Under the soft, willow light with neon signs flashing gentle pink, he held her cold, metallic hands in silence. There was no wind in the City and so much light that even the three moons above them could barely be seen, but it felt like the tree’s leaves above them moved.
It was old. As old as the City itself, and had been brought from one of the Colonies as some distant, genetically modified cousin of some tree from Earth.
Much like they were: a copy of a replica of a strain from some ancient thing from some distant place that they had never seen and would likely never see.
“Do you remember?” he asked softly, and she inhaled sharply and looked up into his eyes, her eyes suddenly watery, “Do you remember where we once met?”
A single tear broke from her eyes and its silvery line snaked down her synthetic skin to fall to the small patch of soil below them. The tree would drink it, and the City would never notice with its neon lights brighter than the day and darker than deep space.
“I–I–,” her voice broke and she fell to his chest sobbing, the teardrops pouring down her cheeks to quench that single square foot of soil, until her water tanks were empty. And then she dry sobbed, heaving up and down with her head nestled under his jaw and he held her tight. Too tight, almost as if he was trying to squeeze the last drop of water out of her.
“It is alright, my love,” he tried to keep his voice soothing and calm, “If you feel this loss, then there remains a part of you that remembers and that does matter. We can make other memories but we cannot remake each other.”
The dry racked sobbing slowly subsided and they sat in the loud silence of a bustling City night; surrounded by millions of people and all alone under this old, forgotten tree.
“Please,” she started and then swallowed to get control of herself, “Tell me again, please, where we once met?”
Me stroked her hair and pulled her close again, “Yes, I will, and I will keep reminding you until even the nanorobots recall it. You see, you are old, much like this tree, and even these days cancer–or the worst types–” and he gently tapped her head, “Can only be managed by removing parts of the body, replacing parts of the body and injecting the nanobots into your system.”
She sadly smiled and nodded, “Yes, I do remember that, my love. It was the old colony ship that did not properly protect us from deep space radiation. My brain cancer was caught too late, and it had spread elsewhere and, well, without all this, I would have died a long time ago. But tell me about the memories that the cancer and nanobots have destroyed… Tell me what I have lost, and what we once had.”
He smiled, kissed her and patted the tree’s trunk, “We planted this. Do you remember? We were among the first colonists to come from the new world and this tree we brought with us to carry some of our home with us…”
She smiled and tucked her head into the nape of his neck. She closed her eyes and let his words wash over her and paint the most beautiful, bittersweet images of memories that she no longer had: their old planet, their old house, their old garden and, this, their old tree that they had met under, once, a long, long time ago.
Much like her, these images where a copy of a replica of a strain from some distant place that she could not remember and would likely never see again.
In the Field beyond the Village’s last house, they lay looking up at the soft, white clouds that floated by. In that Field, he held her, stroking her hair, and promised her the Sky. She laughed and said she would settle for just him.
And they made love as the clouds quietly floated past, and made lives as the years drifted by.
But then the Otherworlders appeared in their vast Starship above them; a huge, roaring, horror of chrome and fire that filled the Sky and vomited forth soldiers and rules and punishment. Some resisted but they did not last long, and soon the Village was forgotten and replaced with the cold, concrete of the City. The Field was torn up and Factories were built that he (and the rest of the men) had to work at while she (and the rest of the women) had to serve the Otherworlders.
And they toiled beneath the smog-filled Sky; no white clouds drifted by anymore. They laboured each day to shuffle home each night exhausted. But, each night, they would hold each other quietly on their single bed, and stare up at the cracked ceiling. He would stroke her hair, smile, and promise her the Sky. Despite how tired she was, she would quietly laugh, and tell him she would settle for just him.
And they made love as the City and the Factories and the Otherworlders marched on by, and settled into their new life as the months drifted by too.
But, one night, she did not come home, and he knew. The Otherworlders’ had taken her from him. In their callous way with their dark appetites, they had done this to other women at other times. He knew and, when the Otherworlder’s Official acknowledged her death but refused any investigation, he knew and the ground swallowed him whole.
In his grief, he wandered the streets of the City howling as tears blurred his vision. In his grief, he wandered by the belching Factories, screaming and tearing at his clothes. And, in his grief, he wandered beyond where the Otherworlders cared and found others hiding from them in the Wilderness.
Out there in the Wilderness, he found not solace but an army. Out there in the Wilderness, the Others shared their pains inflicted on them by the Otherworlders and he shared his, and they wept together as they collected more and more of their discarded people and the Army swelled in size. They did not have the gigantic Starship of the Otherworlders–indeed, they only had much smaller fighter jets–but they had the fact that they were fighting, not for another planet, but for their homes.
And the Army grew as the Otherworlder’s wickedness fed, and he settled into his new life as he trained to take back the Sky.
When the Army attacked late one night, he flew one of the fighter jets. He had named it after Her, as he fought for Her. They all fought for Someone; some who were passed, some who were still alive and some who were yet to be born.
His fighter jet’s engine roared to life that night. He whispered to it–to Her–that he was going to take back the Sky. He was going to take it all back and give it to her. His hands shook and his throat was dry. The engine roared to life, and the ground flew by and then disappeared as he rose into the night Sky. He rose along with the rest of the fighter jets as the Army pushed forward on the ground.
And then fire flew by him, and fire erupted on the ground. The Otherworlders were many and better armed, but the Army fought hard. Flashes in the night signalled death, and screaming screens in his fighter jet announced incoming death; he gritted his teeth and pushed Her hard. She launched vengeance again and again on the Otherworlder’s Factories and Mansions, and, ducking and rolling through the dark Sky, leaving the fires behind him, he managed to get to where the Otherworlder Starship’s chrome bulk had been parked.
He was going to take the Sky back.
Her screens screamed red at him, smoke bellowing from one of Her wings and fire and death flew all around him. He screamed; tears filling his eyes as he pushed Her closer and closer… Her missiles were out, her ammunition spent, Her tanks were near empty, Her way back lost, and he knew at that moment how to take back the Sky.
He tilted Her nose down towards the grounded Starship and–tears blurring his vision–he thought of Her as Her engine’s crescendo roared towards its final note. He thought only of Her: Her voice, Her hair, Her smile and how, long ago, in that old Field beyond the old Village’s last house he had held Her and promised Her the Sky.
He could hear Her laugh, and say that She would settle for just him…
And, as the Starship exploded, somewhere on a Field He lay with Her again looking up at the soft, white clouds that floated by in the Sky. Their Sky.
“Can you see it, Little Light?” her mother asked, squeezing her hand as they looked in the mirror, “If you look with your heart, you should be able to see it.”
She squinted her eyes and focussed. It was dim in the gas station toilet and the mirror was grimy and cracked on one side. She clenched her jaw and willed herself to see it–
And there it was! The darkness around them peeled away and a light that was not a light glowed around them. And, just behind her and her mother, silvery, ethereal wings fluttered gently.
“I can!” she exclaimed, excitedly, hugging her mother and then quickly turning back to check she could still see herself in the mirror, “I really can, mommy!”
Her mother smiled and bent down, putting her head next to her daughters and looking at both of them in the mirror.
“These are our true forms, Little Light,” her mother whispered, a sadness creeping into her pale blue eyes, “Our eternal forms from the Old Lands. So, Little Light, never forget this. When this world’s darkness closes in–and it always does; our true selves are immortal but these human bodies are not–just remember that none of this matters. None of this dreadful, dirty world of men matters and, my dear, you are the light and–“
A glass bottle shattered the moment against a wall outside. The sound of the city rushed back in and an angry voice rang out from the other side of the door. Her mother froze, her smile vanishing completely. She stood up slowly and looked at the door for a moment before looking back down at her.
“Your father is waiting. We must go, Little Light.”
***
When the first shovel of dirt hit the casket, it sounded like a door slamming shut. Forever. The second shovel of dirt echoed her mother’s rasping breath at the end, in between cigarettes and whisky. She remembered carrying her to bed before her own night shift began and, by the third shovel of dirt, her mind had already shifted to worrying about paying last month’s rent, let alone this month’s.
Following her mother’s will, she had made sure that the casket was made of oak and not an ounce of iron–not even in the nails–was in it. She had also made sure that the funeral was held at dusk, and, later, she would make sure mushrooms and foxgloves grew around the plot.
“This is so depressing, babe,” the man beside her moaned, badly hiding a yawn behind his mouth before reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, “If we leave now, we can hit the pool bar before the happy hour ends. Bertie says he might have a job for me, or something.”
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to run away. She wanted to scream and cry, but all she did was sigh and kept watching the men filling her mother’s grave. At least he was here. That was something. No one else was here, including her father. She had tried to call him and had mailed him an invite but to no avail. He was probably in jail or drunk again. Perhaps both.
Eventually, she looked up at her boyfriend and tried to smile. He tried to look sympathetic. If he is trying, it means he is, she reminded herself. He flicked away the cigarette he had finished and hugged her. His arms felt good around her.
“Sure, hun,” she mumbled, “let’s go get that drink. Maybe Bertie does have a job for you.”
***
“Can you see it, Little Light?” she asked her daughter, “You need to look with your heart, and then you will see your beautiful true form.”
She lifted her daughter to the counter in the bathroom. She was small and light, probably too small and too light for her age. The light in the MacDonalds was flickering but she could see her daughter squinting intensely at herself in the dirty mirror.
And then her daughter’s face lit up, “Yes, mommy! I can see it! It is amazing! We are so beautiful! So beautiful!”
She smiled and hugged her daughter tightly, whispering about their immortal souls and the beauty that cannot die. She whispered about the Old Lands and how their people had fled them. She whispered about oak trees, foxgloves and circles of mushrooms. She whispered about how this world was not real and how only this light was, and, the whole time, she wondered if she could still see it.
At first, he was not aware of what woke him. Quiet filled the dark room, broken only by the breathing of the naked woman lying next to him. But then, as his eyes adjusted to the night, he saw the funny little man. The plump figure was rocking back and forth on his heels while crouching and staring intently at the inside of his bedroom door.
“Hey–” he mumbled getting up, “Hey, what are you doing here?” He was not worried and did not reach for the sword in the far corner along with the rest of their scattered clothes. The strange man did not look like a thief and, even if he was, he was pretty sure he could best him in a fight.
The strange man jumped immediately to his feet and stared wildly at him, “Par-pardon, my friend,” he began stammering as he wrung his hands and kept glancing nervously at the door, “Pardon on the intrusion, but I am seeking a little sanctuary and thought this room would serve that purpose.”
“I am Spurius of the Third Gallica,” he said, now sitting in bed and looking intently at the nervous little man, “What could you possibly want in my bedchambers late at night? You are no thief nor murderer? You are not even armed, nor does it look like you would know how to use a sword or spear if you had one?”
The strange man nodded and attempted a friendly smile that came out more as a twitch, “Hail, Spurius of the Third Gallica. You are correct that I am not here out of bad intentions. I am hiding from my wife and I just felt that a man like you would understand that. You see, Spurius, my wife is not just anyone. She is the Goddess of Arguments, the Sayer of the Last Word. She is Caballus and she is angry.”
Spurius had drunk wine in the evening but he had not thought that he had drunk too much. Yet his head hurt. Ironic given the situation. He stood up slowly, finding his feet and reached for a leftover partially filled goblet. Almost contemplatively he stared down and it and then swiftly downed it before walking slowly to the corner to get his clothes. He chuckled softly as a thought occurred to him, “It is ironic that the cure for too much of something is more of it, is it not?”
The strange man nodded solemnly but did not answer. He seemed to be waiting for something or some response.
As Spurius swung his crumpled tonga over his shoulder, he began to speak. The Roman military practised and rewarded logic and practicality, and he had come far in his career as a soldier. “As unusual as that story is,” he began as he fastened the toga in place, “if your wife is a goddess, then you would have to be a god–“
“I am the Great Immortal God of Irony, Theodore Hoodwink Samuel, the Gi–“
“What!?” Spurius snorted but then lowered his voice with a careful glance at the nearby sleeping woman, “I have never heard of such a ridiculous thing. In fact, I have never heard of the Goddess of Argument nor the God of Irony.”
“–ver of Chuckles, or Teddy for short,” Teddy ended what sounded like an ironically long list of titles somewhat deflated, “Well, we are the lesser known gods, the Little Gods. You know, the kinda sub-pantheon below the big names. Ignotus the Being of Distraction? Lardum the God of Bacon? Luci the Goddess of Diamonds? Oblivus the God of Forgetfulness? Influffi the Goddess of Clouds? Any of these ringing a bell? Any?“
Spurius stood frozen, his headache slowly receding and his mouth hanging open. He shut it quickly and reached for his sword. The metal was colder than the warm night air and it felt comfortable in his experienced hand.
“Teddy,” he began slowly, narrowing his eyes and slowly stepping forward “Firstly, Teddy is a strange name. Secondly, I have never heard of any of these deities and, finally, suggest you leave my room by the means you entered it else you will leave it another way.”
Teddy’s face paled and he began to back slowly away from the sword-holding legionnaire, “Please, Spurius, I am the God of Irony, but I am also mortal! It is the greatest of ironies, but please afford me sanctuary here just for the night and I will grant you a blessing?”
It was a large bedchamber and the room led out onto a cool balcony. Spurius suddenly felt sorry for the strange man and, since he was up, the wine had tasted good and some male company may not hurt. He tucked the sword under his arm, grabbed a nearby amphora of wine and nodded towards the balcony.
“Sure, Teddy the Mortal God,” he chuckled, “I will grant you sanctuary here until the wine runs out and, in exchange, you will grant me immunity from angry wives. Now, please do share the tales of all your Little Gods with me, I am curious… How do the Hebrews feel about Lardum?”
***
When the door shut, Spurius found himself smiling. Maybe it was the wine. Indeed, those amphorae of wine had lasted much longer than he had expected but Teddy was also much more entertaining than his first impression had created. Quite a talkative guy, actually, once you got a few cups of wine into him.
“Teddy”… What a strange name! All he had said was that it was ahead of its time, which was ironic because when the time arrived when it was correct, they would have all become forgotten.
Teddy had gone on to tell him all about the Little Gods, the sub-Pantheon as he called it. Such wild and wonderful tales! Teddy had told him about how the God of Northern Walls and the Goddess of Southern Walls had met at a corner, or how the Ignotus, the Being of Distraction was so distracting that no one could remember if it was a god or goddess, or something else?
Teddy had told him about how the infuriating Titillatio, the God of Tickling, had been caught in bed with Pluma, the Goddess of Feathers, and how her father had tried to beat Titillatio with a stick. But the stick had exploded into a cloud of white fluff! Indeed, this white fluff still blows through our world making everyone randomly sneeze and attaching to everyone’s dark garments just before special occasions.
Teddy had then turned to a story about how Oblivus the God of Forgetfulness had almost forgotten to turn up for his marriage to Influffi the Goddess of Clouds, and how he had indeed forgotten his vows at the wedding. Luckily Influffi was an immensely malleable woman and Oblivus had merely looked at her and seen what he needed to say.
More recently and, perhaps, more relevantly, Teddy had told him how everyone had just forgotten where Oblivus was!
Of course, Influffi had been distressed about her lost husband, and so Teddy’s wife–Caballus and Influffi were sisters–had ironically sent him to comfort her. At this point in the tale, Teddy had somewhat awkwardly manoeuvred around the topic, but Spurius was fairly sure he knew why Teddy’s wife was angry with him and it had a lot to do with what had transpired while he had been comforting Influffi…
Spurius chuckled as the door closed and yawned. The sun would be up soon and his duties would start shortly. The naked woman remained fast asleep in his bed and, indeed, his wife would be back soon and so–
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three loud bangs rang on the door just behind him and he froze midstep. He suddenly realized that he had left his sword back on the balcony but he dismissed this thought immediate as unimportant. It was probably Teddy back for something or other.
Spurius swung around, flipped the latch on the door and opened it. He had only a split second to comprehend the immeasurably angry, red-haired woman on the other side of it before she stepped inside and swept the room with a furious gaze.
“Where is he, Spurius? Where is Teddy?” her calm, soft voice was at odds with her face and eyes. Spurius was no stranger to women and, indeed, he always feared when his wife stopped shouting and started talking softly and calmly.
“I-I, he, uh,” he stammered, trying to find his word and resisting an urge to flee, “Teddy is gone. He just had a glass of wine and left, but I do not know where to.”
The angry woman–Caballus, he assumed–narrowed her raging eyes for a moment and then nodded.
“I believe you are actually telling the truth there, Spurius,” she began keeping her voice terrifyingly flat, “Well, mostly the truth as a bit more than a glass of wine was drunk. Teddy tends to do that to wine but, ironically, he often cannot hold his liquor.”
Suddenly, her eyes darted to the naked woman in his bed and they narrowed again with a new, more terrifying type of intensity, “That is not your wife, Spurius,” she said, her eyes snapping back to him!
Spurius felt small. Tiny! The floor was roaring upwards and the walls grew dark as they reached toward the heavens. The red-hair Callabus loomed over him a thousand foot tall, thunderclouds of black smoke and fire raged above her as eyes turned to furnaces and chains sprang from all sides to slither across his frozen, frail limbs.
“HOW UNFORTUNATE, SPURIUS OF THE THIRD GALLICA AND HUSBAND TO DONNA THAT THAT IS NOT YOUR WIFE! HOW UNFORTUNATE FOR YOU, GIVEN MY RECENT EXPERIENCE WITH MY OWN HUSBAND!” lightning flashed from the clouds and struck the looming walls sending chunks of rock flying about him as the wind picked up intensity and the raging being of endless fire reached out to grab his small, chained, mortal form, “HOW UNFORTUNATE FOR YOU–“
Suddenly a blinding light flashed! The chains disintegrated as the walls slid down and the room lightened from eternal darkness to merely mortal night, the raging fiery storm and its wind subsided as the world suddenly felt its normal size again.
Spurius blinked. He blinked again and then rubbed his eyes…
He was alone in his bedchamber and standing at his open, empty door. He must have drank too much wine. There was no red-haired goddess of fire bearing down on him just like there was no longer any naked woman in his bed. Far too much wine! Had there ever been a Teddy..?
And, as Spurius stood there wondering, a soft breeze like the universe exhaling blew out of the chamber and he thought he heard a familiar woman’s voice on it saying the last word: “A blessing against angry wives! How ironic…“
She first met him beneath the Stars in the Age before Man. Those were quieter times and there were fewer words for violence and war back then. The First King had just past and his Memorial Year was proceeding. Renditions of his great deeds and the Ages passed were being sung by bards in the royal courts across the land, but all she could remember from that Age is him.
She had been lying in a field staring at the Stars twinkling down on her. She could see her ancestors there, glittering down at her. He had lain beside her and begun pointing out his own ancestors and describing all their silly quirks and mannerisms. She had giggled and started to point out her own family’s Stars.
He had pointed to a dark spot in the sky–between the great arc of twin-constellations–and told her that he would be shining down from there one day. He told her that he would be waiting for her there; twinkling in the hallowed halls of eternity, he would wait until she joined him.
Even back then, few remembered the Old Ways. Fewer still practiced them.
He had long, brown hair and eyes to match with the olive skin from the East. His hand would reach out to her and she would laugh, gracefully spinning out of his reach as they walked under the Stars. Back then, they would dance the nights away to the starlight’s music, their ancestors twinkling down and the cool wind rustling the trees around them. On the warm summer evenings, they would lie in each other’s arms in the fields of heather below the twinkling tapestry above them, saying not a word and feeling everything.
Those were quieter times and she recalled them fondly but, it was funny, she could not remember much more from that Age. It was all about him; dancing, kissing, loving, and being loved.
The memories were beautiful and full. They were lush and warm. Back then, she recalled the nights were easier and the summers were warmer. Back then, the Stars were fewer, the Moon was brighter and her hands never noticed the cold as much as they do now.
Such is youth that the young waste it. Such is time that it moves the fastest when we are happiest. Such is life that the Ages eventually end.
Elfenkind were not immortal and, eventually, even they feel the passage of time. The First King had died from old age and his son, the Second King, began his reign by pushing back against the creeping wild animals gnawing at the fringes of their ancient way of life.
Unfortunately, some of these wild animals pushed back, and the next Age would see a lot more Stars joining the night sky.
***
There was no Memorial Year for the Second King, nor the Third. And neither of them died from old age. By the time the Fourth King grasped the Oaken Sceptre, the Kingdom was disintegrating around Elfenkind.
While she remembered the fear and gnawing uncertainty of this turbulent Age, she also remembered their betrothal on a warm midsummer night under the Old Oak Tree. With the High Druid gently tying their hands together and the Stars as their witnesses, she could recall every detail of that night like no other.
She could still smell the now-extinct flowers in her hair and the feeling of her loose dress across her thighs. She could still remember his smile as she straightened his shirt and brushed back his long, brown hair. And she could still sense the Stars watching them as they danced and danced.
The dancing was wild and celebratory at first, and then slower and gentler as the dawn came until her head was tucked into his neck, breathing deeply of his scent.
Most of all, she could never forget him moving a single hair from her face and kissing her deeply as they fell to the ground. He had tasted of the summer-wine they had been drinking and, as their bodies entwined, she had felt a hallowed eternity twinkling far above them and the Old Oak Tree.
For her, that Age would always taste like summer-wine, and ash.
Man had pushed back against Elfenkind and the ensuing war had revealed how startlingly adaptable they were. Perhaps because their lives were so short, perhaps because they lack the Elfen history and its lessons, or perhaps it was just fate, but Man took to the art of war as fire to a wick.
Initially, Man had been overwhelmed by the sophisticated armies of the Elfs. Proud and arrogant, the Second King had pushed his advantage but Man had fought back. Then, as the years dragged on, Man had invented more and more surprisingly powerful weapons.
While she would always think longingly of this Age of summer-wine beneath the Old Oak Tree, she would never forget the sound as the bombs began to fall. Like a clock announcing the changing of the hour, the bombs chimed the end of the Ages of Elfenkind and the start of the Age of Man.
***
After the last surviving elf retreated into the shadows, the Cities of Man took root. These dark, gloomy mazes of stone, steel and fire grew and expanded. Their growth consumed entire forests, ate countrysides, drank rivers dry and filled the skies with wretched smoke that sometimes even blocked out the Stars from her gaze.
She remembered the shame and sadness of this Age. The shame of their loss and the sadness of what had been lost.
This feeling was mixed with anger too. Perhaps born from arrogance and likely fueled by vengeance, some of the surviving elfs believed that they should fight back from the shadows and topple the Machines of Man.
She, though, believed that there were already enough Stars in the night sky.
There were rousing speeches by these rebel elfs. The tales of the First King were retold. And, beneath the cover of darkness and under the Old Oak Tree, rallying cries would pull the survivors together and they would drink of the old wines and talk of the glories of yesteryear.
Feeling bold from the wine and safely hidden from Man and his Machines, these elfs would eventually speak of war and violence. They would speak of a war that they could win against Man’s evil. Though she tried to ignore it, her betrothed had lost much and his voice would eventually join the other warmongers.
At the end of each evening when they were lying in each other’s arms, she would try to persuade him to stay. She would try to reason with him about peace. She would speak of all that they had right now but all he saw was how much they had lost back then.
He was not alone in feeling this way. Slowly at first and then quickly in the end, the warmongers won over the surviving Elfenkind and all but her turned towards vengeance and hatred.
Little did any of that matter.
The second war was much briefer: Elfenkind was weaker and Man was now much stronger with many more Machines.
While the previous Age had been one of fire and ash, this Age was one of darkness; complete and final darkness. It swallowed the last them under those Machines and there was little left to bury.
She never found his body. The grief tore at her, crumpling her to the ground below the Old Oak Tree. She wailed and keened until no sound came from her. She cried until her tears ran out, and, eventually, the darkness closed around her.
Not even the Stars twinkled in her darkness, and she fell into a deep, mournful sleep. It was a slumber so sound that the Old Oak Tree gently cradled her in its roots and covered her with its leaves.
***
She did not know how many Ages had passed while she lay beneath the Old Oak Tree in dreamless darkness. She did not know how she had survived nor did she feel any joy in this fact; while numb, her heart still ached.
Suddenly, she stirred one midsummer night. The smoke and pollution of Man had cleared enough for the countless twinkling Stars’ gaze to reach the ground beneath which she lay buried.
One thin, pale hand broke through the ground, reaching for the starlight. Then the next one… Dirt and the ash poured off her as she rose from the ground and looked around.
The world has changed beyond recognition.
The short, brutal lives of Man continued but the men of this Age did not recall the history of the previous Ages. Elfenkind and all their dead, their kingdom, and all the bloodshed had been forgotten by all save some children’s tales and the odd line of poetry.
All the Cities of Man had been absorbed together and the world was now just one, great City with the Old Oak Tree protected in one of its neglected parks. The stone, steel and fire of Man had changed into wondrous rivers, pools and oceans of light and colour. These glimmering lights powered sleek, quiet Machines of awe that flew on invisible wings passed her as the winds of previous Ages…
But–above all else and most unexpectedly–she discovered that the Man of this Age had reached for and touched the very Stars themselves!
In those eternal, hallowed halls filled with the light Elfenkind, Man now flew, building other cities on other planets with other stars…
It was then that she knew why she had woken. She became certain of what had woken her. As the last of her kind, she would make the final voyage.
***
An Age had passed since she had breathed the night air or felt the grass beneath her feet. An Age had passed as she drifted by the vast, celestial bodies that held Elfenkind’s light; filled with awe at such sights and tears filling her eyes, she cried out each their names as she passed by. An Age had passed as she traveled through the cosmos but she could still remember the Ages that had passed.
She recalled the darkness and death as the last of the Elfenkind fell under the Machines of Man. She could not forget the painful anguish of his passing. She remembered the fire and ash as the bombs went off around them. She recollected the sweet taste of summer-wine beneath the Old Oak Tree and felt his lips on hers…
And she could never forget when they first met–lying in the field with him, gazing at the Stars in the night sky as he pointed out the dark spot that he would be shining down from one day.
Her starship’s quantum drives flared as they reversed their thrust and she began to slow her voyage down. The now-ancient starship shuddered on its frame as it adjusted and she willed it to survive this last action.
She was almost there.
Carefully, she secured the spacesuit around herself, checked the oxygen and seals while ensuring her batteries were fully charged. Slowly she walked to the exit chamber and watched as the lights flickered from green to red, the port opened and the air rushed out into the blackness of space.
Gently, she walked to the doorstep of infinity and pushed off from the edge. Slowly, she floated out of her starship and towards a single, brilliant Star. Majestic, twin-constellations surrounded her as she floated further and further away from her starship…
And nearer and nearer to the Star.
In that eternity of hallowed space, she closed her eyes and listened. Her breathing was ragged in the suit and her heart was pounding. Still, she kept her eyes closed and focussed. At first, she was not sure but then it grew and grew. She could feel it. No… No! She could hear it!
She opened her eyes and stretched out her thin, wispy hand towards the Star. She strained with all her strength trying to reach out and hold it again. Tears were streaming down her ancient cheeks and she choked back a heart-wrenching sob as she cried out:
“Stop…. Stop calling! You need not wait for me anymore! I am here, my love, I am here!”
She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face and matting her auburn hair against her face. The blue light behind his head encircled him like a mournful halo, the background room fading away.
Then the moment passed. The flashing blue lights outside the window revealed the weapons and duffel bags on the bed. Gruff voices began to shout outside the door and the metal clinking of an end began to approach the flimsy door.
“We messed this one up! I know what I said, but I wish–I wish… I am not as strong–” she struggled with the words, her voice quivering as he reached out for her, “What if I lose you? I don’t know? But what? I love you, but what if?“
He pulled her into his embrace. It felt like home. It felt like a thousand homes and all she wanted to do was to hide in there from the horrid world and its raging waters.
“Don’t worry, it’ll all be fine, my love. We’ll eventually reach it,” he whispered, hoarsely into her ear, squeezing her tightly, “Remember, we are the immortals who swim through the river of time. One day, my love, one day we will reach the ocean and, no matter what, I want you to kn–“
Just then the door blasted inwards.
***
He opened his eyes and she was lying next to him. She was always lying next to him, in every life every time and every way.
Across millennia, they were each other’s constant.
He smiled, propped himself up on his elbows and leaned over to kiss her, softly moving her auburn hair out of her face. He froze, as the memories of the last death came back…
Pushing the darkness down, he kissed her again and whispered her immortal name into her ear. Not the name her first father had given her or any of the thousands of other names she had carried through lifetimes. No, he whispered the name that they had given each other. The name that only he alone in all the cosmos knew while he gently kissed her again and again.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. He was the first thing she saw, framed by the soft light of the moon behind him and smiling down at her with only the smallest hint of darkness from their last death hidden in the corners of his eyes.
“My love,” she sighed, smiling and reaching up to hold him, “My love, it is good to swim with you again through the river of time. May the waters be gentler this time and our ocean be near.”
***
Sometimes it was days or years, sometimes it was decades or even a century or two between reincarnations.
This time it had been an entire age and the world was now filled with lights, plastic and emptiness. Poisonous people paraded as leaders and broken people hid as society. Mankind had reached for the stars as his world failed, but he, himself, had failed and fallen back down to Earth as a broken species on a failing planet.
The two of them had woken up in the end times.
From the first dirty creatures in caves to dusty fanatics in deserts, the two of them had had a beginning and seen all the middles and all the ends thereafter. From the disintegrating Roman Empire to death descending upon Hiroshima the ages had each ended while the two of them had kept living and living.
Eventually, they knew and they had discussed it countless times across endless ages, there would be an end to the river of time.
A final End, their ocean.
Everything that had a start, must have an end. Each of them had been born separately. That had been their beginning. Across the plains of Africa across lifetimes, they had found each other–fellow immortals entwined–and, thereafter, had remained forever bound together in their eternal love.
Their beginning.
What of the end? Their End?
Much as this world would eventually end, they knew they must surely end with it too? For what would immortals in mortal bodies do without their world?
***
The blackened, burnt Earth felt the white light before it saw it. Gently, the frigid wasteland began to warm but then quicker and quicker, the light became unbearable as it swept over the dead planet engulfing and consuming it.
Only two people in old, worn bodies–with older souls–stood atop a bunker that led deep below the planet’s surface. Like cockroaches, mankind’s leftovers had survived in tunnels cut into the planet’s husk but, eventually, the End had come and the two of them were the only witnesses.
As the intense white light rushed towards them, the two old people held each other tightly; the man gently kissing the woman and whispering her immortal name into her ear, again and again…
And then the Earth was no more, and neither was mankind.
***
He opened what he thought was his eyes and she was floating next to him wreathed in cosmic light against an otherworldly backdrop. They had no bodies. It was just light.
They were the light.
Eternity stretched around them. Black and endless, terrifying and vast, filled with infinite colours and the cosmic dust of countless stars that had beginnings and then had birthed worlds with their ends.
He smiled, floating his cosmic light towards hers. He was craving to reach out and touch her, kiss her, and hold her.
But all he did was think of her immortal name and he felt her light wake up. Her soul stirred with infinite colours. He knew she was looking at him as he knew that she knew he was looking at her…
Their two incredible cosmic lights floated together and they began to swirl around each other in a blinding, ethereal dance. No words could or needed to be said. It was just pure energy. They both knew what was the beginning and what their end would be, and as their two swirling lights came together in a great cosmic kiss, a star was born.
Their star.
A star that had a beginning and would birth entire worlds with its end.
“The monsters win when you look away,” he said soothingly to her as she lay softly crying on her bed, her eyes tightly closed and her face buried in her pillow. Outside, rain steadily fell as dark grey skies stretched forever, “You cannot look away. You must be strong and stare them down,” he kept repeating as she kept crying.
He was always there but he only appeared when she needed him. He only appeared after her stepfather had left her room. She wished her mother would never go away on those business trips ever again.
Eventually, her crying subsided into mere sobbing. Her tears ran out and she lifted her face from her wet pillow.
He was still there, smiling warmly. She sometimes called him ‘Mr Razzy‘ but mostly it was ‘Razzybones‘. He was tall and thin with a great top hat and fierce, blue eyes that spoke of clear skies and beaches. Sometimes he would sing for her or fly around the room dancing across the ceiling. He was always dressed in the bright colours of a circus and he extended his hand to her.
“Come, little one,” he said, “Let’s get out of this room. Let’s go play outside and we can practice staring the monsters down, OK?”
She reached up and grabbed his delicate hand, nodding gently. She felt better already and the skies were now blue outside. The rain was gone and she would learn how to not look away.
***
The pastor was speaking but she was not listening. She held her mother’s frail hand tightly and felt her squeezing back as they lowered the casket into the ground.
“George was a loving husband and caring stepfather to Anna,” the Pastor was saying but all she could think about was the turmoil inside of her. She ached for her mother’s loss and squeezed her hand instinctually as tears came to both of their eyes, but she also kept staring at the monster’s casket as it slipped slowly into that dark hole forever.
Lower and lower, and further and further away.
“Don’t look away,” Razzybones was whispering in her ear. She could feel his fierce blue eyes sparkling as they both finally stared the old monster down, “Don’t ever look away.”
***
“What is wrong, my dear,” Anna asked, turning the light on and sitting down on her daughter’s bed, “What can mommy help with?”
Her daughter almost leaped from under the covers into her arms, and she hugged her tightly. She could hear the TV from the lounge where her husband was channel hopping the evening news and outside it was raining gently. This used to bother her but now it made her all warm inside. She squeezed her daughter tightly and repeated.
“What is wrong, little one? What can mommy help you with?”
“Mommy, it’s the monsters again. I can hear them outside when you turn the lights off. They aren’t there now,” her daughter pleaded with her, “But they are there when you turn the lights off…”
She smiled. She knew all about monsters.
“Come,” she began, picking her daughter up, “Let’s tuck you in and I will tell you a secret.”
She lay her daughter in the bed and pulled the bright, circus-coloured duvet up over her, tucking in the sides and then gently leaned down and kissed her little forehead.
“The monsters win when you look away,” she began, smiling warmly, “Next time, baby girl, you look straight at them and you do not look away. Do you think you can do that, my dear? Do you think you can stare the monsters down for Mommy?”
Her daughter nodded and flung her arms out for another hug. Anna could not help but smile, and she was sure that she could feel Razzybones smiling somewhere too with his fierce, blue eyes sparkling.
For the last time, he checked his own pack, the pack on his horse, his horse and even his armour and sword. Everything was ready but him.
“You will be just fine, my dear,” his wife cooed to him, kissing him gently on his lips, “Don’t worry about it, it will all turn out just fine and you will get the answer you have been searching for.”
He smiled at her and kissed back deeply. She tasted faintly of cherries and he knew that he would miss her the most.
He turned and patted his horse. The horse was a fine beast; large, black and excellently trained. The second finest from their stables. His wife had the finest, though he had not yet told her so. He probably never would, as the knowledge of this made him feel good and he did not want her to feel bad about it.
He checked his sword, clicked a stirrup in and swung up onto his horse. He took the reins firmly before turning back to look at her one last time.
“When I return from my quest, my love,” he said, blowing her a kiss, “I will know. I love you and will love you even more by then.”
***
The original rations had finished and the quaint, cottaged countryside had long since been left behind. He had overnighted in a couple of dirty inns in small villages and paid by coin, but, mostly, he had slept in barns and the common-rooms of farms along the way and paid poor peasants with tales of his knighthood and news from the other towns.
Eventually, these farms had run out and he had had to find soft, grassy fields to sleep in under the twinkling stars.
And then, eventually, the soft, grassy fields had run out too. The countryside had gotten wilder, the bushes thicker and the shadows darker. The nights still displayed the bejeweled-cosmos overhead but soft rustles, strange howls and even stranger, more scary sounds now penetrated the darkest hours.
He missed his wife and thoughts of her alone kept him going and got him through those nights. She would appear in his dreams, lying beside him. He would hold her as she kissed his cheek gently before awakening at first light beside his horse, his one hand absentmindedly patting her and the other around his sword-handle.
And then he left the countryside behind altogether as the land sloped upwards. At first, this slope was slow but soon he was climbing cliffs by his fingernails.
He had had to leave his horse behind. He had taken off all her straps and watched as she trotting back the way they came. He hoped she reached somewhere safe and someone took good care of her. Perhaps she would even make it back to their stables and his wife?
The thought had almost made him cry but–hours later hanging by his fingertips with certain death far below him–the feeling was expunged from his mind.
He had a quest and it was bigger than him.
***
The wind was icy and unforgiving atop the mountain. It cut through his clothing and chilled to the bone while it howled by him screaming in his ears.
In fact, he was sure he could actually hear it howling. Faintly but audibly, he was sure that he could hear the screams of things unnameable on that wind.
Perhaps it was the ice demons that haunted these peaks or even the darker things that hid in the cracks and shadows of this world? Perhaps it came from outer space as the sky at this heigh no longer held day or night, but only a purplish hue akin to twilight?
He gritted his teeth, warmed only by the thought of his wife, and plodded on and up the highest peak that held the entrance to the deepest dungeon.
***
As he descended into the gaping maw of the dungeon, the howling oblivion of the wind receded and was replaced by a cold, creeping darkness.
This ancient dungeon had been cut into the solid rock in another age before the land has broken asunder and the mountains had raised it up high. But it remained a dungeon and lay unbroken with old magic wrought into its cold iron cells that still held its original prisoners.
Most were long dead or mad with isolation but right at the bottom in the last cell there resided the Witch Queen. Cold and immortal, she alone held the answers of the past and all possible futures.
Quieter and quieter, the darkness built up around him as he inched cautiously deeper into the dungeon. The spluttering torch he held cast flickering, haunting shadows around him while its small light barely penetrated the ancient darkness held within those old tunnels.
He passed by iron door after iron door. Most held silence behind them, some rattled with howls, growls or babbling and one–which he stopped at before gritting his teeth and forcing himself forward–had a soft, beautiful singing in some ancient, sad language. The ethereal song made him think of his wife and his heart ached to hold her again and kiss her again and tell her how much he loved her!
He passed by so many ancient iron doors but not a single one was open. Whoever had built this dungeon had intended it to last as a prison for eternity.
And then, right at the bottom of the dungeon amongst the very roots of that mountain, he reached a final, twisted iron door with warped, forgotten runes covering its vast, bleak and impenetrable surface.
He paused, unsure what to do when a soft, rustling voice spoke up from the other side of it:
“Good knight, you have travelled far to asssk me a question but before you do ssso you must know what the price of the answer isss. I will answer you truthfully and in full but only if you promise me one sssingle act. At some time in the future I will asssk of you to do sssomething for me, good knight, and you will not refussse.“
The soft, rustling voice on the other side of that door fell quiet. It felt expectant while the darkness and brooding silence of that place suddenly felt like it was pressing down on him.
“I will only agree to this,” he spoke up, his voice shaking slightly but he forced out the words, “if the act that you ask of me does not breach my honour. If you agree to this, then we have a deal?”
Once again, there was silence from the other side of the iron door, but then, softly–like rustling leaves down a midnight path–the voice said a single word.
“Yessss.”
“Right,” he said, feeling more confident, “Then I want to know what my purpose in life is? If I have one single important task to perform that will garner the most good in this world, then what is it?”
There was a sound like the cold wind through a dying orchard and he realized that the voice on the other side of the iron door was laughing quietly. The hair on the back of his neck rose and he forced down the black, bitter primal fear swelling up in his stomach.
“Your purpossse, good knight,” the voice whispered almost gleefully, “isss to love your wife. She will bear you three sonsss and their descendantsss will make the world a better place.“
He felt stunned! No grand quests nor perilous charges. No dragons to slay or maidens to save. Just love the person that he already loved with all his heart!
He had left his purpose back home and his heart ached to see her again. To hold her and to kiss her cherry lips and whisper of his love in her ear.
But the voice did not stop speaking.
“Now, good knight, the sssingle task that I require from you will not break your preciousss code of honour. Right now your trusssty stead is trotting back to your old estate where your wife will find it and tend to it–at first hopefully but eventually asssuming the worst.“
“What-what do you mean?” He said, starting at the thought, a sinking feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, “What do you wish of me? What is the act that you ask of me?”
“For my payment, I wisssh of you this single act:” the voice rose, its rustling becoming gleeful and wicked, “Good knight, you are never to return home to your wife!“
***
She pulled the cloak tighter around her and suppressed a shiver. This time of year the Northern wind blew down from the far mountains, carrying its cold across the land. The leaves in their orchard were turning all shades of the sunset as the days grew shorter and the nights longer.
And there, amidst the warm hues of the orchard, her husband’s trusty steed came trotting back onto their property.
Her heart rose at the sight, and then fell as she was struck by the realization that her husband was not on the horse. Choking back a tear, she rushed out to the beast–
At that moment, a great gust of the Northern wind blew through the orchard. Its icy touch sent the leaves rustling incessantly and–she could swear–it sounded almost like someone was quietly laughing at her.
This is not a tale of doom or despair, nor is it one of pain and misery. Much like life, this tale doesindeed have despair and misery along the way, but those aspects do not define it. Likewise, this tale also has much pain and a creeping doom. But–as with despair and misery–these traits do not define this tale.
No, this is a tale of hope.
For, in the beginning, the Earth dreamt of infinite futures and birthed infinite forms in hope that one would succeed.
These countless forms swam through its depths in frigid, dark oceans, they crawled across its surface from barren deserts to humid jungles and they soared through its skies both high and low.
Not all of these forms survived.
Like dreams amidst slumber, morning eventually breaks and the dream fades. Some weaker forms fragment to return to creation and be recycled into other, new and different forms. These micro-tragedies are little more than raindrops falling from the skies to nourish the ground. And, as with raindrops, their cycle will eventually take them back up into the misty, cloudy skies.
Other forms reached their crescendo and found peace there. They were beautiful and in balance with themselves and the Earth. These survived across the eons in their own, unique perfection. From the crocodile to the cockroach, from the shark to the great trees themselves, they ceased shifting form. This is neither good nor bad, it merely is.
And then one particular form shifted dramatically as it dreamt its own dreams. Man’s own form rose upwards as his thoughts lifted above and beyond his myopic life to that of infinity.
Man dreamt and the wilderness receded. Man dreamt and cold concrete poured where fields of grass and savannas had once lain, rigid steel penetrated the Earth where great trees had once taken root and other forms–oh, so many others!–fell to Earth as raindrops to nourish the land of man.
What was once light was now dark, and the growing form of man steadily spread over the Earth. Every dream has a risk of becoming a nightmare. Once strong and vibrant, the planet now appeared weak and fragile.
But nothing lasts forever, not even the form of man.
As the food and fuel ran out and the water dried up, terrible plagues and famines hit. War and terror fell from the cluttered heavens as man killed man…
And in less than a cosmic second, man’s creeping form was no more.
Much had been lost but the Earth kept on spinning through its cosmic slumber and its dreams turned once more to that of forms.
A few of the forms that had lasted the eons still survived, and the greatest of these were the trees.
As fallout mingled with dreams, forms twisted and needs evolved. Water was scarce as fleeting rays of light flittered between dust clouds and ever-shifting fallout…
And, eventually, born out of these needs those few great surviving trees dreamt of walking.
Root pulled from ground, bark pushed against rock and branches rustled as they tried to balance. Slowly at first but then faster and faster, the trees of another age became the trees of this age.
Far overhead, an ageless, endless cosmos spun as the Earth floated through its starry embrace. And far below it, the trees began to hue out a place for themselves from the hollow remains of man’s dust.
Trees dreamt and the dusty wasteland receded. Trees dreamt and fields of grass and savannas sprung up where cold, crumbling concrete and rusty steel had once stood tall. Trees dreamt and great roots of living, lush cities buried deep into the Earth where vast megalopolis had once swallowed the planet.
The skies cleared and rain fell from the heavens above, nourishing the land.
But it was no longer the land of man.
No, this was the land of trees and, thus, began the age of leaves.
“Michael, can I have my pen back?” the lady politely asked, her hand outstretched. Her pointed, polished nails blood-red against her pale skin.
The room paused. The air-con was cool in here and, if you really listened, you could hear it breathing through the hidden ceiling fans like some ethereal vent from another, cooler dimension. A darker, less human dimension. Outside a car hooted and inside there was crypt-like silence.
“Sure, sure,” Michael said, sighing, “I think we are done here. Anything else I need to sign?”
The lady’s lips lifted upwards and she flashed her teeth in the poor semblance of a smile. It was more like what the prey of a vampire might see in the last moments of its life. The air-con quietly breathed more chill into the crypt-like chamber and he held his breath, knowing full well what was coming next.
“No, Michael. Nothing else. The divorce is now full and final. Congratulations.”
***
“Buddy, I think you’ve had enough,” the gruff, grizzled barman grunted at him and waved him away.
Michael shook his head. The bar’s eerie light was spinning as he tried to place himself again. It was under a bridge and damp here. Or humid? A fan was whirling above like some torture device while the sulfur from the filthy toilets lingered in his nostrils.
All he wanted was the whiskey on the back shelf but there was a troll between him and it.
He flashed another note and the barman shrugged, grabbed the bottle and poured him another drink. His stubby, grubby fingers clinging to the bottle like it was too small and otherworldly for him to understand. The sulfur in the air was overwhelming, perhaps it was coming from the troll?
“Sure, OK, buddy, but this is your last one and then I’m gonna call you a cab and you’re gonna go home to your wife.”
Michael snorted at this and then giggled at snorting.
He had forgotten to take off the ring. Her ring. In all of this nightmare, he had not looked down at his hands and taken off the damn ring.
He pulled it off, clattering against his bony finger, and offered it to the barman who shook his head. He turned away and stomped to the other side of the bar where a couple witches were cackling and loudly drinking.
“Of course,” he mumbled to himself, “Trolls don’t like silver. No silver. Not gooooo–”
And that was the last thing he remembered that night under the bridge in the troll’s dingy bar.
***
“…must’ve snuck in last night with his old keys…trying to make a statement? Or was it anger? Probably both. All I know, is…” the voice drifted in and out of Michael’s consciousness, “…you know how it was when you were young too?”
The speaker paused and Michael turned to the voice. Light immediatelyflooded into his skull and the world rushed in!
He sat up promptly and groaned.
“Hey, Michael, you up? About time,” said the speaker behind him and he turned to see Death; an overbearing skull towering in endless black robes and surveying his room. His mom was lurking in the back, shaking her head as mom’s do when their children are in distress.
“I’m dead, aren’t I?” he mumbled, trying to rise.
Death laughed like a thousand graves moaning, “Yes, my boy, you are dead. Have you learned your lesson?”
Michael sighed and nodded his head.
Death sat down on his bed, his bones creaking like a thousand crypt door at midnight, “We are not like everyone else. They don’t always accept us amidst them. If it helps, I can tell you when she dies?”
“Dear, don’t do that! That won’t solve anything,” Michael’s mom and Death’s wife piped up, her Valkyrie accent strong as ever, “Just let the boy be. At least, he can’t feel the hangover. Probably drank the mortals out of alcohol.”
And it was true. Michael felt fine. A normal mortal would have been dead but, then again, Michael already was.
“It was all just so-so-so…” he struggled to find the word, “Disappointing. It was just disappointing, Dad.”
Death smiled but, then again, skulls only ever do that. Michael smiled back, his skulls taking after his father’s. They looked sadly at each other, unchanging immortals in an ever-changing world.
“There will be other mortals, other times and other chances at love,” Death said, patting his son’s leg, which sounded like a thousand skeletons dancing, “I waited a long time to find your mother but I did find her and we are very, very happy now. And, look, your mother gave me you, so you see, things do have a way of working out.”
Michael nodded and rose from his bed, or, at least, tried to. He topoled onto the floor quite confused. The bottom of his leg was simply not there!
“Don’t worry, my love,” his mother cooed, retrieving his fibula from where it lay atop a smashed, torn up framed-picture of his ex-wife, her glowing, life-filled lips contrasting to his bleached, white skull, “Let your Dad help you pop the leg back on and then come down for breakfast.”
Michael nodded and sighed, “Thanks, Dad. Mom. I really love both of you. You don’t mind if I crash here for a while? She also got the house…”
Death’s skull grinned, sadly, and he patted his boy. Eternity was plenty of time to learn the pain of loss. He knew that all too well. But, eternity was a long time, and his boy would get over it.
She first saw him as a fleeting shadow across the rooftops of her City. Her mark’s body crumpled quietly to the floor beside her. She hesitated ever so slightly and then she leaped lightly up the wall to chase after him, blades disappearing as quickly as they had appeared.
Their chase darted across the rooftops under the Dark Moon and its musing Stars. They whirling over the City like its rooftops were their private dance-floor. Even the cool night air seemed to play a secret music as their shadows flittered from roof to roof…
Then he stopped dead still. The music paused. The Dark Moon and the City waited as the Stars leaned ever-so-slightly forward in anticipation.
She too stopped, frozen on the edge of the roof while he turned and looked straight back at her from the other side of the roof.
Silence.
Time held its breath and, despite all the hearts she had stopped, it was her’s that skipped this beat. His dark green eyes as unreadable as his black mask, she weighed the multiple blades hidden over her lithe body.
Then he was gone. Little more than a fleeting shadow wrapped in midnight and ghosted off by a mystery.
She smiled ever-so-slightly and then the next moment the rooftop was empty. The assassins were gone and only the Dark Moon, its Stars and the City knew what had transpired that night.
***
In another life, she next saw him under the midday sun. He lithely stalked across her street, black hair blowing in the wind as his dark green eyes flashed around him.
He flicked up his hand and caught her blade as it flew straight towards his beating heart.
She was long gone as he looked around the street but only the cold blade was still there with a small message wrapped around. All that was written in the message was an address. The address where he had stopped and turned around.
He hesitated for just a moment–a smile dancing across his face–before slipping from sight into the shadows. It was not the blade but the message that found its mark beating in his breast.
The sunlight and all its creatures were oblivious to what had just happened, but the City smiled and waited for the harsh sun to tire. It always did.
Eventually, the Dark Moon joined the City overhead with its chorus of Stars. Then the assassins’ secret music started to play on the cool night air. And, for the briefest moment, two fleeting shadows met on a lonely rooftop against the night sky.
The City smiled as the Dark Moon looked down amused. All the Stars twinkled and they hummed the lover’s music.
And then they were gone, two fleeting shadows wrapped in midnight and ghosted off by a mystery.
***
Many years later, after a great storm had torn through the City and terrible clouds had smothered the Dark Moon and its Stars for weeks, an ordinary man climbed up to his house’s roof.
Under the harsh sunlight, he had clambered up his rickety ladder carrying rusty tools to fix a leak. It was honest work and he was an honest man and, thus, he had honest expectations.
He expected a hard days work under the harsh sun. He expected muck and dirt while he fixed where the storm and beating rain had torn a gash into his dwelling. He expected a lot of ordinary things as most ordinary people do.
What he found instead were two blades, still as sharp as the day the lovers had left them. Hilts crossing, they were buried deep into what he had always thought was his own roof in what he had always thought was his own city.
Stand there staring at them, he briefly glimpsed a world far from his sunlight which danced to a secret music that he would never hear. The rest of this world, though, would forever remain a fleeting shadow wrapped in midnight and ghosted off by a mystery that only the City, the Dark Moon and its Stars truly knew.
“I can still remember the stars twinkling above us in that field,” she thought, electrical impulses being captured by the chip in her brain and cast over the ultraband straight into another’s brain sitting on the far side of the cosmos, “I hope one day to lie there with you again.”
“I love you, you know?” he thought back across the chat connection, “I can’t wait to touch you in the Slow World again. One day it will be my Slow Lips touching yours. One day, we’ll again lie in that field at the center of the cosmos.”
The secure connection between their brains opened up and a skin-app allowed him to download into and reach out with the arm of a synthetic human’s body. He reached out and touched her. The synth was just a hollow body, but the two-way connection between him and it allowed him to feel what it felt and control it as it was his own. His own original body lay back across the cosmos in a state close to dreaming as its consciousness streamed across the Quick World.
He leaned into her and pressed the synth’s lips against hers. He felt the kiss, as did she, and his hand slid to the curve on the low of her back. Her eyes fluttered closed and she pulled him closer to her…
***
The activation light flickered red, as the connection between him and the synth severed. She saw its eyes grow dull and lifeless, and suddenly she was alone in her bedroom again. The temperature app in the synth had turned off once he had disconnected, and she could feel its synthetic skin growing cold.
Emotionally, she sympathized with it.
She stood up from the bed and retrieved her scattered clothing. Once she had put it all back on, she commanded a house-robot to pack the synthetic body away. It would not do to leave such things lying around, besides, they were expensive.
Her husband would be back soon, and she wanted to freshen up before then.
***
It took a second to get over the dislocation as the disconnection brought his consciousness back to his Slow Body. His eyes opened and he blinked, and then he was back in the Slow World.
He stood up from the chair he had been casting from. He grabbed a cigarette and walked out onto the balcony overlooking this planet. He lit the cigarette and contemplated the scene before him.
Three moons circled silently overhead and cast an eerie glow onto a predominantly night-world below him. Days here only occurred once every second century. Far below the lonely tower he lived in, luminous plantations of alien tree species stretched out before him. They were growing galactic fruits that would later be distilled down into rare liquors and distributed throughout the known worlds.
It was all automated–run by Artificial Intelligence–and he was the only sentient life for a couple of light years in any direction. He was there as a fail-safe if anything went wrong in the plantation AI, which it had not for close on a millennium.
He was so bored.
He finished his cigarette and flicked the butt off the balcony. He turned and strolled back inside, his Conduit browsing through news, movies, media and elicit apps in a desperate attempt to stave off boredom.
He poured himself a drink. It was from this plantation and its sweet, tingling liquid glowed slightly in the glass. Back in the central planets, this drink would be worth some people’s annual salaries, but out here and in this plantation, it was free. One of the few perks of his job.
He decided on party-casting app, leaned back in his chair and opened his Conduit’s connection to its menu.
Somewhere out there, a field beneath twinkling stars existing waiting for him and his distant lover. He missed her and her lips. Someday, when he had earned enough money to buy his way back into civilization and be with her again.
Until then, though, he was going to drink tequila and dance in a synth on one of the party planets…
***
“Appreciated, ma’am,” the suited man said, “Its productivity is up and its reality matrix remains robust. The risk with these high-end AI’s is always that they hit a terminal loop, kind of what we would call an existential crisis. Anyway, this seems to be working, so, if you are comfortable with this arrangement, we would like to continue using you. We will keep the same narrative, as well, just for continuity. Do you consent?”
She smiled and nodded. Her husband stood up, shook the man’s hand and showed him out.
When she was all alone, she leaned back in the chair and sighed. They needed the money–even her husband agreed so–and it was not actually cheating on him, nor was it prostitution. Not really.
No, it did not count when it was just an AI.
The arrangement was simple, lucrative, and she was happy to continue with it. The owners of the off-world plantation kept the AI that ran it from going mad by coding it to think that it was human. They placed the conscious portion of the AI in a high-end synth and let it wander around overseeing the plantation. They also coded it with a history and narrative. Her job was simply to play the part of the AI’s distant girlfriend and keep it entertained, thus, motivating it to keep working.
AI’s–like humans–worked better when they had a goal to strive for.
“You alright, dear?” her husband asked as he walked back in, reaching out to hug her.
She smiled and tucked her head under his.
“Yes,” she whispered, kissing him gently on the neck, “Yes, I am. It’s not real anyway. It’s just a synth with an AI, and the money will allow us to handle the debts, so, yes, I am fine, my love.”
His wings lay to the side. The act of tearing them off had hurt more than he could explain but the jagged wounds in his flesh just felt numb.
He felt numb.
Then he remembered his anger. He remembered why he was doing what he was doing. He remembered who he was doing this for.
And he smiled.
He knew exactly where he was going. He had waited for most of his torturous existence to do this, and now he was doing it. Heaven forbade such acts, but this was love and he would be damned–literally!–if he would live for eternity in fear instead of one lifetime in love.
He chose love.
***
Fred smiled at the strange man on the subway. He had such chiseled features. He looked like he had come off some divine production line. He was strangely familiar to Fred, yet Fred was also sure that they had never met. This confusion kept Fred’s gaze on him a second longer than normal. He looked up and they made eye-contact, so the man smiled, leaned in and greeted him.
“Hi,” the man said–god, he had blue eyes!–“I’m Michael.”
“Uh-uh,” Fred stumbled over the words, his heart was pounding and his palms sweaty, “Hi, I’m Fred. Uh, do I know you?”
The beautiful man smiled. He never shook his head nor nodded. Rather he reached out and grasped Fred’s hand and squeezed it. Fred’s heart skipped a beat and then he squeezed back.
The beautiful stranger smiled.
“Say, do you want to get a drink, Fred?” he asked, smiling, the light radiating out of his blue eyes, “I know a quiet little pub nearby the next station.”
Fred smiled back and nodded before he realized that he should say something back.
“Sure, sure, yes,” he said, “Say, where are you from?”
The beautiful stranger smiled. Sadness and pain flashed across his eyes before he answered.
“I’m from far away. Very far. But, that doesn’t matter. That place doesn’t approve of people like us, Fred. We were made different to the rest and shouldn’t suffer because of it.”
Fred knew exactly what the man meant. He had run away from home when he was young. He did not miss his father’s or anyone else’s beatings nor the judgment of the priests.
“Born,” Fred corrected, smiling reassuringly back at him, “Born. We weren’t made. We were born.”
“Sure,” the stranger nodded, sadly, “Sometimes it feels more like I was made by some asshole god, to be honest.”
They both laughed at this, and the train came to a stop.
“How about that drink, Fred?”
Fred smiled. It had been a long time since someone had made him feel like this and he would be damned if he was going to let the opportunity slip by him.
The Sunflower King sat on his cold throne of petals brooding. The shadows in his Court were growing long and the Sun was nearly set. Everyone was gone. They were always gone. He thought he could smell the kitchens firing and hear the clink of glasses being set out in the garden. In an age long gone, he had married a beautiful Sidhe princess under the maple and the Midsummer Sun. Her throne now sat empty next to him. But, once a year on the Midsummer night, she appeared by him again.
“My dear, how the time has flown. What have we left to do?”
He closed his eyes tight shut for a moment, but then turned and looked at the throne next to him. She–his Queen Cereus–was sitting there as beautiful as the day he had married her. Suddenly the Court was full of people, bustle, sound and light again.
“Yes, my love, the time has flown. We have the banquet to attend.”
The real curse was not that she was taken from him nor that she reappeared once a year making it impossible for him to let go of her. No, the real curse was that if he told her about the curse, she would never come back. The fragile spell that brought her back to his Court once a year would shatter and the darkness that had cursed her would take her forever. And he would be forever alone sitting in his empty throne.
“Banquet? I do not recall a banquet, my dear?” Queen Cereus asked frowning. She shivered involuntarily but did not seem to notice.
The Sunflower King smiled and reached out and squeezed her hand–it had been a year since he had touched her! “It is a surprise, my love, a surprise just for you.” It always was.
***
“What a beautiful Sunrise, my dear,” Queen Cereus said, her head nestled in the Sunflower King’s shoulder. They were sitting atop the highest spire’s peak overlooking the grand entrance of the Sun. The blood red sky was breaking into other colours as a golden fire began to touch the horizon.
“Yes, my love, what a beautiful night,” the Sunflower King breathed, his arms suddenly empty.
He was alone at the peak of the highest spire in his castle overlooking his Kingdom. Queen Cereus was gone and would be gone for another year. His Court would be empty again.
He let his arm drop to his side and he sat in silence and watched as the ball of glowing fire burnt the start of the next year into the sky. It would be a long, lonely year again.
***
The Sunflower King could not remember how long this had gone on for, but over the years he began a conversation. Each annual appearance of his Queen when his Court was full and they held a banquet, he would try to get her to remember.
He could not tell her that she was cursed. He remembered the witches curse clearly. But, he could get her to remember this for herself.
“Do you remember where you were yesterday?” he would inquire between mouthfuls of nectar wine while the Court musicians played.
“Oh, my dear, I-I was here with you,” the Queen would reply, each time elaborating just a little more as something inside her began to get dislodged, “Didn’t we have a banquet too? We have too many banquets, my dear, we should do something else in the evening, don’t you think?”
Each year each time, he got just a little more of an answer from her. But then, the Sun rose, she left and the Court, draped in shadows and loneliness, was empty for another year. He would spend his time waiting, watching the sunrises and sunsets on his own again while planning how to get her to remember. Nothing else existed.
***
“Do you remember where you were yesterday?” he asked, holding her hand tightly as they both sipped their nectar wine. The Court was full and the musicians were playing a particularly soft, dreamy piece of music.
“Oh, my dear, I was here with you,” the Queen answered, yet more convincingly, and then she turned her head and looked directly at him, “No… No, you weren’t, my dear. Where were you yesterday?”
This was a new line of conversation. He had never gone down this road before. Gazing at him with her beautiful eyes wide open, she involuntarily shivered again.
“My love, I was right here sitting on my throne and waiting for you in our Court,” he said slowly and deliberately.
“No, my dear, you weren’t. I was in the Court and talking to the Elders. They were saying–” the Queen tilted her head to the side like she was trying really hard to remember and her eyes moistened, “They were saying that I should consider remarrying because you were gone and not coming back. I don’t want to remarry, my dear, I love you. I love you so much.”
The Sunflower King was confused. This was not what he had expected. The curse had obviously confused her.
“But, my love, I am not gone. You–you are–” he paused, he could not bring himself to say it or risk breaking the enchantment, “I sit all year long in the empty Court and I only get to see you once on the midsummer night’s full moon.”
The Queen’s face wrinkled in confusion. Or was it sorrow? Her eyes were wet and the Sunflower King suddenly had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“But, my dear, it is not midsummer night’s full moon tonight,” she pointed up and suddenly the Sunflower King saw it, “it is All-Hallow’s Eve on Samhain. You are the Sun while I am the Moon. You are the Day while I am the Night. And, you can speak with the living while I can speak with the dead on such a magical night like this…”
The Queen let her voice trail out. She was looking intently at him and, in fact, the whole Court had grown quiet. Even the musicians had stopped and everyone was looking at the Sunflower King. Slowly he began to remember and realise.
He remembered how beautiful his Queen was on the day of their wedding. But he also remembered how the wicked witch had appeared in their midst and he had struck out with his blade to defend his love.
Then he realised why his Court was always so empty. Why his Court was always in shadows and his sunrises and sunsets were always alone.
“I-I am dead,” the Sunflower King breathed, suddenly hearing the echoey sound of his voice from the grave.
“Yes, my love,” Queen Cereus said, looking at the pale apparition of her former husband before her, its light flickered and she saw its face contort in pain, a tear rolled down her cheek, “Yes, my love, you died defending me, but you need to move on and go to the Summerlands. I will find you there. My love will guide me.”
For the last time, the Sunflower King looked at his Queen Cereus. A single ghostly tear ran down his face and disappeared. He began to speak, but his image was fading fast and all the Queen heard through her own tears was:
As evening fell in the quiet town of Blackpool Bay, a strange man walked into the General Store. No one had seen him arrive, but no one had been specifically looking. This was all a bit unusual, as few people travelled this far along the coast and outsiders stuck out in town.
The stranger was tall, thin and quite hairless with immensely pale skin. His long black trenchcoat covered him like a second skin while square, functional dark-glasses hid his eyes. His smile was cold when he enquired of the location of Callum Road from the young boy working the desk in the store.
Callum Road ran through the old industrial edge of town and there was only one residential house on it. While other buildings dotted the road, most of them were empty warehouses from an age before the railroad had been diverted inland. Many years ago, an old mayor had tried to rejuvenate the place with a small park in one of the open plots along Callum Road, but that mayor was long gone and no one except the Old Man now used that overgrown park.
The Stranger nodded his thanks to the young boy, turned, and left the store without another word. The boy swallowed and wondered why his heart was beating so fast. And, in Callum Road, the Old Man stepped from his small house, walking stick in hand and began tottering down his walkway to the small park and the even smaller bench that lay down Callum Road.
Even the locals of Blackpool Bay knew little about the Old Man. He had moved to Blackpool Bay many years ago but kept to himself. He would buy odds and ends from the General Store and occasionally ask people awkward questions, but Callum Road was removed from the rest of town and no one ever visited him.
Sometimes, a local passerby would see the Old Man sitting on the bench at the park down Callum Road. He would be just sitting there staring at the night sky. This far from the lights of cities and civilisation, the stars came out in all their glory encrusting the cosmos in twinkling splendour as this small, spinning, insignificant planet spun its way through the Milky Way. The night skies just outside of Blackpool Bay were incredible and they were not the strangest thing to be sitting and looking at.
This was such an evening with the cosmic display twinkling in all its infinite beauty. And, so, the Old Man sat on his bench quietly looking upwards at the stars.
“Why is there moisture on your face? Is your body leaking?”
The Stranger was standing behind the Old Man. There had been no noise of his approach. He stepped forward and took a seat next to the Old Man on the bench. The Old Man never so much as glanced at him, his gaze directed squarely at the stars in the night sky.
“Human’s call it ‘tears’. It is the physical manifestation of ‘sorrow’. If you live long enough amongst them, you start to pick up some of their traits,’ the Old Man began talking slowly, but then started picking up pace like he had wanted to say these things for a very long time, “I have a theory that I actually had those emotionally traits all along, but I was unaware of them. I think we are all unaware of them. Sure, we can travel further and faster than humans and we have better technology, but humans are far more emotionally evolved than we are and we can learn great things from them about this hidden knowledge.”
The Stranger takes off his dark-glasses and holds them in his lap where he neatly folded his hands. He glances at the Old Man–who has not moved his gaze from the stars above–and then turns and looks to the night sky.
“We sent you down in a pair–” the Stranger starts talking, but the Old Man turns and looks straight at him, abruptly interrupting him with a dry chuckle.
“You always send us down in pairs. Always in pairs,” the Old Man leans forward and wipes away a tear from his eyes before continuing, “My other half is gone. My partner’s cosmic light expired when one of the human’s mechanical mobile devices, a Mercedes Benz, driven by an intoxicated driver skipped a red light and hit her crossing a road. This was thirteen years ago. Human’s call it ‘passing away’. She passed away thirteen years ago.”
The Stranger’s face was impenetrable, but his gaze turned from the stars above to the Old Man next to him. The Old Man now had tears openly slipping down his face.
“She passed away in my arms, and thirteen years have passed since then. This body you gave me has aged and it is starting to expire, but all I want is my partner back,” the Old Man wipes his eyes and sighs deeply, before turning back to look at the stars twinkling far above, “Many humans believe that there is life after death, and I do hope so. Even though her body is gone, her cosmic light could still have been captured by one us out there, surely? I keep searching for her somewhere out there in one of our galaxies, or some hidden part of the cosmos that we will yet discover…”
The Old Man’s voice fades and he drops his gaze to the ground. The Stranger is still looking at him.
“I do not understand,” the Stranger shakes his head, “What are you doing? What are you talking about? Perhaps we left you on this planet too long, but I look forward to the full report.”
The Old Man turns to the Stranger and smiles.
“Of all the things I have learnt here and of all the things that humans have taught me, this is the greatest knowledge of all: what I am feeling is love, and we can all feel that too. Love is the greatest of all emotions, and I will teach our people it. Come, it is time to go. I will tell you all about it back home.”
The Stranger nods, the Old Man smiles, and then the bench is empty.
The Old Man will never be seen, nor will the Stranger. But, the next day, local talk buzzes about two particularly bright shooting stars that flew low over Blackpool Bay late that night. A few locals even swore that they saw a third shooting star up there join the passage of the other two.
The greatest battle anyone can ever face is not war nor any conflict. It is not even survival. It is also not finding love, but keeping it.
Yet we have been overcoming this war, conflict by conflict since the dawn of mankind.
It was not when the first lusty caveman lumbered over a beautiful woman. It was not during that chill night when their naked bodies entwined so hauntingly. No, it was when the Sun rose and the cold, harsh light of dawn blasted away all romantic notions that the greatest war began.
All the pickup artists, fancy suites and witty one-liners won’t save a man in this war. All the fast cars, big paychecks and accolades won’t save man from the loneliness of a scorned partner. All the big houses, blue pools and exotic cocktails won’t matter when the door closes.
These are the moments when the darkness closes in and the fire flickering in the cave seems meaningless. These are the moments when hearts break and spirits walk through the same empty abyss that many have wandered through before you. These are the moments when tenderness and care seem further from life than the warmth of the Sun in deepest winter or the touch of water from the dryest desert.
And how does man fight this battle? What weapons does he have at his disposal? What armour does he have to defend himself in this war?
My child, these are the times when you realize that you don’t exist, if it were not for your partner. My son, this are the times when your existence truly is a flickering candle in the winds of time that have blown since before even life mucked around on this dirty, little planet. My girl, these are the time when your heart hurt so much because your life is empty and devoid of the one thing that we were built to seek out.
Your other half.
We are souls flying through the vacuum of life on a spinning rock through endless, empty space and we need not the fire nor the Sun for warmth nor the touch of the cool waters on our tongues.
No, my child, we need only each other.
So do not use your head to fight this battle. Do not trust your anger or rage. Do not use your power or intellect. Definitely, do not use your hands. Do not even trust your own heart. Though your heart beats pure, it is like a beast that is frightened and cornered by the loneliness of our existence. And, like a cornered beast fighting for its survival, your heart cannot even truly be trusted here.
No, my child, this is when you trust your hurt. You trust your loneliness. Trust your longing for the other soul in this barren world.
And trust that they feel it too. Trust that they feel your isolation and neglect as sharp as you feel your loneliness. Trust that they feel your insults and injustices as much as you feel their loss.
Break open these feelings and see them in the mirror of life cast into the bodies of those around us.
Trust that they hurt as much as you do. Trust that you hurt them just as much as yourself, if not more. While anyone can survive love’s highs, trust that you must survive its lows as well. Trust that when we fall down before our soulmates, that we actually rise up to be with them.
Trust, my child, that you are not alone in love’s endless war and you only lose when you stop loving.
Across the street lay a house. In that house was a window. In that window was a girl. And that girl spent long hours looking out at the world from her window.
On the other side of the street was another house. It also had a window. In that window was a boy. He also spent long hours looking out from his window. But, he spent most of these long hours looking out from his window and into the window across the street with the girl in it.
Then one day he went and knocked on the door in the house across the street.
The girl opened it and they both smiled.
Stars were birthed and universes formed in rolling cosmic thunder that echoes great, booming heartbeats. The great tides of the world lifted and rose like great lungs sucking in life. And the boy and girl kissed under a full moon on a warm summer night.
Years later they got married. The girl, who was now a woman, gave birth to a beautiful boy and they lived as a happy family for many years. Yes, there were fights. Yes, like anyone else, occasionally there was crying. But, for the most part, that man and that woman and their little boy lived happy.
But one day the baby boy, who was now a young man, moved out and into the big wide world.
Time passed and the woman and her husband grew old.
Stars cooled down as entropy spread chill through universes that began to forget the cosmic thunder and the dimming echoes of a heartbeat. The tides of the world lifted just a little less each time that rose against the shores. The air was getting dark and quiet.
Then one day the old man passed away. And, after the funeral, after the tears, and after all the family and friends had left, the old woman sat all alone in her old house looking out from her old window.
She would spend many hours looking out from that window rubbing her old, tired hands. She would spend many hours looking out that window thinking of that little boy who so many years ago knocked on her door.
But then one day there was no one in that window in that house on that street. One day it was empty and neither filled with longing nor happiness nor sadness. One day it was just quiet, the cosmic thunder and the tides had all gone out with the old woman.
And somewhere, somehow out there, the old man heard a knock on his door. He opened it. The old woman was standing there and they both smiled.
