Young Writers Society

My screams still hang, suspended in the crisp night air like birds soaring above the meaninglessness of humanity below. Her eyes, the red, the piercing red, it runs through my mind like a storm, leaving me blank, terrified, and faint.

She is gone, but her presence still chokes the air, making unfit to breathe in. Even as the blizzard subsides and I can finally hear Vical’s ragged gasping over my own beating heart, I still feel her body pressed against mine, cold as the snow that sinks from the clouds. Her slender hands, nails digging into my shoulders, as those eyes… that cursed red.

I cough, jerking up and rubbing snow from my eyes as I search for Vical. I see her wide green eyes, just as fearful as mine must look, shining through the quickly thickening storm. She turns her head to look at me, gripping the wheels of her chair so tightly her knuckles blend in with the snow. “Did you—“She starts, then hesitates, inhaling sharply. At first I’m thinking the woman is behind me again, and I shudder. Then Vical lifts her right hand, and blood trails down her fingertips. I see her glance at her right wheel, and I crawl over to her to inspect the damage.

The right wheel is cracked, the spider web pattern marking the thousands of places where the wheel will fall apart if I so much as touch the thing. “Damn,” I grunt, shivering against the cold. I was already wearing winter clothing, and so was Vical. But we aren’t equipped for the extreme cold of nightfall, let alone the harsh gusts of wind and constant pelting of ice and snow that comes with a full-on blizzard.

I look at her face through the contrasting darkness and pure white, and see that she knows what’s happened, and what it means. “Get Joker,” she whispers so quietly, I shouldn’t hear her, but I do. She’s quivering, and it isn’t just the cold anymore. I know she’s scared of that woman. Red eyes aside, she was so obviously inhuman that it hurt my mind to think of her in that female form. It was as if she didn’t belong; the pent up energy she released, the blizzard she must have brought, the way she was in the valley before she was simply… there. Right on top of me… With the red eyes, dark hair, and menacing demeanor, I’m thinking she’s a servant of the Devil or something awful like that. I ain’t even religious, but if someone told me she was a hellhound disguised as a woman to lure innocent people in, I’d believe them without asking questions.

“I ain’t leavin’ you.” I growl, gripping her waist with my mitten-covered hands. I duck underneath her as I lift, somehow managing to get her onto my back. As if sensing I ain’t letting this one go, she wraps her arms tightly around my neck—almost tightly enough to choke me—as I grip her legs around my waist. Carrying her sort of successfully piggyback-style, I ditch the wheelchair and take a few heavy steps, my boots crunching down on the inch of snow that has accumulated in less than ten minutes. This much snow in so little time… I’ll be a snow miner before I even get to the plains if this keeps up.

I curse aloud, wishing I would have brought a horse or something. But then, even if I had brought along a mount, it would have gotten spooked by that demon. Shoot, if I could have run and known Vical would be right on my heels, I would have been gone so fast the smoke would have melted the ice spires. So it didn’t matter anyways, in the end.

We walk for a good hour before I trip. I can’t believe my lanky skin-and-bones body made it this far, and this long, to be honest. I fall right on my face, not willing to let go of Vical to catch myself, just in case she fell off and hurt herself even more. I feel the blood dripping before my nose before I smell the coppery scent and see the bright oozing liquid on the snow. We’re dealing with a good six or so inches, and I don’t care what everyone else says; snow don’t break a fall worth anything.

My face burns, and I’m pretty sure I not only just broke my nose with how much it hurts, but also got frostbite on… well, everything. If I’ve been walking hard and conjuring up inner body heat because of it, I can’t imagine how cold Vical is, seeing how she’s just clinging to my back. This thought makes me stand again, huffing as I take a few more slow steps. I can’t walk much longer…

I grit my teeth, shut my eyes, and ignore the cold as best I can. I try and find a memory that might push me along, and dredge one up from my toddler days. I don’t know why, but this time was always so fun. Joker didn’t have as much work, I wasn’t training as his apprentice then, and nothing crazy and horrible happened. Maybe I chose this particular memory because we were in the same area as Vical and I are in now.

I was running around as it snowed, about three years old or something like that. I’m ridiculously bundled up, looking everything like a fuzzy bear with my fur clothing items, each outlined with thick, durable leather on the outsides. Waddling around on an ice patch, I’m having the time of my life. Sure, I fall and crack a frozen butt cheek every now and then, but I was sliding all over that ice, and had never felt anything like it before.

Joker was looking for me so he could give me a reading lesson, but when he found me and saw what I was doing, I guess he forgot all about it. Soon he was on the ice patch with me, holding my mitten-hands as he spun me round and round. I remember laughing so hard I nearly choked. At some point, I get the great idea to get on his shoulders, and Joker—being the happy Joker he was then—broke and finally hefted me up even though he kept telling me it was a horrible idea. He skated, spun, stopped, jumped, twirled… all that fancy footwork you would expect from a master of our circus.

A piece of ice has broken a bit, though, creating a bump to the left of the ice rink we had made. He didn’t see it, and his boot caught on it… and a flying through the air I did go. I remember giggling and yipping so vividly, I could swear I’m doing it now. I reach my arms out, thinking I’ve learned to fly even as I rapidly descend. Joker is shouting my name, and I hear him scrabbling on the ice, trying to get to me before I hit the frozen ground. Then…

Someone catches me.

Suddenly, the memory is blurry, and tinted with red. I get a sickening feeling in my gut; sort of like foreboding. I struggle to finish the memory as my toddler-self giggles, looks up, and sees those bright red eyes, a soft face cupped by silken dark chocolate hair. But this face… this face is kind. Those eyes are warm as she squeezes me, a gentle smile playing on feminine lips even as worry paints her expression.

The red flashes again, as if fighting my recollection of this event. I press on, defying the pounding headache and burning eyes that come with it.

I remember looking back down at Joker, asking to go again. Relief crumples him as his shoulders slump and he pulls himself from the ice. He walks to us cautiously, like one would walk up to a deer, scared that the animal might flee. He reaches out, and I hold my arms out, wanting to be held. He takes me, and I feel her arms wrap around the both of us. So clear is the memory of their warmth as I’m sandwiched between them, it makes me shudder again and again.

“Joker,” she whispers, his arms tightening around the both of us. Her accent is a strange one; you almost can’t catch it, but her English is tainted with a strange hiccup. Almost like she can’t pronounce her ‘e’s right.

“Charm.”

I’m startled from my thoughts when I hear Vical’s voice. “What now?”

“I see the camp, and you’re wheezing as loud as I wish Lith would snore.”

I crack up at that, especially when I realize I’m choking out a bear-like noise with everything exhale. I see the camp now, too, off in the distance. Maybe two miles, maybe less; it don’t matter. We ain’t dead! “I don’t think I remember half of that walk, Vical.” I laugh sorely, fighting the freezing, numbing pain. The memory is still raw and alive in my mind, but I don’t say anything. If I mention that the woman was with the circus in my childhood, then that will lead to her near-supernatural presence in the mountains. And that… that’s terrifying. I’ll crap my pants if I think too hard on it, and I simply do not need any other discomforts in my life right now.

“You were thinking. I didn’t bother you.” She rasps, squeezing me harder. “I figured it was your way of getting over how heavy I am.”

“Eh; you ain’t that bad,” I lie, because I’m about ready to buckle like a tower of cards with the supports taking away. “It was more for the cold.”

“Mercy, Charm, you’re fourteen. I know you’re about to crumble; I feel your legs trembling.” We both let out something like a laugh, since it’s true. I’m wobbling like Christmas jelly. “I’m just… glad you did.” She sighs, shivering again. “I don’t think I could have stayed out there and returned sane. What with the storm and… you know…” She stops, and I’m thinking I’m not the only one who doesn’t want to talk about the woman.

A few more minutes and we’re at the camp. Tammy runs up to us, skis strapped to her feet and wooden poles in her hands, making her gait awkward and stiff. Lucky is right behind her in snowshoes, limping badly but still managing to pass his teacher and get to us first. Despite his injury, he takes Vical, and I collapse. Again. “Crap,” Lucky mutters, sticking out his injured leg to half-catch my shoulder, somewhat slowing my fall. I probably broke my nose for real, this time, if it wasn’t already. “Tam, will you get her to Joker’s tent? He’ll be back soon, but I’ll get Lith to chase after him just in case. Damn it, she’s a tough little…”

I don’t hear him anymore. Blissful darkness and wonderful sleep is finally taking me, and I can allow it at last. I don’t want to think about how I’m gonna get to bed, the woman, my past, or even Vical and Joker. I just want to sleep, curse it. I want to forget for now, and think about it in a week when I’ll likely be opening my eyes again.

I feel the jolt and see the flash of soaking, dripping red just before I sink into the black, and know it ain’t that simple. Not anymore. Never again.

*****

“To Life I doth give thanks; she that walks at bottom ranks,” came the soft, wavering song as she changed her voice to match the notes. I had always thought that her voice was that of an angel; that perhaps she was not all of this basic human realm, but was a minister of heaven or whatever equivalent the universe had come up with. She’d never proven herself anything other than normal, but still the question rose. She seemed too perfect for this dank, dusty cabin as dark and gloomy as a rainy night. “For she watches while we breathe; to Fate locked in his silver tower, counting, sewing every hour; pray, decide when we leave.”

I sigh, my breath rustling the threadbare fabric of her linen dress. Small hands reach up to grasp her thin shoulders; it takes me too long to realize that these are my own dirt-stained fingers that fiddle with the ribbon that binds her graying hair. Soft blue eyes glance down at me before returning their aged focus to the other body that rest at her feet. She stroked my brother’s head as it lay in her lap, each of our breaths letting loose another puff of steam.

“To Time, the humors of all the world, watching happiness and hardship as it is unfurled; ah, the threads he must weave. To the Dark, and to the Light,” Lazily, I manage some version of silent surprise that she would not omit this part, considering Dark and Light have long since been removed from the cycle—deity, ability, role and all—and are no longer considered part of it. “They bind the sun, they bind the night; let dust settle on the eve.”

I loop a brittle strand of gray-tinted blond hair around my finger, a yawn forcing my mouth open and my eyes shut. I think I was cold once, but even the chill of winter has some sense of mercy, for I have long been numb in my mother’s lap. I briefly wonder where father has gone, then recall he left to trade in the village some 3 or so years ago. Only later did we learn that there was no village; it was burned to the ground, the ashes smeared and cold, long before I was even born. Seems there were a lot of ‘long before’ statements in our lives.

“Death, she upholds the tiring dance; plenty of work to maintain the trance. What a horrid weight to swallow and seethe.” I think on this, and wonder if being a deity is as bad as all that. It can’t be much worse than forgetting you ever felt anything but sharp pangs of agony in your stomach, or to forget you even had feet and hands. A much better life, no matter the price, I would think.

My brother coughs, a sickly sound that fills with liquid as watered-down blood stains his hand. He wipes it awkwardly on his dirty shirt, so riddle with holes you’d think it an ant farm. My eyes drift behind my mother’s back to look at the glass-lined case that had once held an ant farm. Now, only rotted piles of dust mark the 49 tiny corpses within. “None shall speak to one another; non shall keep mother, sister, father, nor brother;none can keep company with any lover; high atop that sacred role on a precious throne, there lies the damnation to be forever alone.” She stops singing, and the melancholy, eerie tune slices through the dust and frozen grime as it settles grudgingly. My mother, she still believes in Life and Death, Fate and Time, and all their ilk. When I was younger, barely able to walk yet, I recall my father fighting with her over her prayers in the form of song.

Turn to God, he screamed. Turn to God, or go to Hell. Greet the new era of religion, and leave this falseness behind.

I still remember her words, so void of emotion, thought, and will.

I will disrespect no belief, but neither will I turn my back on what I’ve seen.

My brother, he used to say that there was far more sense in people who gave up everything to guide the universe, following its laws and guarding its mortal souls than one mortal man controlling everything. When he said it like that, it did make sense. Isn’t that dangerous, after all? I once asked father if God was a man with a soul. When he said yes, it was all I could do not to tell him that he had once said anything with a soul can be tainted. As long as you have thoughts, ideas, and emotions, you can never be completely pure; that was the beauty of it. But if one man controlled all of life, death, fate, and time, then would he not eventually become tainted with the power and succumb to selfish desires?

I think I told mother my thoughts. I think she told my brother. Maybe he told our father. Perhaps that’s why he left this ‘house of sinners’. I wonder what sin is, truly, to the man you left us in the mountains to die.

I sigh, and wait for mother to sing her next song. When she does not, I look up into her pale white face and touch her cheek. Those eyes, so empty and dull—like the solemn voice heard many years ago—are dead.

Someone is screaming, a sound so wretched, I’m sure they must be dying. Another to Lady Death. One less soul on my list for now.

I make the familiar motion of attempting to open my eyes, as I do every time I awaken from sleep, but find my lids had already lifted. The strangeness of having my eyes wide open but not realizing it forces me to blink several times before I try to do anything useful. It’s queer, how something so miniscule can tip your entre scale of comfort.

The scream still echoes, loud as ever, the sound ricocheting in intertwining zig-zags around the creamy marble room, slapping handing fabric and shooting down floating white feathers. Softly illuminated particles hover around the room like fireflies, catching my focus while I adjust my mind to the overwhelming streams of energy that flow through my realm. To wake up with a body and a soul is one thing; to rise with trillions of mortal souls, to be aware of uncountable Paths, to feel the rotation of millions of mortal universes as they alter their times… it is insanity, even for an enhanced, strong mind such as my own.

My throat is raw as I sit up, my mouth open, and as my hand reaches up to touch my lower lip, I realize that it is my scream, and has been ever since I woke up. The tortured wail of a time long forgotten, as it should have stayed. After my awakening with eyes already open, using my voice without knowing it jars me twice as much. Unfortunately, as the dream’s events creep back on me, I understand why I act so strangely this morning. However, I do not want to remember. I do not want to see.

I push myself from the feathery bed of white and pale blue, silken yellow sheets sliding to the floor to settle in piles. Even before my toes touch the tile, I feel the sharp, numbing cold. That trailing vine of spine-chilling ice with a tendency to crawl up your skin and burrow into the bone; nearly impossible to rid yourself of, unheard of to forget the experience.

When my skin touches the marble surface, however, it is warm. It has always been warm; why wouldn’t it be? I made it so, with what power I have. If I’m forced to give up everything, then the least I deserve is to make it so that I never have to feel the chill again. No more musty darkness, drafty shacks, splintered floors, broken windows, moldy food. I hate the cold. Hate the dark. Hate the death. I hate it like the pure hate the evil.

I wiggle my jaw testily, eyes squinting in irritation. What a horrible way to wake up; I can barely keep my mind on anything, and I’ve barely had my consciousness for a few minutes. Disoriented and agitated, I try and think of something—anything—to forget the awful dream, and find that Lord Fate is the only thing that comes to mind. The happy smile that comes with the thought of his boyish face, black hair hiding a forlorn expression etched with feminine features is… startling, to say the least. I did not think it possible for a man to be so… beautiful.

“Mistress.”

The sharp voice catches me half-way between sitting on the edge of the bed and standing upright. What results is anything but graceful. Jerking away from the bed, my feet catch on the hem of my dress as I lose my balance, eyes widening impossibly father. As I hit the floor, my shoulder cracks grotesquely against the marble tiles, and my waving legs knock over an end-table as my hands grip—and successfully tear—the feathery veil above my bed.

I am shocked by the amount of damage a single fall can create. Huffing, I glare at Anarkyn—wait, is that… yes, it is; he hasn’t any resemblance of breasts, so it must be—who stares darkly back. “What, you little son of a—“

“Death. Your thoughts.” He says quietly, offering a hand. I take it roughly, tugging as hard as I can without it being considered assault.

“I hate her. Viciously. You know that.”

“I do,” He whispers, not even wincing when his joints crackles against the weight of my body. Once upright—finally, curse it all—I brush myself off, pulling away when he tries to help. I hate his touch, and that of his twin’s… both of them are so sickeningly mechanical and emotionless, it makes me wonder if I really do want to govern as Life for all that long. “Time. Your thoughts.”

I am confused, but I comply. Best to humor the keepers of my home, I suppose. “He’s strange. Immature. Obsessed. That’s all I have to say.”

“Fate. Thoughts.”

I realize too late what he’s getting at, and blush so heatedly, I could cook an egg on my cursed cheeks. The fire of embarrassment and intrusion spreads across my face, ears, neck, and even my shoulders and chest as I look away, and Anarkyn nods in a disdainful, disappointed way.

“I think it would be better if the universe chose fresh, untainted mortal souls to run things instead of the blind, foolish jesters it keep today.” He says, mostly to himself, but the words are still out there. Strangely, they don’t hurt so much as they scare me. A servant to the universe, older than dirt, souls, and maybe even the cycle, disagrees with the system. Where does that leave me?

“Breakfast. Don’t forget about it this time.” He rasps before touching a hand to the golden vines that trail the crystalline wall. The broken fingers of gold gradually slither down to the base of the wall, moving pieces of glittering crystal around like a mosaic until an oval doorway was formed. He left through the exit, brush a hand against the vines once more as he left so that the wall closed just as the tip of his robe fluttered safely to the other side.

With a loud squeak and a grunt, I sit back on the bed. I might have the ability to alter my surroundings and watch over living mortal souls, but as much as I can alter the living, I can’t change a single thing about the twins. I’ve tried, actually. Both of them are fully sentient, despite their mechanical behavior. Even though each of them has one disability or another, both can still use the lost sense in some indirect manner. Seems pointless, really; sort of like Fate’s massive losses that aren’t so much following rules as they are breaking them. Take away your sight, then give you the ability to see in some other way. Waste of time and energy, I say.

I stand again, changing clothes with the lazy wave of a manicured hand. If I were anyone else, I would call myself spoiled; a mortal soul with no mortal motivation to keep me active. Since I’m not much of a mortal anything anymore, and I move at least a bit every day, those don’t count. But spoiled?

I touch a finger to the pale wall, catching my flawless reflection as the doorway opens. A smile creeps up on me, and I find I can no longer argue with the fact. After all, I’ve already given up everything, and I can never get it back. Why not splurge while I have the ability. I catch Anarkyn’s disapproving gesture as he enters yet another room down the towering hallways, and begin to understand what he meant. Selfish. We’re all selfish, in one way or another.

How does that make us any better than the God the mortal father left his mortal family for? Where does that leave the mortal child crowned deity, Lady of Life?

With a seizing fear, I realize I don’t know. Even worse, I find I don’t want to. I never have. I never will.