Fainaru Circus -- Chapter Eight

I watch Vical as those dull green eyes stare emptily into the distance behind Joker as he lifts her limp body and sets her into a makeshift wheelchair. As gentlemanly as he can, he kneels and gently places his hands on her ankles, looping safety straps around both of Vical’s legs to keep her feet from sliding off. After the buckles are secure, I watch him take her hands in his and carefully move them toward the wheels. Placing her hands on each wheel and closing her fingers around the wooden, metal-lined surface, he stands back, and waits.

For a long time, she only sits. As the sun hovers straight above us and cold white bursts of steam slip from parted lips, I feel the cold of the mountains more than ever. I don’t think I’m the only one who, for at least a second, thinks that Vical has slipped back into her dreary state of nothingness, her mind sure that she is nothing more than an empty vessel that lacks a soul.

As soon as I think it, her finger twitches, so slightly that I can hardly believe anyone but Joker and I saw it—me because I know what I saw, and Joker because he sees everything. After what seems like an eternity, her hands push forward, and the chair’s wheels push the mobile seat a good foot and a half along, the wheels crunching grass and gravel as it moves. As her hands slide back into their original position along the top of the wheels, I see her blink. Then her hands push forward once more, and the chair moves a little farther. Each movement is halting and slow, as if she’s not only learning how to use the chair, but also how not to use her legs.

She’s barely moving a foot every five minutes, I swear it. I can see how much pain she is in at the loss of movement and agility, though she seems to try and hide it behind glassy eyes and expressionlessness. She wants to stand more and more with every wobbly push of the wheels; even I feel the tension that’s building up. She might look blank, but inside, I know. I don’t know how, but I know that she’s about to cry.

I feel my feet shuffle toward her, and before Joker or anyone else can stop me and tell me it’s a bad idea, I rush to her wheelchair and grab the handles. Moving her hands back into her lap, I begin to push her. Because I know where she wants to go. Like a bell inside of me that tolls a melancholy note with her every breath, I can feel her thoughts. Is this what friendship feels like, then? With someone other than the fatherly figure of Joker? To know what the other wants without their saying a single word… it’s almost terrifying.

Joker doesn’t say anything, and when someone tries to, he lifts a stern hand and all falls silent. No one follows us, no one asks—because no one can, with Joker so firm in his subtle orders—so I keep walking, listening to the wheels creak quietly with every step I take, feeling Vical’s soft curls tickle my arms as our speed picks up. We trudge out of the camp, past black and violet tents and a few ragged wagons and animal cages. I duck under a clothes line, wheel her around two horses tied to a post, and then we are free from the binds of the camp.

Grassy plains dotted with boulders and mountain goats open up before us, elk braying in the distance as they sense our oncoming presence, moving away from our ruckus. I head east, because the memory of my desired location only dredges up that. I could find it with landmarks, bless my half-useful memory, but I don’t have no sure-fire directions.

I try and follow the smoothest paths I can make out of the roughness of nature’s majestic mountains, but humans haven’t touched this land much, so ain’t easy. The wheelchair sort of bumps along, rattling on rocky bits and dragging trough tall grass. We walk for at least an hour; maybe more. We pass strangely-formed boulder formations, a massive lone pine tree, and then enter into the darkness of thickly-bound pine woods filled with pine saplings, massive trunks, sharp needles, and even sharper bushes. Seems the cold isn’t the only harsh thing in this landscape.

My feet burn with a raw prickling sensation as my heels begin to thrum with a dull ache, but it’s worth it. In the back of my mind, something is screaming at me, telling me I don’t know if Vical really wants to go there. We haven’t been in years, and even then, I wasn’t with her when she did visit. Joker took me another time, leaving everyone else behind so we had the freedom to explore a bit, my tiny boots padding across frozen grass as snow fell from the sky in pounds.

But I know she does. And if I’m wrong, then I’ll push her back to the camp and wait till I think of something else. I don’t care how long it takes; it’s been weeks since the accident, and Vical barely eats, always seems to be half-sleeping, and hasn’t made any social interaction aside from the occasional and necessary blink. It’s killing me to see her like this, suspended in a dark place of having lost something no one should lose.

As the sun begins to touch the edge of the mountain ridge, I bite my lower lip and begin to jog, because we need to make it in time. I need her to see the unbelievable beauty of this place, in hopes that it jars her from her melancholy stillness.

Towering pines with the palest white needles I’ve ever seen take over the forest green ones gradually, their bark black as pitch. As we come closer, I see that the grass is a faded, barely-there violet, and I try to remember the scientific reason Joker gave me all those years ago. Joker had said something about how this one place was the only of its kind in this world. Some logical nonsense about the ice spires that form naturally in the valley hundreds and hundreds of feet below, and how they catch the light of the sun, reforming natural illumination into color-tainted beams that attract one of the rarest bacteria on this planet. It’s too long of a name for me to even begin to pronounce, but the bacteria basically alters the colors of plant life as they feed off of certain nutrients in the soil and rocks, releasing strange and unexplained gasses into the air as they digest.

The final result is luminous patches scattering the ground as the sun sets, albino pine needles as soft as silk, glass-looking rocks that refract the light as it enters, forming hundreds of tiny rainbows that dance along glowing gold-sprinkled flowers that sway on vivid green stems. The fantasy feel to this small patch of landscape makes me shiver; I was here when I was two or three, maybe even earlier, but the memories were too blurry to give this place proper credit.

I push Vical to a clearing on the edge of a cliff, a perfect view of the ice spires in the valley complimenting the vast colors of the sky as the sun sets over the mountain ridge and we are bathed in prisms of light. We stand for ages without speaking, even as the sun falls and the moon rises, striking the landscape around us with pale white illumination. The dark blue sky is nearly black as the white of snow, pines, and moonlight contrasts with the sparkling crystals and the blackness that coats us.

After a while, Vical shifts. Her hand moves to mine, clenching it tightly. I lean forward, nuzzling her hair, pretending not to notice the tears that stream steadily down pale cheeks. The source of the water relieves me, in a way; the salty liquid has brought with it the clear, sharp green eyes and apt attention of my friend with them, and I couldn’t thank them more if they were given souls and stood before me as watery beings.

“You knew,” she rasps, and I hug her. Strangely, I think of something I could only imagine Joker saying.

“Sometimes the only cure for being lost is not to be comforted by those around you, but to witness something far greater than any of us.”

She nods slightly, leaning her head back to look at the stars. “You’re growing up.” At this, I shake my head slowly. As queer as it is, I begin to understand Joker’s mentality. I don’t know if I should thank Vical and this awful accident, or if I’m simply getting older. I’m not even sure if I like being able to think how Joker might.

“I’m not growing up; I’m reaching farther.” A lifetime of exposure to Joker has finally poisoned me, I’m thinking. I barely recognize myself now, and sort of miss the naivety I already feel slipping away. If this is getting older and wiser, then change stinks; just because I’m his apprentice don’t mean I want to talk and think like the bugger.

“Charm,” I hear Vical choke suddenly, tearing me from my grudging thoughts, and look up. She points to the valley below as soft winds push loose snow and ice particles across rocky ground. As my vision focuses on the area where Vical directs her attention, my vision wavers with blistering red. I curse aloud—or maybe I don’t; I’m already losing my senses—as the tall, elegant figure with the flowing dark hair pierces me with a crimson gaze. Even from halfway atop a mountain, I see her hand lift loosely in the valley of ice spires.

Her clothing has changed, and her hair is down, but she’s the same woman. The one in the woods, the one in the town, the one with the red that follows her like a plague. A black corset laced with vivid red ribbons holds the near-transparent folds of a black lace dress to her thin form, wave after elegant wave of silken lace falls over her legs, a bright, disgustingly red ribbon tied about her waist, trailing down to rest in the snow. Another red ribbon has been wrapped tightly around her neck, two iron angel-wings in the form of a broach pinning the fabric in place.

This has to stop. She has to stop. I’ve had enough.

I hold up a certain finger, and I know she sees the overly-vulgar gesture because I can hear her laugh drift across the ice like haunting music, echoing over rocks and pines as the sounds seep into my mind. She turns, and a red flash blinds me. Vical shouts as we are thrown back onto the frozen ground.

The sky seems to rip open, snow pouring from menacing clouds that weren’t even there moments ago. My vision wavers painfully, ugly red shredding my sight until I scream in frustration. I struggle to open my eyes even as the raw terror settles into my stomach.

Don’t. Don’t open them, I think furiously, my fear gripping my throat as ropes of terrified anticipation cinch my airways closed. Despite half of my mind protesting the action, my eyes open. Time stops for me then as her weight settles onto my chest and her dark hair falls onto my face. My dry lips part, teeth burning against the cold wind, and a crackling croak of a scream drags itself out of my throat, escalating into a blind, high-pitched wail of panic as her red eyes glare at me less than an inch from my own frightened expression. A snarl tugs at her mouth, exposing her teeth as three sharp words snap like cracking whips from her throat.

“I remember you,”

***

My fingers catch in the web of paths again, and I curse mentally when I feel the familiar mortal souls. Tracing a careful finger down the length of one silken string, a follow it until I find the source of disruption. Three paths have torn, replaced by a single encounter that I did not create.

An interaction with a deity has altered several mortal lives, rupturing the paths all the way to the end of each and every subsequent path. They will be tainted with the experience until they are returned to the cycle, and I don’t even need to replay the events from their point of view to know who disturbed their fragile lives.

With an angry shout, and jerk my hands from the web, turning on my heel as I head directly for the vertical pool. The presence of another stops me, though; I feel the figure stand, blocking my path to the vertical pool. I know it is Time, for I feel his unending interest in the situation. No doubt he took advantage of my focus and lack of most of my senses to stand there watching me for unknown lengths of time.

“What do you want?” I project, and he laughs, running a hand through his wavy white hair, stepping toward me elegantly, as if dancing a slow waltz.

I feel his entertainment, and know where this conversation will go. “What had you frustrated? Fate, exasperated with his own path writing. Never has such a thing been recorded since a previous Fate fell in love with a previous Life and tried to cover her dangerous actions.”

The directness with which he references those old—and quite gone—deities makes me shiver, because their situation seems all too similar to my own. Of course, the ending of that tragic tale was slightly different. Fate had loved Life, and Life had loved a mortal soul. That is where the similarities stop, I hope. In order to protect Life after he had grown too careless in his interactions in a mortal realm, Fate killed his mortal lover by illegally rewriting the mortal soul’s paths to where they all led to one: her refusal of Life’s love, and her death by another mortal. Grieving the loss of his lover, and not knowing Fate’s involvement, Life came to her and begged for answers. When he finally found out, he exposed her to Death and Time, and she was removed from the cycle. Even as she was erased, she spoke nothing of Life’s own sins against the laws. Later on, Life learned that Death had given Fate false information on the depth of his relationship between himself and the mortal, resulting in Fate murdering a mortal soul. Life had then, ironically, exposed Death. Unlike Fate, Death exposed Life, and both went down. The only deity who was not removed from the cycle then was Time, and he is still the same Time that stands before me.

“The cycle has flaws, is all,” I say carefully, but feel Time chuckling.

“Ah, my friend,” he sighs in a sing-song voice, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I am old, so very old, and know good stories when I see them. The tale of Fate and Life was interesting while it lasted, but even masterpieces reach their final pages and face the cold darkness of the cover as the book closes and another story is chosen. As Fate, you should be painfully aware of how quickly stories can change; how abruptly stories end and new ones begin. How heartlessly stories are replaced,”

I frown. “If you have lived so long, and know the patterns of a story as it unfolds, then why do you bother breaking the laws and coming into my domain without reason?”

“You did not threaten to expose me, and therefore, are accustomed to letting the breaking of rules slide past your knowledge knowingly.” Time hisses, and I choke on my own inhalation. But he laughs it away, reverting instantly back to his carefree self before I can really think on his words. “Besides, I am on business. I’m warning you that I am one of those readers who grow bored of dull plots and empty characters; I will keep things interesting as I please, and if a story decides to lose my interest, I will simply close it and delete everything inside of it from my mind. There is no room for useless boredom in a mind that seeks only entertainment, after all.” I feel him smile, even as he fades away, disintegrating back into his own realm.

Time has been this way since I first became Fate, and no doubt long before. He shocks me over and over again, because despite his boyish appearance—when I mentally visualize him, he literally has the form of an eleven year old child—he is incredibly intelligent, observant, and devious. Not only that, but he knows the fifth deity that neither I, Life, nor Death has seen as of yet.

I think about contacting Lady Death with the vertical pool, but the accuracy of Time’s… well, timing… was too perfect. I’ve always had a feeling that he either directly watches me or has someone else do it for him somehow, but now I’m sure of it. There’s no way it was a coincidence that he chose to stand behind me, silently entering my domain just as I discovered another of Lady Death’s blunders. My heart nearly stops when I think of how close he came to witnessing my own breaking of the laws. It’s one thing for him to overlook obvious details in pursuit of his morbid entertainment, but to look an illegal act in the face right before him? He has never done it before, and I know that I am no exception.

I turn back to my web and attempt to patch up the errors Lady Death has formed in it, adding new paths, trying to redirect them away from this singular ending that they have bunched up to. I do not look at it, for I do not want to know. Despite my ignorance of the event that seems inevitable to happen to these mortal souls, I know that no singular ending can be the final destination of every path. But with every path I form, the end gravitates toward the cursed endpoint without my say so; not only is this an impossible glitch, it is a warning. The only thing that can pull my paths toward it without my consent is a monumental event that alters the paths of mortal souls within a very large radius of its happening. Usually... usually it’s…

I swallow hard, paling as I visualize this pulsing red endpoint to so many paths, the finale to so many mortal souls. Usually, it’s the removal of a deity from the cycle. Sweet mercy… does this mean that Lady Death… will be removed?