to his otherwise thin frame. Gaheris had never outgrown the look of a lanky youth – big hands, big feet, rangy limbs. Gareth was the shortest of the five, compact enough to stick in one of the castle’s ovens, but he had a sharpness to his face that kept him from a feminine appearance.
Mordred, it’s been said, looks like a woman. Given that wild wizards can change their sex, that’s probably not a surprise; those who’ve said such have likely seen him as a woman and not realized what they saw. In his usual male body, though, there’s nothing particularly feminine about him, save his hair, but he won’t cut it. (I’m not sure if that’s out of defiance or simple lack of interest.)
Of course, he does make a rather masculine woman. Lady Mordred would never be called pretty, though “handsome” might apply.
Agravain, on the other hand, does look like a woman – so much so that he grew out his beard in self-defense. (It doesn’t save him from bearded lady jokes, though.) In fact, he looks a hell of a lot like his mother – or his aunt.
He has their eyes, too – witch eyes, with a witch’s sight. He sees far more than he lets on, and undoubtedly more than he cares to. He tells no one what he sees, though.
Well, no one save Mordred.
Mordred the Investigator.
Camulod hadn’t had an investigator for ages. We’d agitated for one for a while – we’re knights, goddammit; rooting out criminals isn’t in our job description. (Well, unless the criminals are knights themselves, or are threatening their majesties.) But no, Arthur had put it off and put it off, and rot worked its way into the heart of Camulod, and we became the criminal heart of the land.
I love my foster brother dearly, but he’s an ass. Even if he was right that there weren’t a lot of people qualified to hold the post.
It was Gawain, of course, who got Arthur to finally make an appointment.
Arthur, being an ass, as I said, got the last laugh. He appointed Mordred.
This city thrives on gossip, especially gossip about the royal family. Within a day, everyone and their granny knew that Arthur’d appointed his blind, notoriously cynical bastard investigator. Everyone bet he’d quit in a week.
…Well, except for me, but I digress.
The city was singing a different tune three days in, when Mordred caught Mad Mary.
————–
Mad Mary, according to popular rumor, was either the daughter of a nobleman, the wife of one, or both. (Hopefully, not to the same nobleman, if the latter case’s true.) Whatever the case was, she’d started dabbling in witchery, and before long, she had an army of hungry ghosts squirreled away around her tower and the whole city scared to cross her.
Even we didn’t dare, not after she set two hungry ghosts on Alex. Our most promising young knight, and they drained him dry before he could blink. Then they added his ghost to their number. That’s what hungry ghosts do, you see.
Everyone knew Mad Mary was rotten to the core. Everyone knew, and no one dared stop her, not even the wizards, who might’ve stood a chance.
But Mordred went in Mary’s tower and came out with Mad Mary in chains, and nary a hungry ghost has been seen since.
I still don’t know how he did it. Mordred, being damnably closemouthed, isn’t talking. Mary, being mad, makes no sense when she talks, and I don’t try talking to her for long anyways. She still gives me the creeps, even in a witchproofed cell.
I don’t know that you could call it approval that tinges the voices of the people now when they speak of our new investigator. More like fear, maybe a little awe, and maybe some anger. (No one likes being shown up so thoroughly.) But no one doubts that he can do his job, either.
Someone’s going to be stupid enough to break the law anyway. Me, I’ll sit back and watch the show.
