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The Angel will arise to end the unending war. But to whom will she grant victory? |
| [Introduction]
I was not born an Angel. I did not spring into existence with glory on my lips and wings at my back. I was not meant to wield the flaming sword and visit righteousness upon the wicked. God is not my father, though he is Father to us all. Instead, I was made. The fabric of reality was twisted about me, and an Angel stood where once there had been none. Duty binds my limbs, and harsh compassion fogs the air I breathe. I am as I have been created. And this has been done for protection, both for me and for you. My father is a demon. No. My father is more than a demon; he is the one whose name is never spoken, even at a whisper. He is a dark pit of hatred so vast that the flame upon my blade would go out if he blew upon it. He is the greatest servant of the Dominion, right hand of the Father of the Pit. His words give new meaning to lies, and pain is his ambrosia. This is the creature whose essence forms half of me. My mother is far more surprising. For as my father is hate, she is love. Love in all its forms, both sublime and cruel, and perhaps those best suited for private thoughts and deeds. Aphrodite lay with my father for prophesy, that I might be born. She was not the most attentive mother, but she sacrificed herself for me; she laid love over hate all at the behest of the three sisters of threaded destiny. Why, then, is the progeny of a Goddess and the Demon General at the heart of such prophesies? Why did God stretch out his hand and weave wings from the firmament and forge a sword of will all for me? Because I can save you. Provided that my father doesn't find me. And provided that I don't kill you all myself. The War between the United Faiths and the Hellish Dominion has gone on for eons, good and evil battling since time immemorial. It is only recently that humanity has even come to know of its existence, much less be a part of it. At the beginning of the war, the vast armies of gods and angels battled their enemies behind the great wall of existence, in what is known as the Astral Plane. As the war drew on and the carnage escalated, magickal humans were increasingly brought through the realms, dragged there by the psychic powers they possessed. Then—drawn into the conflict out of concern for the world's Ley Lines, which they feared would fall to the Dominion and be corrupted—Mother Earth and Father Sky themselves went to war. Their arrival heralded what many called the Apocalypse, bringing Tribulation to the land. With the arrival of the Great Lords, magick flooded into the human realm, tearing the barriers between the planes and spilling the war onto the Earth itself. This was millennia ago, and millions have died waiting for the war to end—waiting for the Angel to return and prophesy to reveal itself. Now she is returned. The year is unknown. Pangaea is all but reformed. The great cities of our time lie in shambles and technology is forgotten. Magick has reclaimed its hold on the world and most world religions have either changed with the times or died. The Gods of old hold the power. In fact, Gods and Angels all hold power and most worship them. The Dominion controls what was once the Americas, though they have made their way to Siberia and Russia, establishing a foothold there. The largest stronghold for the armies of the United Faiths is the fortress of AngloScot in what was once Great Britain, though the greater part of the world is held tentatively by the Faiths. It is at AngloScot that the barriers are thinnest, allowing for easy travel between the planes, and it is at AngloScot that Gods and Angels make their way to the human plane. Fighting is done, increasingly, on the human planes, as the Dominion is fond of killing humans. Life for the world of Gods, Angels, and Men is not without joy. It is life, after all, and it shines brightest when it is fraught and tenuous. Few humans—magickal or otherwise—live under the heel of the Dominion. Most, in fact, gather at AngloScot, though pockets are scattered throughout the Lands of the Faithful. There is laughter and love just as assuredly as fear and death; it is, after all, humanity. And it is more than simply humanity; in the years since the barriers thinned to almost nothing, Gods and Angels and Man have intermingled, creating new life and new love and new fears. And new hopes, that among them will be the leaders, the cabal, the honor guard who will herald the coming of the Angel and the end of the war. The Angel is not just an Angel; she is the manifestation of balance, the scales of power bound in a form driven by duty to serve Father Sky and Mother Earth. She is Light and Dark, Order and Chaos. Her arrival into the war signals its end and the destruction of the Dominion. The Angel wants balance and uses her song to bring it. Or so prophesy foretells. Your characters hear the AngelSong. If you are brave enough to follow it, speak now and journey with those who serve the Angel. In a post-apocalyptic world where Gods and Demons roam, only the AngelSong can end the war. Follow it and follow your destiny. Rules/Notes: 1) I know this seems complicated. It really isn't. We team up, look for the Angel, keep her out of the hands of her evil father, and fight some demons. My analogy for this is that it's like Lord of the Rings, but instead of the One Ring, it's the One Angel, and instead of destroying anything, we have to find and train the One Angel. Like the One Ring, if the Angel falls into the hands of the demons, we're basically screwed. 2) As some of you will have seen over in the forums, there are character bios already created for this campfire. Upon accepting your invitation, please send me a number between 1-100 and I will send you your character. If you absolutely feel as if you cannot write for this character, there are extras. Once everyone has been assigned, you can see which characters are left OR you may attempt to switch with a fellow writer. I want to see what we do with completely pre-built characters, not force people into a situation in which they cannot perform. 3) Please come to me with any questions. I tried to stick with particularly well-known gods and angels so no one was forced to deal with ridiculously obscure entities, and I tried to explain magickal abilities in really clear terms. Any god or angel is easily Googled if you want more in depth knowledge, but they're mostly based at the fortress and our characters will be journeying away from AngloScot, so...they won't show up except at the very beginning and the end. Our characters, the demons they fight, and eventually the Angel herself are the total focus here. 4) Normally, this is where I say remember that our characters aren't gods, but there's at least one demi-god here and a half-angel, too. That being said, it's the humanity that matters most. We're all fighting to defeat the demons, but our characters are human beings. They're flawed and sometimes mean and they don't know everything. War is all they've ever known and this prophesy they're following is, as far as they know, their salvation. 5) Follow grammar rules. Duh. I'm not going to be strict on any time limits here because I'm not anywhere else. Just keep me updated on progress and don't let it sit for a month without saying anything. Background Information for those who want it. Do not read if too much information confuses you. ▼ List of Characters. ▼ |
| Everything has a song. It is there in the reassuring creak of old leathers and the distinctive, metallic ring of a favorite sword chiming in the air. It's in the gurgling of a brook and the twirling susurrus of the wind dancing between the trees. The ley lines sing, and theirs is the song of the Earth itself, a low humming that can only be heard deep in the soul. And there are the obvious songs; the trilling of the birds and the cacophony of voices shouting, speaking, whispering, screaming, exulting, dying. This is the song of Creation; this is the song of the Father and the song of the Mother. Father had taught this lesson to Noah so long ago, she could not remember the first time she had heard it from his lips. It was the lesson all angels learned; it was the truth at the heart of them, the seed from which their strength grew. Learning to hear those songs, to understand their threads and their rhythms, and to feel your own in the symphony, was at the heart of learning how to be an angel. It was at the heart of being an angel. Every movement, every gift, every drop of strength within them came from hearing the song of Creation. Noah Elinadottir—a name thrust upon her like a curse—had heard that song within her every day for twenty years. She could pull each thread, dance with each melody and rhythm and countermelody even as she folded all of them into the symphony, exulting in the feel of God’s eternal love within her. And how could she not, when her father was Michael; he who could dance with the stars and change their pitch with a breath? The right hand of God; the leader of the Armies of the United Faiths. The single most powerful entity to walk the planes. She was the Lion’s Cub; of course she could hear the Song. But she could not call the Flame. She could not bring her sword to bear, crackling with the righteous fire of Creation. Her human blood ran like dull sludge within her; the gift of her semi-divine mother, who had given so little, and all of it unwanted. And the godblood, which shone bright but seemed only to deny Noah what she wanted so much; the gift of her grandfather Loki, whose gray-green eyes shifted in her angelic face. His idea of mischief, most like, for no gift had come from him to soothe the burden of her loss. She was incomplete. Broken. Unable to do the one thing that had been the provenance of Angelkind for so long as angels had existed. The swords had been forged—their metal made of spiritstuff and the threads of existence—to channel the fire, and hers remained cold. Noah could march onto the field of battle and banish demons with a touch (though even in this she was lacking, for couldn’t Michael flex his Will and send an army of them crashing back to their Master?), her blade flashing in the sunlight as she moved like a river through the hordes, but that sword did not glow. And no matter how often the other angels sang of her deeds, she felt a failure. Her song was wrong. A chord was missing, or was played flat. She was broken. All that remained to be seen was whether she could fix herself. Whether will power and hard work could make her worthy to be called Lion’s Cub. “You are distracted, Noah.” Alexiel’s eyes shone sapphire in the sunlight. A proper angel, whose gaze was the noontime sun and the deepest lake; whose irises didn’t shift and swirl like a storm over the ocean. An angel without the blood of god and human within him. “Though…as usual, you fight with absolute precision.” Noah shook her head to clear her thoughts. It was often like this during training, when the whole of her mind was left free to indulge in her darkest thoughts. On the battlefield, she was lost in the tide of her second sight, moving as it directed her, letting her feet fall and her sword swing where they would. She was useful in battle; at least there she had inherited the full measure of her father’s gifts. But in training, where her body could move almost without thought, Noah felt herself drift. “I apologize, Alexiel,” she replied, and her voice was resonant in the space between them, like her father’s. “My thoughts wander and I am wasting your time.” One perfect eyebrow arched, and two perfect lips pulled upward in a smile. All angels were perfect. There were varying degrees of how frightening that perfection was, but all of them were perfect nonetheless. “I would ask to where your thoughts tend, but I believe I already know. You always turn maudlin when the training isn’t challenging enough.” “Which is an indirect insult to your skills, and another thing for which I must apologize.” Noah ran a hand over her hair, feeling the braids beneath her fingers and tracing to see if they needed attending. She was not a vain woman; she did not care how she looked in order to present a beautiful picture or attract a mate. Those were frivolous concerns. It was the sense within her that she was always less than her fellows—that her features were muddy and her edges dull—that caused her to be so attentive to her appearance. She was conscious of her differences, and they made her feel inferior. Keeping her braids tight and her leathers clean helped temper those feelings. Alexiel’s smile broadened. “You are the Lion’s Cub, child. Most of us would be hard pressed to give you a challenge. If only you were just a little less like your father, it might be easier on the rest of us.” Noah colored. “I am not so much like my father, Alexiel.” “That is true.” Alexiel rolled his wrist, sending his sword in circling arcs through the air. The movement was easy, graceful; like breathing or walking. He did it without thinking; it was the angelic equivalent of standing still, or twiddling one’s thumbs. “He is not nearly so easy to make blush. Nor would he be so pretty if he did it.” The angel stopped and thought for a moment, his features screwing into a momentary wince. “Actually…it would probably be frightening.” “If it weren’t impossible. It’s the human blood that does this.” Noah waved at her face. “I don’t think Loki blushes, either.” Alexiel shrugged and sheathed his sword. “It takes a measure of shame to blush. The Tricksters have that in short supply. And the mischief gods have it least of all. But,” he paused, motioning for Noah to follow him off the training grounds. Like all of his kind, he had the almost preternatural ability to sense someone’s mood, and Noah had no interest in returning to the sword. “It would be interesting to find out how his lineage has affected you. You’ve not found anything yet?” “Just the eyes,” Noah replied, sheathing her own weapon. Now that the two planes were connected, angels did not dismiss and call upon their weapons from the Astral Realm; they simply carried them. She gestured toward her shoulders, from which no wings grew. “And that which all half-breeds share. But even that is too much so far as I’m concerned. I know the touch is light…but I wish it had either been lighter or more useful. If I could shapeshift like he can or had a silver tongue like hers…perhaps I would feel less like all they did was keep me from accessing the birthright of my father.” “The Sky Father has a plan for you. If you were meant to shift, you would.” Alexiel reached the gates of the training grounds. These were for angels only, or those with angelic blood at the very least. Like all things at AngloScot, it was a careful mix of makeshift and permanent, a hodgepodge of gathered and conjured materials. It was perhaps more cleanly constructed than others, with straight lines and formal walls, but there had always been more important things than making the serviceable pretty. It was some distance from the great fortress, which stood as the core of AngloScot and gave the settlement its name, but was at the center of the training grounds. Humans, gods, and everything in between gathered around the structure to hone martial skill, whether with weapon or magick. There were academies elsewhere, of course—there simply wasn’t the space to gather the entirety of the Faiths in one place—but AngloScot was the beating heart of the war against the Dominion. Most everyone made their way eventually. “I know.” Noah did know. She knew with the heart aching certainty that the Prophesy would come to pass. Belief in and devotion to the Father was as much a part of being an angel as the Song, as the Fire, and the Light, and the Sword. “But I wish He would reveal it to me instead of leaving me to feel so…inadequate.” “You are not inadequate, Noah.” Alexiel’s voice turned hard, edging on annoyance. He, like all the others, dismissed the notion that Noah was inferior for her differences. There were not many angels of mixed blood, and none of Michael’s lineage; to them, she was family. She was Angel. She was Host. “You have been shaped for your path, and that is a path only you can walk.” This was not spoken to make her feel better. It was matter-of-fact; a product of unshakeable, immutable faith. Had it been other, Noah would not have believed it. “Of course. You are right.” Noah smiled, her face lighting to brilliance. There was little of her mother in her features, except for the eyes. A passerby would see the mortal blood evident in her less-than-impossible features, but they would not be able to guess where that blood had come from. Her hair was golden fire, a mane of thick waves falling to her waist if she did not keep it bound, and her skin glowed in the sunlight; she could be a less awful copy of her father if not for the feminine turn of her chin. Some of her fellows had taken to asking her to do ridiculous things just because it was the closest they’d ever get to seeing Michael do them. “I must have faith. I just wish…to be more. To give more.” “You give plenty.” Alexiel reached out to clasp Noah’s shoulder. It was a friendly motion; a mark of how much time the angel had spent among humans. The equivalent of a hug or a kiss on the cheek. “I plan on returning to the God Realm. What shall you do?” “It’s Market Day. I’m going to go among the stews, I think. Father likes me to watch.” Alexiel nodded and turned to open the gate. “And to be seen, I think. Angels are not so integrated as gods. We have not…melded as well as they. I would assume Michael sees you as a bridge between all three groups.” “Yes. Father knows I like to be useful. And it’s hard to do that here, when the battles have quieted. Nothing but skirmishes for months. I’d be worried if Father weren’t so unconcerned.” Noah shrugged. “It’s hard to be worried if he isn’t.” “I’ve found that the Commander’s sense of these things is infallible. And you share that sense, if you recall, so it is not all your father’s doing.” Alexiel stood to attention and gave Noah a sharp salute, rather like the one they gave Michael, but more informal. “Well, Lion’s Cub. I bid you adieu, for I return to the fortress to make the crossing. Shall I send your father your greetings if I should see him?” “Of course! Let him know I should like to see him if he is ever able to pull himself away from his duties for a bit. It has been some time. Be well, Alexiel, in the Light of God.” Noah returned the salute and watched as Alexiel headed for the fortress before setting off to the market. AngloScot was a strange beast. Gods, humans, and angels had mingled together there for so long that there had grown a certain homogeneity of language and custom. Alexiel delighted in telling Noah the stories of the earliest years of the gathering, when the fortress had been a wild polyglot, with human tongues flying; there had been a dance of sorts at first, a series of genuflections that served to bridge the divide until a pidgin tongue had grown among the assembled masses. Gods had aided where they could, but it had ultimately been the humans themselves who conquered the rift and made of themselves a whole. But this whole was not a melting pot into which cultures went to become something new, melding and mingling until a single flavor rose up out of the ingredients; there could not be said to be a single character at AngloScot. Even after thousands of years of fighting together, dying together, surviving together—so long that tracking those years hardly seemed to matter anymore—cultural identities remained strong and intact. In fact, the war seemed to make people hold onto themselves that much harder, clutching the reminders of the past as if they were all that was left. Sometimes, they were all that was left. This mix of individual and shared selves was like the rugs made by the women of the East, dyed bright and woven together in the most dazzling of patterns. Each thread was individual, but together they made something beautiful and complete. There were hundreds of thousands of denizens at AngloScot, and thousands more at the academies in the countryside surrounding the settlement. No one was quite sure how many yet remained in the areas of contention or hidden behind carefully placed wards, but it certainly wouldn’t be enough to bring humanity back to the numbers it had boasted before the Cataclysm. The gods and the angels remembered the time well; humanity had numbered in the billions, they said, and their buildings had reached toward the heavens with mirrors for walls and unrelenting audacity. They had flown through the air in great metal birds and delved into the depths of the ocean in contraptions large enough to hold dozens within their bellies. Stories were told of the web of invisible lines—man made ley lines—that connected lands divided by oceans. Stories were told of the wars of religion, too, and the suffering inflicted in the Father’s name. With the divide between realms intact, humanity-of-old had adopted conflicting rules and built jumbled roads to the divine that brought them into eternal conflict. But then the Cataclysm had come and wiped all of that away. Between the actions of the Great Ones and the influx of demonkind, most of humanity had disappeared from the Earth; those that remained had been forced to set aside their differences if they wanted to survive. It was rather difficult, Noah surmised, to believe one religion was superior to another when the Angelic Host arrived to do battle, the gods of yore following right behind. Such fights became frivolous in the face of extinction and the destruction of Creation itself. Noah did not know what she thought of the Old World. She imagined that she would like to fly in one of their airplanes, but then…she would not have been able to exist. With the divide between the Planes still intact, Michael could not have lain with Elina, half-human daughter of Loki, and produced a creature who was angel, god, and human all in one. And though life was war, it was not always fighting. Even with the Dominion looming, with the ley lines vulnerable and the Father of the Pit ever threatening to crawl forth unto the world, there was life and love. It was not so bad. The Market was held outside the walls of the bailey, where there was enough room to spread. AngloScot itself—the tower and its surrounding courtyard—was home to very few. Most spent their time in the settlement that had grown up outside the structure, but within the boundaries of the well-walked wards protecting the entire site. Once, the fortress had been large enough for everyone; now, it served as headquarters and waystation for those entities who could travel between the planes. Those humans who could be counted among the highest ranks were given rooms there, as well as Noah and the other mixed blood angels; there were so few they barely took up a single floor. Gods and humans coupled far more readily, and these gathered in camps based on blood, affiliation, or whatever ties that bound. No one begrudged the Angelings their place in the fortress; the Host was still revered, even after the centuries that had passed. Noah guessed being the vanguard had earned them that respect. Noah could feel the eyes upon her as she picked her way amidst the crowds. She could sense the appraisal of the pickpockets, and their immediate decision to stay away; the reverence in the hawkers’ voices as they called out to her, and the relief when she walked past. Even without the sword and the grace with which she moved among the throng, Michael was writ upon her face; everyone knew who she was the second they saw her. It was hard to be anonymous when one was unique. There had been rumors upon her birth that Noah was the Angel of the Prophesy, come to bring an end to the war. Michael had smiled and told the people that, while he was sure the Father had plans for his daughter, Noah was not the Deliverer. Still, the hope stuck among many that Noah might be part of the Honor Guard; that she might hear the Song. Surely, the mingling of the three lineages in one woman must mean something; surely, Michael’s child would not simply fight and die like so many before her. It was a destiny that Noah at once treasured and feared, the first because it meant she could make a difference, and the latter because she did not feel adequate to the task. For his part, Michael had never encouraged the rumors. He’d wanted to spare his daughter that burden. Noah had thrown it over shoulders anyway. She was comforted by the fact that it being her destiny would spare someone else; someone without the certainty of the Song of Creation already playing within them. There was one tent Noah sought out every Market Day. It was always in the same place, and one needed only follow their nose to find it. “Lamb, please,” she said to the golden-eyed young woman taking orders at the front, her dark hair and face hidden beneath a bright red scarf. Khadija nodded and turned to the grill behind her, where her brother Malik was studious in his efforts not to stare. The girl was eighteen, eight years younger than Noah herself, and had only the barest of Gifts. Magick did not run in her family’s blood; they had survived only because they had lived near a ley line and were protected by the angels who’d come to defend it after the Cataclysm. It was always strange to be reminded that those same angels walked the Earth now, when generations had passed for Khadija’s family. Noah knew she would live longer than most, provided that battle didn’t kill her, but she would not live forever. Oh, how the war had changed things. Taking her kebab, Noah thanked Khadija and offered her a blessing as payment. Money meant little in this world, but magick could pay for most things. Those who did not have it could trade goods or services. An angelic blessing was small enough, but it would have gotten Noah far more than she had taken for it. As Noah walked through the market, careful to keep the juices from dripping down her chin, she felt her shoulders loosen and the tension leave her body. It was difficult for her to be relaxed; some part of her felt she must always be working, always training to make up for her deficiencies. But being here, among these people, knowing they relied on her to keep them safe, she was able to forget her feelings of inadequacy and enjoy herself. It was at the center of the market, where a stage had been built for the peoples’ entertainment, that Noah first felt the lightning shoot through her. A bolt of thunderous sound, a shaking reverberation like a great bell pounding within her veins. What followed was a feeling of being pulled, as if someone had tied a rope around her soul and now tugged at it, hoping that it—and her body—would come. It consumed her, the ringing and the pulling, dragging her into its depths until she could not have told anyone who or where she was. There was only the sound and the compulsion. As quickly as it had come, the feeling stopped. Noah blinked and realized she had crossed and exited the market in that time. That would have taken nearly an hour. Had the sound really lasted so long? Taking a deep breath, Noah tossed her kebab into the brush—something would eat it, no doubt—and headed for the fortress. It seemed that destiny had finally come calling. |
| “Hey buddy, you wanna wake up yet?” “Leave him alone, you saw it yesterday.” “He’s gotta wake up so we can keep moving. What do you think this is? The middle of the forum? We’re squatting ducks.” “Sitting ducks.” “Whatever, Cym.” There was the sound of shoving, a crash as something fell. “Sweet Morgana’s breath!” Footsteps crunched on broken glass. “You smashed the two-way.” “Poxit. By the helm of –” “Fur pithy’sake…” Conor coughed and, wheezing as he tipped his head back to take in more air, curled his finger towards the voices of his two team mates. “Givus sit.” His voice was rough. His words sticking on his tongue. “Buddy! You’re awake!” “Nice observation, Locke.” Conor almost laughed. Locke Loakwood was the antithesis of the dry, dispassionate Cymbeline. As a three they worked well, with Cym working logistics for the most part and Conor making sure Locke listened. He was surprised their camp was still standing though, with him passing out like that. “Wadther.” He rasped, fingers twitching again. “He wants water, Locke.” Trying to force a smile as Cym translated, he cracked open his eyes, winced, squeezed them back shut. He moaned. Everything felt heavy, like he’d been mown down by a juggernaut. And since he had experience in being mown down by a juggernaut, but was fairly certain no such monsters had been lurking around their target recently, he was rather curious as to what actually happened. One of Cym’s hands touched his forehead. “Headache, hm?” Conor managed a small nod. “You probably have a concussion.” Her hand disappeared and he missed its cool, soothing touch instantly. She was loosely descended from Borvo on her mother’s side, and inherited a little of his skill for healing. Combined with her natural propensity for prevarications, he chose her for his team without any of the hesitation others had shown early on in her training. She repaid him with a loyalty he sometimes wasn’t sure he deserved, though as he felt her fingers dance along his temples, he knew he would never regret it. “Gotcha water!” Locke returned with a waft of pinewood and moss. So they were still in the woods but their camp had moved. Moaning a little as the water passed his lips, Conor remembered again why he thought water was a thoroughly underrated drink. It was cold and he could taste the river it came from. Between it and the fingers gently pressing along his brow, he was beginning to feel less like he’d been trampled and more like someone had traipsed across his body, repeatedly, perhaps at a skip. “Where’s the two-way?” He asked, voice still hoarse but better and still refusing to open his eyes though his headache was fading under Cym’s care. “Uh… em..” “I know it’s broke Locke. Lemme fix it.” A pause told him that his partners were not doing as they were asked. He growled. “We need to let Trishante know where we are. “Should you be using magick? With your head?” “Give me the two-way.” He blinked his eyes open and ignored the pain as he fixed a glare on the earnest brown face peering at him. “You’ve moved us inland, so it’s not like they’ll have a last known location. We need to let them know where you’ve taken us and what by our hoods happened.” Locke pouted, heavy brows furrowing and creasing his face but turned to retrieve the pieces of the mirror they were using as a two-way communications device. They had long ago learnt not to be surprised at how he could pinpoint environmental changes, he supposed it was probably a latent gift from his father, but as the shards were gently laid across his upturned palms, he did wonder why Locke’s attention kept flicking to Cym. Lying still, he concentrated. Fixing things was not exactly his strongest suit but of all of them his talent for mundane magic was the best. He had to concentrate on the pieces, hold them in his hand and weave them back into their original shape. It was like puzzle. Only, all of the corners were wrong and none refused to fit perfectly. His mother had described fixing things as a matter of perspective, of the object’s story. In this case, he had to listen to the glass as it grumbled about crumbs of thoughts and bits of smiles and specks of dried-up tears, the dust of dreams it had caught from him and his team as they travelled. The glass shimmered slightly as it repaired. The same could not be said of the spell for the two-way. Reaching for it, he could barely feel where it used to loop around the glass. Every time he brushed against the other side of the charm it lashed out. Like trying to knot a rope back onto a dinghy caught in a riptide – chasing after it would take him further away from the here-and-now, but leaving it adrift would cut them off from TRIC and mean a less favourable party could snag onto their comms. Neither of which pleased him. “For the love of…” he grumbled and rolled his eyes at Locke, before closing his eyes. Using a little more of his magic, he shifted his perspective again until all there was were auras and magics. He swam after the two-way spell, snatching at it once, twice, before he could feel it thrumming in his hand. There was a gentle vibration of surprise down the enchantment. Tugging, he lurched back towards the physical world, to the mirror and consciousness. The spell wasn’t happy but had little choice as he wrapped it thrice around and thrice within the glass. When he opened his eyes again, he felt stronger. Cym’s hands had worked their own magic and his headache was gone. “Done?” “Yeah. Done.” He pushed the mirror away, happy with the slight bluish tinge of the glass which told him it was a working two-way. He rolled himself upwards, dislodging Cym’s hands. “Thanks Cym. Head’s good now.” He accepted the lift as she helped him to sit up a little further before moving to sit by Locke. Now propped up, he could feel a continued ache in his ribs, the throb of bruises across his left side. He could also feel their attention needling away at his skin. “Conor, do you remember what happened?” Cym’s soft tone agitated him more than anything else could. “I… there was a skirmish? Near where we’ve been tracing the rogue fey?” “Is that an answer or a question?” “… both?” Cym sighed, nodded, frowned. “There was a travelling troupe. Humans.” He ignored it as her head jerked back up and Locke bounced his knees. “They were writing songs for a party. I remember we were eating with them – told them we were pilgrims – and then I gave one of their lyre’s a go, their players a few ideas. I remember all that.” His head was beginning to ache again and his hands went to his reddish blond hair as they were wont to do when he was thinking. “Was I drinking?” “Nope. They offered a dram of Tantalus but we explained that it weren’t allowed on our pilgrimage.” “Locke, shut up.” Cym scowled. “Let him remember.” “I’m not sure I’m going to remember much more… it’s like everything goes foggy. I remember fighting?” “You don’t remember that bit? You were hilarious.” Locke leapt on it, face lighting up like a child not the full-grown professional he was. Conor laughed, “What? What did I do?” “By my hood, Locke –” “It were possibly your wittiest fight yet.” “What did I say?” “Well at one point-” Cym was on her feet, on top of Locke and ramming him against the floor “You fustilarian fool, Locke! Let him remember! He needs to remember –” “Cymbeline, stop.” Conor tried to lurch forward and gasped as something in his chest creaked. Cym was back at his side, fingers looking for what was wrong, before he could take another breath. At least his pain snagged her attention when his reprimands failed. He held up his hands, “I’m fine. Ribs.” She scowled. Whenever she screwed up her face like that, it reminded him she was actually quite pretty when she wasn’t angry with him. Her eyes were now hard, the coolest spring blue. She folded her arms. Waiting. With a sigh and a wince, he forced himself to confront the fog in his mind. There had been a ringing… like bells… right before the travellers were attached. Cym had tried to make a barrier but one of the panicking troupe barrelled into her and it collapsed. Locke span webs, as one of Mab’s chosen children, he had done everything he could to deflect attention. But these weren’t humans easily succumbing to illusions. “What were they…? They weren’t fae, were they?” Cym pursed her lips. “No,” she hesitated, “I think they were demons but…” “I don’t agree.” Locke finished. “We don’t really know what they was.” Conor’s head reeled. The potential that there were demons this close to AngloScot was worrisome. More so if they could not be readily identified. And his mind was a mess, full of a ringing song he could barely concentrate through. “Did they do something to me?” Neither answered, both sets of eyes set in uncertain faces. “I fell though. I remember falling.” “You was fighting then just stopped reacting. To anything.” Locke started, shooting Cym a glance but this time she didn’t stop him. Perhaps she could sense Conor’s impending anger at not understanding. “You was like in… like in a trance but not with any magic we could find. You about turned and started to walk away. Calm as ice.” “Whoever was there… whatever they were… they went after me. Didn’t they? I remember falling.” He remembered walking through the carnage. One of the caravans had been burning as he passed it, one of the women screaming at him to help her. “One of the demons,” Cym’s voice dropped to a murmur, though he had no trouble hearing what she said next, “cast something at you. Basically threw you up into the trees. The next thing we know, you’re hitting the ground, picking yourself up, walking. You shouldn’t have been conscious.” Bits and pieces swirled in his head. All he remembered after the whip of wind against his skin and the crunch of earth as he hit it was the song. Pulling him, tugging him along by some chain in his gut, some snare in his soul that clamped tight. Fate, he had long ago decided, was much like a strange, unpopular restaurant filled with odd little waiters who served things that were never asked for and most often disliked. And that feeling, he realised, felt a lot like Fate. Any other explanation was far to generous towards the three hags and their room full of strings. “You didn’t call this in?” “No.” “Why?” “We didn’t know what to report.” “We was trying to fend’em off, keep them things away from you. But by the helm of Moses you didn’t make it easy. They only stopped coming when you collapsed.” That must have been when the song stopped. “They just disappeared.” Conor looked at his hands, noted for the first time that his left arm was bandaged around his bicep, his fingers and wrist splinted. As a demi-god, he healed fast, but it was also harder to break him… whatever had done this had seriously wanted him dead. “I don’t know what happened exactly… But I have a theory,” he admitted. “We need to go back to AngloScot.” “I figured you’d say as much, I’ll start packing.” Cym was out of the tent before the words could settle. “Guess you’re not gonna tell us your theory?” “Not yet.” Locke nodded and scrubbed his face with hands so long and large they reminded Conor of oar blades. “I were worried. When you didn’t wake up.” Conor understood that. He could see it in the lines around Locke’s mouth, in the way Cym’s shoulders had relaxed only when she heard him giving orders again. “All in a day’s work with the TRICs, eh?” Conor grinned and nodded. But as Locke left, his looming shadow leaving him to organise himself for travel, he couldn’t help but wonder if the reason no one else had heard it, why he still felt a new contract unrolling in his soul and ready for him to sign, was because this was the first Sign. Rolling his shoulders, he looked into the two-way and steeled himself for the interrogation he would no doubt receive from Trishante. They hadn’t finished their mission, but they were coming home. They hadn’t found the rogue fey but something far darker and stranger. They needed to come home. And, if his hunch was right, he needed to speak to his father. |
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