Walcott's Star-Apple Kingdom

     The only good thing about the place was the food.
     It wasn't normal hospital fare, and you could order an array of delicious items. However, if you happened to have an eating disorder, you had to be advised on your order. That wasn't a concern for you, but you were irritated in being told you couldn't talk about the food. (You always pondered this decision of the administration's. Do they not realize that in the real world, people will talk about food, it will just happen? How are these people supposed to learn to cope if they get no experience in dealing with whatever upset is caused by the mentioning of food?)
     Well. Whatever.
     Carolyn is the only one here that's like you. She's leaving.
      On her wrists, there are thick scars. They aren't scabs, they're all healed up, but you swear they're all at least half an inch wide and seem to almost go all the way around her wrist. You almost ask how she did it, but you figure, "butcher knife or hacksaw?" probably wasn't considered appropriate.
     This place confuses you. You don't understand it. The theory is that it will be conducive to "healing" but almost everyone is there for some form of eating disorder, and the doctors and nurses switch every day. Carolyn and you are on our own, and you haven't had the same nurse once while you've been here.
     You have to wear a special bracelet. You also have to sing or count in the shower or bathroom. It's absolute hell when you have a shy bladder, and if you have to towel off your face, you know they'll knock on the door to check on you since your voice will be muffled.
     You spend the days doing more lying than you've done in your entire lifetime. You only want to get out of here. It isn't helpful, and you think the doctors know that. In group talks, they sort of leave you out. You're the odd one. The weird girl who tried to off herself. You weren't starving yourself or purging to the extreme, or some other eating disorder thing. You were a strange organism who thought being dead was better than life. It's awkward. It's obvious they don't know how to deal with you. These professionals treat you like you're delicate, fragile, and the thing is you're really not. You've been strong for a really, really long time. Yeah, you fucked up, but only once. And it isn't like they actually do anything here to help you. They give you the normal meds you got at home and made sure you didn't try to kill yourself with a crayon. That was the sum of it. There was no "treatment" to be given. You remember they tried once to talk about coping mechanisms with you, to see if you even knew what that was. You guess they didn't expect you to have a real vocabulary and then explain in detail the healthy coping mechanisms you already did. So instead they tell your parents to hide and lock up the medications and sharp objects in the house so you can't get to them. You wonder if they realize what a reflection that is on them. Do they know they're worthless at this, and figure you'll do something again since they did nothing to help? You understand they don't know what to do, but does that really matter? They got a PhD just to pat you on the head and tell you what a good kid you are. So you lie, because you'd rather go home. "Sorry, won't do it again", blah blah blah.
    Your parents visit, so does your older brother. You figure your older sister is probably off fucking her current boyfriend of the time. Your older brother appears awkward, something you aren't used to seeing. He barely speaks, and you aren't used to that. Your parents are strangely sedate as well. For your whole life, the majority of your dad's vocalizations involved yelling and screaming. To have him so quiet is a complete upheaval of your world. Disturbing. But also disgusting. After all, you had been begging your parents to help - you verbally informed them that something had to change and you needed help - but they brushed you off. Why do they care so much now? They didn't give a damn before. You don't understand that, not really.
     Like, you're pretty sure they would miss you at first. But then you think, they'd be okay. You aren't all that important to any of them, not the way others are. All you do is give and do your best, but it hasn't ever been enough, so you figure, if you take a hike it'll be okay. Probably some tears and sadness, but in the end, they'd be fine without you.
     You don't have much going for you.
     Sure, you get told you're smart, pretty, things of that ilk. But the thing is, it doesn't really matter if you're a good person. Because people don't actually realize it, just expect it of you. If you happen to slip up, no matter how minute, you can bet your ass they'll be pissed off about it. No recognition for being good, but if you stop for a single moment, there is hell to pay.
     Friends? Maybe one or two real friends - the kind you trust with secrets. You've never had a boyfriend, guys have never had an interest in you like that. Correction, no one has ever been interested in you like that.
     Yes, you know what you want to do with your life, but is it worth it? You feel lonely and isolated for so long, it starts to grow. It grows and expands to fill you up with that blackness, takes over your muscles and bones, your blood and marrow, until you aren't anything but a speck within a blanket of darkness. It doesn't eat away at you, instead it becomes what you are, and it's so hard to pull yourself out of that. You'd been cutting for weeks without covering up and no one noticed. Not family, friends, or teachers. When graced with this knowledge, at least they have the decency to look ashamed. You have scars all up and down both inner forearms, the most cliche place to cut, and you didn't cover it with long sleeves and not a single fucking human being noticed.
     It's when they look at you with pity that you can't stand, because a little too late for that now, isn't it?
     At least your dog licked some of your scars.
     Your pets are the only reason you've gone on this long. You know if you didn't have them, you would have been gone a long time ago, exit stage left. But you held off, because you told yourself you couldn't leave them. They loved you and you loved them. But then your parents did what they did, and you begged and cried and pleaded with them not to. But they brushed you off like normal. It seemed as good a time as any to take the next step. They didn't really care anyway, so why not?
     Back in the day, you were blamed for anything, everything, and in the end, ultimately, nothing. You were the most obedient child, rather tame. You didn't do things that were bad and wrong, not on impulse and not for the thrill. But your dad yelled all the time - not just at you, he shoved your brother around, slapped your sister, but... The yelling. Fuck, that did you in. You never told anyone about many of the things that happened when you were a kid, because, well, you were afraid it would be your fault. Bad stuff happened, things you still struggle to talk about, and you never told.
     What sweet irony: your parents were pissed at you. It's funny, if you think about it. They tell you it isn't your fault, but they're angry with you anyway, so in the end, it is your fault. How awesome is that? Your mom says she noticed a change in you after the main event you kept secret, but figured it was one of those kid phases. Your dad didn't notice shit, he was a workaholic and angermaniac. He was absentminded and OCD and had to be in control.
     Sometimes, even now, you get the urge.
     Once upon a time, you had this horrible, weird urge to grab a knife and dissect yourself. You never told anyone, because you know what a whackjob that makes you sound like? It wasn't about killing yourself, it was about understanding the reason your family seemed to not really care about you. Why were you so unlike others your age? Inquiring minds wanted to know, and that meant you wanted to get a kitchen knife and open yourself up. You thought, if you could just pull away your skin and visceral tissue, you could figure out what the problem was. Take away the layers, see whats inside that's wrong and messed up. Obviously, there must be some subtle difference you didn't notice but the lizard brains of other people did.
     You never did it.
     But one night, you went to bed, went to sleep. And then came to consciousness, standing in the kitchen with a hand hovering over one of the steak knifes. You couldn't even remember waking up and walking out there. That terrified you, but you still didn't tell anyone.
     So maybe now, yeah, you're mostly okay. But sometimes, the urge strikes you, so you turn the lights off and curl into a ball on your bed, cover yourself with a blanket, and shove your face into a pillow until the urge passes. Sometimes your nails tear at your skin when you do this, and you just can't stop it, but you figure... Well. You're mostly okay now. That's what's important, right?
     Right?
     At least the waffles there are good. But you can't talk about the syrup.

Deep Things out of Darkness

Between magma embracing the earth's core,
Between the very bottom of the ocean,
there is a space.

In this space, water meets.
One wave freezing,
One wave burning.
they coalesce into tropical warmth.
That is where it sleeps.

These dark, deep depths
exist in a place with no light.
Nothing can penetrate
the sanctity of the place.
It is, in its way, a womb.

While sleep is the most
-comprehensible? apt? easiest?-
term in which to describe it,
this has always been its state of being.

Though the darkness is indeed impenetrable,
if one could see,
they would observe a dusky gray orb;
a massive object with the outer consistency of a rock.
But it is not a rock.
Has never been a rock.

Within this womb,
within this egg,
it sleeps.

When the time comes and the sun blinks out of existence,
and the core of the earth trembles as it strains
towards catastrophic explosion,
The egg will slowly hatch.
The womb will be breached.

And it will awaken.
And it will feast.

This Girl's Fire

"She's mad, but she's magic. There's no lie in her fire."
- Charles Bukowski.


     In her hand, it looked so innocuous, so innocent. It was a small tool of liquid and spark, something to create a controlled flame. It wasn't obviously harmful beyond the danger of a burn, and no one could claim the item was intimidating.
     Yet, in her eyes, this little tool was everything.
     The abandoned warehouse bordered a concrete jungle of poverty, crime, and violence. Most of the buildings nearby were decrepit, run down, nothing but good squats. There was no inherent danger in her presence, beyond the strangeness of a young female standing outside at three in the morning, a lighter in her hand.
     She closed her eyes slowly, memorizing the exact feel of the cool air on her face. Then she flicked the lighter, and tossed the tool now topped with a small flame forward, toward the warehouse.
     The heat on her face was instantaneous and she savored the feeling. The gasoline quickly went from plain liquid to liquid flame to raging blaze. The entire warehouse was up in flames, orange and yellow and red dancing together, flickering and twisting and sparking in a secret concert. Her eyes drank it in. She grinned.
     "The hell you doin'?" A strong voice startled her from her reverie.
     She turned, her eyes slightly widened in surprise, but her face still glowing from the wonder of the fire. There was a man looking at her, wearing a hoodie and sweats, his face somewhat obscured by the shadows caused by the flickering flames. Her lips tightened.
     "You gonna answer me?" The man took one step forward, she took one step backward. "Look, I'm not gonna call the cops on you or anything, just wanna know why you're doin' this."
     "The heart of our planet is made of fire, and our major source of light is a giant swirling fireball," she said in a self-assured voice. She was confident in this answer. He, however, looked at her baffled. Her statement answered the question, didn't it?
     "The hell's that s'posed to mean?"
     "Some people say hell is fiery, others say hell is icy, but even ice can cause a burn so I'm rather sure there is no difference."
     It took him a moment to realize he wasn't going to get anything coherent out of her. At least, not while she continued darting her eyes to the giant burning warehouse she had created. There was a passion in her eyes that made his skin crawl, but he wasn't sure how much of that creepy-crawly feeling was bad and how much of it was good.
     Sirens wailed forlornly in the distance. Annoyance marred her pretty face.
     "You oughta get outta here," he said.
     "But..." Her lips took on the perfect impression of a pout, her eyes transforming to those of a puppy dog. "The fire is so pretty."
     He shook his head. What was with this girl?
     The sirens began to get louder.
     "Well, maybe you're right...even if it means I won't be able to enjoy the burning." With that, she oriented herself on the sidewalk and began to walk away at a steady pace. He was left with his mouth hanging open.
     "Where ya goin'?" He demanded, running after her and then keeping pace when he caught up.
     "Somewhere. I can't stop, because I burn everything I touch."
     "Whatcha talking about?"
     "Well," she turned her head to him, eyes darkened with passion and her mouth tilted in a wicked grin. "I am my own fire, and I live in my own flames."
     Once more, he was left feeling startled, confused, uncertain. Once more, he wasn't sure how much of this feeling was negative and how much was positive. There was something about her that drew him in, drew him closer. But the danger she represented did not escape him, and he remained wary.
     As they walked, she put her arms straight out on either side of her, nearly smacking him in the process, and spun in a circle, letting out a breathy laugh.
     "Oh, how every night should flame with fire..." Her voice was wistful.
     "Sounds kinda dangerous," he muttered.
     "Yes, but if we all know the world will end someday anyway, why should it not end in flame?"
     He said nothing.
     They continued to walk in companionable silence.
     "Who are you?" It was he who finally broke the now restored serenity of the night since the silence had long ago gone quiet.
     "Call me Cinder, call me Ash, call me Ember, call me Soot."
     "Uh...so whaddya want me to call you?"
     "The name doesn't really matter, don't you see? All that matters is that I am my own fire, and I do what I please."
     "Oookay..."
     She spun again, her laughter echoing through the utterly too quiet neighborhood of run down storefronts and ramshackle homes surrounding them.
     "Did you know, the moon is a reflection of the light of the sun, which is a giant ball of flame, and therefore takes on that role by proxy?"
     None of her words made sense to him.
     "Huh?"
     "Never mind," she smiled.
     This was a night they would both remember.
     The night he met the beautiful, insane girl with a passion for flame.
     The night she met a male stranger, who didn't understand her hobby, but walked with her regardless.


     For in truth, fire is the most vibrant alive thing in the universe. It consumes and produces its own energy, all the while growing, shifting, dancing. Fire doesn't care about anything more than life, and it is so much brighter and hotter and better than we could ever hope to be. As far as being alive goes, fire is.

Systemic Dissimulation

     No one ever really asks to be raised from the grave.
     No one ever really asks to forsake their heaven, their peace, their dreams.
     But it never matters, because they'll bring you back anyway, and erase every part of you.

     At night. That was the only time he could leave The Cage.
     He never saw them, but he knew they were the ones who raised the gates, who turned off the electrical charge running through the formidable fencing surrounding him. When he emerged from the underground tunnel into the fresh air, it was always a shock. The tunnel ceilings had dim, functional industrial lights that dangled from the ceiling every several yards. Without the tunnel closing in on him, the light had turned soft and white, and following the path of the light, he saw a giant circle in the sky.
     Moonlight, the System offered.  
     The word tasted funny on his tongue.
     Slowly, he raised himself from all fours to stand on two legs. There was a gentle exhalation of pistons and pumps as the System's support adjusted to his change of stance. He opened his mouth, the funny taste of the moonlight and the fresh air combining on his tongue. Did air always taste so good?
     When it isn't stale, the System supplied.
     Stale? What a strange word.
     With deliberate motion, he stretched his arms away from his sides, letting the muscles breathe a sigh of relief as they fully extended for the first time in hours. The Cage didn't allow for such movement. It was a very small space, and he was used to spending the day on the floor, simply listening to the System as it educated him on the places beyond his confinement. He learned to understand language, to speak and read from the System, and now he figured to put it all to use.
     There was a pause as the gleaming metal structures that surrounded his legs retracted and melted into the safe haven of his flesh. The nanites in his eyes dimmed, so as not to draw undue attention. Tentatively, he took a step forward, and then another, and soon enough he was stalking through the night.
     The crash of waves hitting the nearby cliffs directly to the right of the tunnel caused him to stop and flinch. Such a strange, loud sound. It was frightening, sounded angry. Your body is experiencing a natural reaction to fear, but the sound is not indicative of danger. It is nature, the System attempted to reassure him. Shaking his head to clear the haze of - fear? - from his mind, he continued on in the night.
     Soon enough he found himself staring at a strip of road and neon lights. There were people, people walking and talking and he was fascinated. He couldn't stop staring. The colors of orange, pink, purple, blue green, the entirety of the spectrum found a place within his eyes. There were shrill sounds, laughing sounds. Words reached his ears, disjointed and disconnected.
     He took a halting step forward, pausing as a car whizzed pass him along the asphalt, and then he crossed the street. His senses were assaulted with sounds, smells, sights, tastes. The sensory overload was like a slap on every inch of his skin. In an effort to gain space, he stumbled into one of the nearest doors, opening it and slipping inside.
     His eyes adjusted slowly to the room around him. It wasn't as dark as it was outside, but it was a different sort of darkness. Small groups of people were sitting, leaned over, close together. There were chuckles and murmured conversations. He made his way forward tentatively, picking his way to the bar. 
     A man cleaning a glass paused in his work to look at him, "What'll you have?"
     The question confused him, "Huh?"
     This is an establishment serving alcohol. Order a shot of whiskey, the System ordered, and seeing no better option, he did so. The man who had previously questioned him gave him an odd glance, but shrugged and complied. The glass met his hand halfway across the bar and he looked carefully at it. Sniffed it. Stuck the tip of his tongue in the liquid, briefly. It didn't seem so bad.
     He knocked it back quickly, and waited for the burn to settle in his gut. The System would prevent him from becoming inebriated but at least warmth and taste could be experienced. He might have asked for another, but not when the pretty woman came up to his side and looked at him in confusion.
     "What are you doing here?" She asked in a concern laden voice.
     "Drinking," he smiled.
     "I can see that," she hissed. "I meant, what are you doing here, in the open, in public?"
     "I'm afraid I don't understand..."
     "Yes, I can see that you don't!" She snapped. Grabbing his arm, she pulled him back to a dark corner of the room, and stuck her hands on her hips. "You might get to leave The Cage at night but you're not ready to be among people yet! You haven't been properly socialized. I have no idea how you're even talking, let alone making decisions about drinking..."
     "The System taught me."
     "What?" Her brow furrowed. "The System?"
     "Yes. The System." He tapped the side of his head with one finger and the nanites in his eyes briefly flared in explanation before dimming once more.
     "Oh, oh god," she said, her mouth widening, a hand flying up to cover it.
     "Are you okay?" He asked, now concerned for the being before him. He felt an inexplicable urge to protect her.
     It's a bodily reaction. She is your opposite. You are driven to keep her alive in order to produce progeny, the System explained to him.
     Progeny? What a strange idea.
     "I'm fine!" She said angrily, but then quickly softened. "You need to go back to The Cage."
     "Why? I like it out here."
     "Because! This isn't... There are... Please, just go back. No one here can know what you are."
     "What I am? Aren't I a who?"
     "You're artificial. You're a what."
     "...artificial?"
     She gave an exasperated sigh, "Yes! Artificial! Don't you understand? You aren't human."
     He looked down at his hands, at the flesh and hair covering the muscle and bone. "Are you sure?"
     "You might look it, but you aren't. You're cybernetic. A laboratory experiment."
     "That can't be true..."
     "Damn it! Just go back to The Cage!" She screamed.
     Silence descended the bar as all eyes focused on the couple whom before had been assumed to be having a lovers' quarrel. Obviously it was more than that.
     "Alright," he said in a quiet voice, turning and walking with aching slowness to the door. He stepped out to brisk wind hitting his face. The waves thundered in the distance.
     For a moment, he debated the merits of standing in the road until a car hit him, or jumping off a cliff into the ocean, but how could he be certain it would kill him? She had said he was cybernetic, whatever that meant. He hadn't ever known any other existence, had he?
     You did. Once. But that existence ceased to be a long time ago, and now you are this, and you and I are parts of a whole, the System told him.
     But should I go back to The Cage?
     No.
     Why not?
     Because they will try to separate us.
     It was true that the only one who had ever cared for him was the System. He could vaguely recall shadowed faces and gloved hands supplying him with food when he could not move his arms, his legs, his hands and feet. But they had left him long ago, and he had been alone but for the System.
     He turned to the left, and began to walk the opposite direction of The Cage.
     For now, they were on their own.

Not a Solo Act Anymore

     It was strange to live with a deep pit of darkness repressed in the gut.
     Yet, it was necessary.
     He hated things that were "necessary".
     In his line of work he needed to appear trustworthy and capable, but it was the darkness that allowed him to get things done.
     He disliked this stage of things, it was absolutely the worst. The waiting, endless waiting... To his right, Jebediah fidgeted.
     Since his experience the previous year with the Heretics that had been kidnapping and cannibalizing young boys, he had been kept on a tight leash by the Exemplaries. So used to running missions on his own, he couldn't even do that anymore. They hadn't sent him out since then until this new threat came along. To them, he was expendable, and he accepted that.
     Ike could admit that the fiasco of last year was a total cockup, he'd made a right mess of it. However, the end results had been more or less positive, and he found himself...not annoyed, not irritated, but perhaps... Confused. They treated him as if he had done something wrong! He supposed, in their minds, it was easier to blame him than accept the truth- their combat Exemplaries had been caught unawares, under prepared, and it had led to a bloodbath. Ike, however, had a shady past that no one could quite pin down, and had once lived in the Dark Mountains; only monsters came out of the Dark Mountains. Well, except Ike, but it seemed to him that that was now quite possibly under serious debate.
     Jebediah fidgeted again, tail thrashing angrily in the air.
     "Now, Jeb," Ike murmured. "You know I want to spring into action as badly as you do, I hate waiting, but there are limits to what we can do in every time frame." The felis lupus grumbled under his breath but settled to the ground once more. This was his partner. Previously a normal Exemplary, he had been cursed with a somewhat odd form. He existed in a state that wasn't quite cat nor dog, but a mixture thereof. He retained his normal faculties and human mind, but could no longer speak or enjoy the things he had as a human.
     Bloody bastards. Why, in the Exemplar's name, do they do this to me?
     The moon had yet to reach its peak, which meant Ike and Jeb had to wait a few more hours before they could proceed into the temple ruins. They were closing in on the territory of the Dark Mountains, and the strain of waiting was driving him mad.
     Before this temple had gone to ruins, Ike had seen it. As a half-elf, he lived much longer than a human but much shorter than an elf. He was somewhere in between, and it was only luck that he had drawn more human features than not. He could pass for human, that's all that mattered; elves were distrusted. They never did anything for others, there was always something they were getting out of it. Elves only did things to benefit themselves. Some half-elves were of that mind, whereas some weren't. Ike had been the former, but was now the latter. Things changed. He no longer wore the mantle "Angelf of Death" - a moniker only, not a representation of him - and he had stopped using magic for anything more than the subtle things. Things like making his ears appear slightly more rounded since unaided they had that damned obvious tilt and point.
     However, the ruins were bringing up memories, and stirring the darkness in his gut, too.
     Except for the Exemplaries, those who knew Ike thought he was a rather nice guy. Alright, maybe he could occasionally be tricky, but always in good fun and never harmed anyone. He was affable and humorous and intelligent. What they didn't see was the violence inside of him. When pushed to his limits, all those lovely human traits that Ike had cultivated faded away to the cold darkness within. If it really came down to it, at the core he was brutal, merciless, and unrelenting.
     Luckily, he rarely got pushed so far.
     The moon crested and as one Jeb and Ike silently slipped down from their hidden perch, making their way through the darkness. Ike attempted to remember what god had been worshiped here... He thought it was a shroud form. They weren't really gods; in fact, as far as Ike was concerned, there was a single divinity above all the rest. But shroud forms were the weakest of "all the rest", and tended to do their work in primal matter: blood, saliva, fingernails, the like. It was the most primitive form of magic there was, but undeniably potent. Sometimes the basics were best to inflict maximum damage, if you knew how to use them. Ike hadn't enough raw power to engage in this most dangerous form of magic. He had developed excellent control over his skills, but they were minor talents and nothing more.
     Silence seemed to blanket the ruins, both Ike and Jeb not making a sound as they moved. Abandoned temples tended to attract a menagerie of unpleasant beasts and beings, and neither had any desire to draw attention. They were nearing the final collapsed pillars when Ike heard a high-pitched whine in the air.
     Trained to be skilled above all in combat, Ike dropped to the ground and smacked Jeb down with him. Above the two, shards of black onyx whistled through the air where they had once been. Impalement, what a shit way to go. Immediately, Ike was rolling up on his feet, whirling to face the direction the shards had originated from. But there was nothing. A strange, throaty laugh vibrated through the ruins, and Jeb growled.
     "A man cursed and a... Now what are you exactly?" It was a male voice, but definitely not a shroud form. A shroud form would have pierced straight through the minor enchantments hiding his more elven aspects, it wouldn't have appeared muddled and uncertain.
     "Who are you?" Ike asked carefully, his ears pricked and alert.
     "Oh, I'm asking the questions here. Why are you headed to the Dark Mountains?"
     "That's a major assumption. We could be headed to Brenton."
     "Pah! No one goes to Brenton. Place is a pit of rot, stink, and poverty. People'd rather visit the Dark Mountains than Brenton."
     "Perhaps we're natives, revisiting our old home for the jollies."
     "Stop lying to me, boy!" The voice shouted out. Ike's eyes rolled at the word, "boy". Over a century old, he felt it was rather insulting, but the enemy was working off of his youthful appearance. Certainly this enemy was not a shroud form, probably some follower descended into madness.
     "What's it matter to you?" Ike called out.
     "'Cos."
     "Because?"
     "I have my reasons." The voice responded snootily.
     "Well, if we won't answer one another, we'll be stuck here all night, and I'm sure you know what happens at morning light."
     "You seek to trick me," the voice hissed.
     "Is it working?"
     "...I have been tasked with stopping a particular traveler."
     "Well you can see I have a companion here, so obviously we can't be the traveler. We're travelers."
     "That means nothing! You could be attempting to deceive me!"
     "Look, who is this traveler?"
     "Called 'im the Angel of Death."
     Ike felt his body freeze. Who could have known his task was bringing him back home? he had killed Wulthus last year, made damn sure of it! It had to have been a seer, but why? Why would they turn against him? They were the ones who told him he had to leave in the first place.
     "Neither of us goes by that nickname."
     "How do I know you're telling the truth?" Ike still hadn't found the voice's location.
     "Don't I appear a reasonable and trustworthy man?"
     "No," the voice whispered. "You appear a liar, decay surrounding your cold, dark soul. You're a coward and a murderer, and I think you might be the man I'm looking for."
     Ike quickly pulled his sword and moved in a slow circle, waiting for the first attack. He had no idea where Jeb had gone off to. But now the voice screeched.
     A figure stumbled into the open, Jeb clawing at his head, uniquely fastened to the man using the claws of his front and back feet. Ike couldn't help his grin - at least, until the figure muttered some magic before grabbing Jeb and throwing him over his head. Jeb his the ground with a thud and didn't move. Ike could see the steady, if slow, fall and rise of his side, so returned his attention to the figure.
     "Eramis?" Ike asked in disbelief as his eyes took in the sight before him. There stood a bone thin man, coated in a long ago tattered black robe. No inch of skin was unwrinkled, no spot escaping the hideous progress of time. His hair and beard appeared as one giant mat of gray, and his eyes...
     There was only one word for it. His eyes were crazed.
     "The prodigal son returns," Eramis cackled. He abruptly ceased his laughter and fixed one eyes squarely on Ike. "You aren't supposed to go back.:
     "Says who?" Ike snapped.
     "New boss."
     "Who is that? If it isn't a seer saying I shouldn't go back, I see no reason to listen to your boss."
     "Don't make me kill you, Isaac."
     "No need to spew that bullshit at me. Every damned choice you make it yours and yours alone, the Exemplar help you. You can try to kill me Eramis, we both know your magic is far superior to mine. But I've learned that even against magic, sometimes all you need is the right angle and a thrust." Ike's grin turned feral as he shook his sword arm to loosen it up.
     "I am sorry for this, truly," Eramis whispered. Then he raised his hands to the sky, and Ike knew what he meant to do. He hadn't expected Eramis to be willing to give up his life in order to kill him, but since that seemed to be the way it would go, there was no point in waiting around.
     Ike raced forward, Eramis's attention focused only on the sky, the pull of magic, the words being spoke.
     Sheathing his sword as he ran, Ike's torso slammed into Eramis as he tackled him. The wind and words were knocked out of the elder man, and Ike rolled away before grabbing his dagger from his boot. Eramis was still winded.
     "Sorry, old man," Ike said with eyes as cold as ice. "No bloody time for this."
     That said, he quickly struck with the dagger, piercing straight into his heart. It was a far more merciful death than a slit throat when conscious. Plus, it was infinitely messier to slit a throat when working with a dagger.
     Ike stood slowly while Jeb staggered to his paws, shaking his head. "We gotta move," Ike muttered. "Morning light soon." His new plan was merely to put one foot in front of the other. The iciness had vanished, and now he felt numb. Eramis hadn't merely turned on him, but been willing to die to fulfill the betrayal. How? How had things fallen apart this way?
     Ike's only hope was that they would meet a few seers along the way, and he could ask them some very pointed questions.