

The Bounty

And

Conscious Fragments

Table of Contents

The Bounty

Light Keeper

Red Sun

Faceless

His Christmas

Holiday Blues

Different Plans

Swing

Chivalry

The Inside

Doves

Heretic

Zion

Daedalus

Break Me

Character Flaws

Peace

Clerk

Six Words

The Washup

Late Arrival

Taboo

Writer's Mountain

The Last Relic
The Bounty

The shovel rises, specks of its edge glinting in the moonlight. The man, our hero, scoops the fine dry earth into the boy's grave. Overhead the parched leaves rustle before autumn's discontent winds. Crickets chirp all about, stubborn to recede against the cold. The digging was hard, but the burial is easy. If only this body would stay covered. He wipes his brow, glances about the wood, and pitches earth like coffee grounds upon the child's still blue face. All of a sudden he becomes quite certain it was he who slew the boy, but he can't remember how. The notion passes as quickly as it came, and he pours more dirt. The innocent dead face stares up at him, repelling every bit of earth.

Gadren Amon opens his eyes slowly, with intention. Dispelling this old dream has become as routine as shaving. No longer holding the adolescent charm it once did when one could brag of it, it has become a mundane chore far beyond the haunting it once was. He shifts his weight in the rented bed, its springs lamenting his muscular frame, and he turns his attention to the barren side. His female companion, whose name now eludes him, has vanished. He wonders if this one has taken it upon herself to lighten his satchels. Sometimes they do this, seeing the mortal in him. While others ride the fantasy of his legends and carry too much fear to betray him.

Coin or no, he rises from the bed, vaguely aware that little bites plague his skin, and dresses himself.

Pants equipped and shirt left behind he ventures into the privy. He draws water from the sink (bless these machines) and combs out his beard. _Salt and pepper,_ he thinks as he applies oil to his cheeks in the mirror and rinses off a disposable razor. He can hear his mother's voice, a voice now younger than his own, drifting into his ears like a bedtime whisper. "When are you going to settle down?" She asks, "I've waited long enough for grandchildren, and your father's leaking at the seams with stories and cheap magic tricks." He goes to work on the cheeks, revealing the leather hide below. His features, once smooth and handsomely angular, have hardened into a rough cover. Gadren is tall and fit, able to snap to in any circumstance, but he wears his years like a cowl, and his age can be clearly seen in his dusky grey eyes.

"When it's safe." He washes away the excess.

It's winter now, about the time the mountain harpies descend to pillage storehouses. The northern winds drive ice up the shore, from time to time causing frost sprites to wander up toward coastal farms and freeze the simple folk in their sleep. The dragons and scalekin are thankfully hibernating, but the werewolves are always out this time of year, and in the short days one must be wary of his own shadow. For the liches and their necromancers play with the dark the way a child plays kraken with the bath water, toying with the ebb and flow with reckless disregard.

Gadren journeys up the Verain coast, responding to a letter from a prominent client. His plethora of armaments in tow upon the back of a burro. In his unnaturally long life he has only ever responded to two such employers, this one a renowned alchemist, the other a crestfallen prince. Typically his travels take him from one burdened burg to the next, for his words to his long dead mother are more than mantra; they are a promise.

The months pass, the ice thaws, and spring's green tide washes in. The continent, once again, offer him no surprises this year. On his way to the alchemist's manor he'd slain a dozen winter hounds, twice that number in harpies, a stygian troll, a black cult (that is a cadre of necromancers), and two deer for clothing and meat. The rest of the supplies he'd needed were given mostly with glad hearts from those he helped.

The name of the manor is Green Bastion. When Gadren approaches from the south on what has become a well-kept highway, he notices the turrets and iron fence about the place. It had once been a fortress. In his youth, his real youth, it had been called Fort Constant, a place where men had used machines and weapons the likes of which Gadren wishes could still be made. The concrete had all been blasted away, and these days it had a homely air to it, what with its trimmed animal hedges, flower gardens, and mild mannered servants about. There is a statue outside of a robed man holding the sun in one hand and a lightning bolt in the other. An enamel plaque is pitted into the base below, and Gadren takes a moment to read.

The stars, for our part did align

By our hands wrought wonders divine

Until God, our mortality, did He remind

And cursed this soil for all humankind

Samuel the Starbreaker

"Master Kellar hopes mankind will hold the stars again someday." A man's voice reports. "I wasn't aware the Grey Guardian was interested in the academics."

The servant's approach hadn't startled Gadren in the least. He continued getting a feel for the symbolism of the statue and replied, "I wasn't aware people still called me that, and you know I'm quite perceptive." He sighed. "We used to call these people astronomers."

"Ah, forgive me. Your appearance deceives your age, Master Amon." He bowed. A simple yet dignified man, his manner was practiced and sterling. He wore plain work clothes like those of the coastal farmers, but he looked better suited for something austere. "I am Phil Hopsis, head caretaker of Green Bastion. Master Kellar has been eager for your arrival."

The world had changed so much in so many areas, but when it came to the aristocrats and their layers of formality, Gadren decided little if anything had been lost. "Call me Gad. I may be old enough to be your grandsire, but I won't be having everyone waste their time with all those syllables. Kellar, he's in his lab, yes?"

"Yes, sir. I can take you to him if you'd like, though I'd recommend a moment of respite. I can have someone fetch you—"

"No need, friend. I was here before you were born, and it doesn't seem to have changed a wink. If you want to help me, take my packer." he hitched his thumb over his shoulder, "To the stable. Just be careful with the gear."

Gad had been hoping this excursion would prove lively, refreshing, but so far it was pacing along beaten down paths. Victor Kellar had summoned him here before to quell an infestation of imps at a nearby cave. The alchemist wanted the cave's unique moss, had said it would be pivotal in developing a serum to save sufferers of bloatface. Based on how many staff now roamed, Gad assumed the serum has been a success.

He enters a tower on the north side of the manor and begins to ascend a spiral staircase. His boots, thick leather workers, thud against each of the stone steps. The echo carries up and down either way but only a short distance, giving the effect that he's gone nowhere and is making no progress.

Gad reaches the top, an open area filled by bottle covered tables and hundreds of research notes and diagrams. A low wall goes around the circular space, and a dome shaped glass covers it, not without windows marking the circumference every couple feet. Despite having reverted to a previous title, Victor understands the importance of ventilation. A hunched over old man sits at one of the tables, his spotted hands clasped together behind his head over the last white tuft. His back is turned to Gad, and the reflection of his eyes darting back and forth can be seen off the corner of his substantial spectacles as he studies his own notes.

After seeing the old chemist absorbed utterly, Gad releases a short reverberating cough.

The old man's eyes quit their feverish endeavor, his hands unclasp, and he turns with his whole body, being no longer able to simply crane the neck, to inspect the interruption. His rheumy eyes alight, and the familiar creases on his face thicken where ten thousand smiles were made. "How's it feel, young man? Those steps give you any trouble?"

"Walked on my hands the whole way up. Think I'll do cartwheels next time."

"Still a wisenheimer, yeah. Good. There are too few constants, if you ask me. I've got plans drawn up for a simple lift. I want it in by next spring prospectively. That's the hope and dream, anyway. Takes too long getting up here, and I'm liable to have the old ticker freeze up on one of these climbs."

"Why not move the lab to the ground? I know you've got an answer for that, and I want to hear it."

"Gad, you know how we hang onto things." Victor raised a sagging arm and swept it across the room. "I can't give up that view, and at night . . . indescribable. At my age, were I to move to the ground or heaven forbid a basement like those huffers, why, I'd speed up my coming senility thrice. Lack of stimulation."

Gad nods, "That's what I wanted to hear. So, I take it you're not batty just yet. Then you remember sending me the summons. Last time around the pay was ample, and it helped the sick. What is it this time?"

Victor releases a breathy laugh, almost wheeze. "Hasty youth. You're a decade my elder, it took you a season to get here, and you're down to business straightaway? Humor me, please. Let's set you up in a room, get you fed something hardy, and then we'll get down to brass, yeah." A dry sigh escaped him in perfect concert with a yawn. "The problem at hand can wait that long."

A spacious second floor room within the manor proper was assigned to Gad. Inside were the comforts of finer men, foreign seeming things to the old hunter of beasts. A goliath bed trimmed with frills and pillows like clouds, an oaken armoire with gleaming silver fixtures, carpeting softer than rabbit's fur, and the gentle scent of lavender. The accommodations were gaudy and overdone to him, giving him the strange urge to rip the sheets from the bed and sleep upon the floor. The whole of it was far too comfortable, and he felt raw within it.

Gad goes to the armoire, his things having been brought up, and opens the heavy doors on their smooth hinges. He takes inventory of his tools, his knives and swords, his potions and poisons, and his bows and arbalest. Simple armaments. He reaches in and takes out his oldest knife. The years had not been kind to it, and he's careful not to snap the worn blade and all its patina. It is no more a useful tool, though he maintained it well, such a thing can only last so long. This knife, a relic no longer than the span of his hand, is a gift of his father's. In its prime it locked back and could retract into the handle. The lettering and logos, once a marking of a great corporation, have receded into nothing but a few cryptic symbols.

He places the old trinket back with his more efficient stock and closes the doors to a flush.

Victor and Gadren sit across from each other at a grand dining table adorned with all the eccentricities. There are goblets and empty platters between them, waiting for use in some extravagant banquet. Servants stand at the ready, tasked with such arduous feats as refilling the wine cups and whisking away plates. Gad finishes his meal, a gambit of seafood, before Victor is halfway through his own. The servants carry his soiled plates and cups off, and he props his stubbly chin upon one of those rugged hands, humoring the old man.

Victor, not quite done but apparently full, raises an index finger in a pausing gesture, wipes his face on a cloth worth more than a village house, and takes another sip of wine to wash the meal down. "I see you're impatient. With such a hard life, I was hoping this would be more relaxing for you."

"Break. Work." Gad replies. "We cycle those because we tire and age. We play a pacing game."

"I could swear there was more spark the last time. Perhaps you don't even know you're tired."

Gad considers and shrugs. "Maybe I am, but I'm not willing to break this momentum just yet."

Victor waved his hand. "Leave us. I'll call you when we're done."

The servants wordlessly bowed and exited, and the room, large as it was, became cavernous.

Gad raised his brows.

"Family is precious, yeah." This was not a question, but Victor had a habit of affirming himself. "You'd go miles for them when you might go only feet for others."

Gad nods. "I recall the feeling."

Victor dropped his gaze to his shallow cup. "My great-niece Eva will inherit this manor when I'm gone. She is a brilliant young woman who used to come here often to study with me. She has her own estate, my brother's. It's a fine plot of land three days east of here on the edge of the Morwin woods. I suspect she'll stay there and move my lab over once it is hers. She's always been fascinated by the flora, you know."

"But something's wrong."

"Yes, yes, I know. To the point." Victor finished the splash of wine. "A year ago she married a prestigious cartographer. One Elliot Gemming. He's charted nearly all the lost areas, a pioneer for us all to go back to where our civilization once was. Well, after the honeymoon he set out to better detail the woods."

"And he never came back, right? Victor, that's a long time to be missing. I kill monsters. I'm not a bloodhound."

"He came back just fine, or so it seemed at first. Eva used to write to me regularly, especially since the traveling has become harder at my age. She said she knew those woods, and he came back much too soon to have covered the whole area. I mustered up the old bones and paid them a visit. Everything seemed fine on the surface, but it didn't sit right with me, yeah. Eva was always so lively, but she was reserved when I visited. Said she was just a little under the weather, but I wonder."

"Sounds to me like he was all charming until after he had her locked in marriage. He goes out into the woods, decides he's lord of the land, and comes back to put her under his thumb. I'm not a marriage counselor or a lawyer." Gad furrows those brows. "Did he go into the woods with a party?"

Victor frowned. "I don't know. I would assume he did. It would be very dangerous to go into the woods alone, even for an experienced traveler like himself. Wouldn't it? He had to go with some muscle." He held a hand against his temple in a "what else?" gesture. "Listen, it may not be anything at all. I've just got a bad feeling. Eva doesn't write me like she used to, and her hand has changed. It's shaky, stressed."

"What do you suggest I do?"

"Go out to their estate and investigate. You'll have to keep your distance, perhaps disguise yourself. I can have someone provide a story for you. They've never seen you before, but your paintings are around, Grey Guardian. See what you can see. If it's something you can help with, I'll pay you grossly. If it isn't something you can do, tell me, and I'll pay you the same."

"You'd pay me just for peace of mind?"

"I have no one else, Gad. I have no one else."

"Fine. But first I want as many details as you can give. Need to rule things out."

Victor gave him as much information as he could.

His name was Cedric Amst, a land surveyor contracted by the Crown to appraise property value. His hair was cut short and colored black as raven's wings, and he wore ice blue contact lenses, which were only noticeable up close. Gad was entirely against the alterations, but Victor reminded him that he'd be compensated beyond the weight of this sham. His new clothes, while comfortable, would provide little protection, and his gear would be transported to a grove at the woods edge.

He was provided with the names of the men who had gone with Elliot to chart the forest, though Victor would not divulge how this information was obtained. They were hired out of the mercenary's guild in Varana and were said to be reputable amongst their clientele. Gad was an acquaintance of the guildmaster, Arthur Doffen. He was an intelligent but crude man who believed the simplest solution was usually the best, and being built more like a bear than a man, he could often choose the simple paths.

Before investigating the estate proper, Gad decided to travel south to Verana and inquire after the men in Elliot's party. At the very least it would give him time to prepare for his acting career, precious time he'd not have to wear those infernal lenses. On his way he noticed a distinct lack of threats on the old backroads. Even on sunny days, when monsters tended to stay denned up, one could expect to see a cockatrice or gryphon in the direction of foothills. The trip would be short, but he knew ogres and trolls liked to maraud such highways and byways. However, he was beginning to wonder if he'd even happen upon a rabid raccoon, and the peace unsettled him. It was as if something was trying to lure him into a false sense of security, an ignorance he'd be thrice damned to fall into now.

The trek was smooth and uneventful, borderline boring, and foreign in essence. He wondered if that was what journeys on Earth had been like, that fabled mother planet where man was the greatest threat. He supposed his life efforts were to recreate one such world here, where one's reflection might leap from a mirror and devour entire families, where country children were often led into deep forests to be hunted by some lumbering abomination. The idea of a world devoid of such horrors appealing on the surface, but he considered what dark things might arise in man's heart when spoiled by comfort. Then also, perhaps selfishly, he pondered his own role in such a place.

Verana was an old fortified city and once served as the capitol of Verain before the reign of King Xandur a hundred years past. Its buildings were an odd mix of clay, wood, stone, and rare cement. Like all the old cities, it had a wall, and this wall happened to still be intact. The streets were cobblestone, the lampposts oil, and the people sleepless.

Gadren enters the city through the least traveled gate, the two standing guards eying him warily but without much conviction. Once inside he takes in all the familiar traits of population hubs. The white noise of inaudible distant arguments, the sharp barks of undersized dogs, the faint stench of sewage.

The guild hall hadn't seemed to change since his last visit, except for the subtle signs of age. Its size and ornamentation were the same. A simple wooden building with a distinguished iron plaque sign over the door and a spacious training yard out back. He detected the aroma of blade oil and burning coals. No doubt the guild had a resident smith.

Inside is the same oak wood which composes the exterior, but it's been cleanly varnished, though rough where members tread often. The porter asks if he needs anything, and Gad shakes his head. There are armor and weapon racks about, and heads of various beasts mount the walls.

This first room is something of a lounge, an area for clients to take in the deeds of the guild, but the next room is where business takes place. This second room is smaller with a walled off desk in the back and closed doors to either side of it. A stout aged woman sits behind the desk, her hands clasped together like dragon talons and waiting patiently for this next patron. An array of pens sit in a jar upon her desk, and a stack of papers lie neatly on another behind her in her own room.

"Hello." Her tone is formal and serious. "Looking to hire or looking for work?"

He looks down at the sword on his hip, smiles, and replies, "Neither. Meredith? You've aged as little as I have." This is a lie.

Recognition goes off on her face like a wave. She tilts back in her chair, a smile forming. "Trying to fight off the years with that shoeshine? You really shouldn't have. You look so handsome with the grey."

He can't help but play along. "Now, now miss, you know you're too young for me. I don't want to take up cradle robbing."

"Hmph. That's the sort of thing an old man with a bad hip would say." She sighs and reins herself in. "I take it you didn't come here to reminisce about us."

The way she cut off the subject struck him strangely in a place where he reserved his guilt. "Yes," He replied, "I've a peculiar contract. Not the usual go here and kill that business. I have to do an investigation first, and there are men from this guild I need to speak with."

"I'll help. You know you're privileged, right? Tell me more."

He drew out a paper and slid it across her desk. "These men went with Elliot Gemming about a year ago to chart the Morwin woods. Their trip was shorter than it should've been, and I want to ask them why."

She pushed the paper back and shook her head, frowning. The lines on her face left, and she appeared ten years younger. "These men, Hax, Gavin, Martin, Corund."

"I don't like what you're about to say."

"All died since then. Natural deaths mostly of old men, which you'd agree is odd for men who've not seen their fourth decade. Hax's heart went, Gavin and Martin took to a bad flu, and Corund . . . the story is he drank too much and got poison, but everyone knows he took some pills."

He tapped his fingers on her desk. "Anyone who might know what happened in Morwin, maybe some relatives?"

"Close ones, no. We sent condolences to the families, but there're no families. Either didn't have them or went with them."

"Don't you think that's a bit strange?"

"Our members live dangerous lives. Yes, it's odd to have them taken by disease and heartbreak and not a giant's club, but a bug passed through this past season, and it took some hardy with it. Even the young carry their father's weak hearts."

"Did they turn in reports, mention the details to anyone here?"

"Typically, they all love to boast about missions. I handle a lot of paperwork here, and I can't be certain to recall anything specific, but I think I remember them being oddly tightlipped about the details. Of course, that's second hand at best. The young blood does not chat with me." She leans forward, the floor under her chair creaking. "You could try asking Doffen. He had a way of exciting the boys into storytelling."

"Had?" Gad looks at the door to the left of the desk. "Is he in his office?"

"Retired a few months back. Spends most of his time at his home outside of town, fishing and hunting. If you've a map, I'll mark the spot."

"Yeah, hold on." He took a map from an inner pocket and laid it before her. "I'm getting so old, Meri."

It was about dusk when the old hunter reached Arthur Doffen's plot of land. It was a nice piece, well-kept and simple. A sturdy looking cottage stood centered in a field surround by short timothy. The bent sunrays offered the place a serene amber tone, and it exuded a warmth Gadren thought unfitting for the towering warrior. He supposed it could be the wrong place but treaded up to the door and knocked to find out.

An iron slide on the thick mahogany door slid open, revealing a pair of eyes. A woman's voice asked, "What business ya have here?"

"Looking for Arthur Doffen. I'm an old friend."

"Does this old friend have a name?"

"Gadren. We fought the wyrms together at Gran Ante"

The door unlocked. "I know ya. You coulda just said so. Always have to pry basic information from him and his old pals. Come on in. We just ate, and he's not passed out yet." The door swung open, showing off the cozy interior. The woman stood off to one side, ready to close the door behind Gad. She was hunched and her skin sagging, easily as old as Victor but her manner suggested a great deal of vitality.

She led him into another room, one with a plain beige couch and chairs surrounding a squat table covered in coasters and books. In the largest chair, smoking a pipe, was a broad shouldered but thin old man without a hair on his head, though he boasted a great white beard. He sat back, puffing out little rings of smoke which smelled sweetly like molasses. On his nose was a thick set of glasses resting. His hands were gnarled, the knuckles bulbous. His arms, covered in loose leathery skin, were unimpressive but did not look frail. His brows were bushy white rabbits, and his eyes socketed muddy topaz. He coughed, seeing his guest, and chuckled.

"Look at this!" He said, releasing the pent up smoke. "Someone's finally decided I was too ugly to keep around, and they hired the best monster slayer to do me in. Well, I'll have you know I've felled wyrms when they still roamed this world, sonny. I'm sure I can still muster up a good swing."

_Everyone I ever knew is getting old before me._ He thought then said, "Yeah, huge bounty on your head. Ought to be enough for me to retire for a couple hundred years at least. Forever if I invest right and build interest."

Arthur emptied his pipe in a clay basin beside his chair. "I remember wondering if what they did to you would really work, keep you young. We all heard how painful the procedure was, and it got mulled over ironically. 'What if he goes through all that only to age all at once in a day or so and be no better off than the rest of us?' That ever go through your head?"

"That and a lot of other things."

"They say aging is a curse, but we've got it easy now. Oh sure, the bones ache, and my old scars have their flares. I took a leisurely stroll today and caught a nice couple of hares. Did only what I felt like doing. When I come back, Leah and I take it easy and doze. But I'm guessing you covered a bit more ground than I did today, and when does your rest come?"

"Listen Arthur, I need to ask you about some of the members of your guild. It's for a contract."

"He's a windbag." The woman, who must be Leah said. "I'll get us something to drink. It's getting dark, so if you'd like to stay the night you're welcome to. I can heat you something up and get the good drinks."

"I'd rather not impose. Just need a few questions." Gadren replied, but his will was shaken.

"Standing offer." She said and left the room.

"Ask away." Arthur said.

Gadren asked his questions, got fewer answers than he'd have liked, but did get something good to eat and drink. The men in Elliot's party were indeed reserved about the mission. Each said the client requested discretion, and their contracts upheld such vows rigidly. If a merc from the guild said a client wanted things hush hush, unless it was illegal, it stayed under wraps. The whole thing puzzled Gad. What needed to be discreet about charting a forest? The whole point was to publish a detailed map. It sat wrong with him, and he was becoming increasingly certain something was afoot that warranted Victor's concern.

He ended up staying the remainder of the evening, catching up with Arthur and his wife. In the morning Arthur had him come to his den for a parting gift.

"You really don't need to give me anything else. You two have been kind enough."

"You can cram the grace, Gad. We've no one to leave things to. Leah and I got together in our silver years, past the time to be raising little ones. Don't be surprised if the treasury sends you a few more things when we're gone."

The hunter rolls his eyes.

Arthur unlocks a safe in the back of the room, gently opens the door, and cocks his head with a grin at Gad. "There's an island off the coast of Geline. They've been able to recreate something there I think will get your attention."

"And what's that?"

"This." Arthur pulls something from the safe, turns around, and holds the handle to Gad. "Take a look."

The artifact he sees is unmistakable. He takes it and holds it up, inspecting the finely crafted parts. "Arthur, I thought this planet didn't have the minerals for—"

"For these?" Arthur takes a box from the safe and opens it. "Guess we were wrong."

"I can't take this. This is too important."

"I had strong ties, Gad. I've got another one and another box of munitions. You have that one. I'm sure you of all people will put them to good use."

The hunter opens the revolver, spins the cylinder, and closes it up. The gun is weighty, real. "My father had a .44 like this. His was made on Earth and it was given to him by my grandfather. He was an antique collector."

"A little piece of history, am I right? Well, this is more than that. It's fully functional. Tested it myself. And here, this'll be convenient." He reaches into the safe once more and gives Gad a belt holster.

"Thank you."

"Put it to good use and stop by again sometime."

"I'll do both."

He returned north, remembering to put in those uncomfortable lenses. He didn't want to ask Elliot directly, especially with him being disguised as he was, but it was coming down to directness. If it was a curse, then he had to wonder why the cartographer hadn't succumbed to it. There was also the obvious question of what he was hiding about the journey. The hunter considered this aspect heavily. A trip to map out the woods would be mostly uneventful. With trained professionals as guards, there'd be little to worry about even come night. The whole excursion would be dull, not in the least bit worth keeping secret. Of course, the mapping taking so little time had to also be taken into consideration. Perhaps something, this curse, spooked them early.

He reached the estate in the morning's first light, not confident in the least with his ability to impersonate a surveyor. He wondered if the sword would give him away or not and decided it safer to hide it with the rest of his gear. With none of that on his person, he felt rather naked and defenseless.

The place, while quite nice, was not as lavish as Green Bastion. There was a single gardener, a healthy looking and tan man in his twenties, tending to patches of flowers about the perimeter of the main house. There was a greenhouse around back and pump room for the modest irrigation system. All in all it was an inviting property, and he supposed much of the surrounding land was also owned by not developed.

Gad walks up the step, admiring the stern white trim and orderly fashion which coated the house like a veil. The windows and their shutters are all perfectly aligned, each sill having a small pot of yellow flowers resting within, and all of these from a distance appeared expertly maintained. The front door is dark and ornamented with iron lion head knockers. To the right is a silver flame encrusted doorbell. He rings the bell, hearing the faint response of a chiming tune proceed behind the walls.

Moments later the door opens, a mountainous servant standing in the frame. His voice is like an earthquake, and his clothes strain against the bulk of his chest and arms. "May I help you?"

"Yes, I am Cedric Amst." He bows. "I am a land surveyor charged with property appraisals. I was wondering if I could speak with the Gemmings. Mr. or Mrs."

"Mr. Gemming is in his study and does not wish to be disturbed. The Madam is in her greenhouse. Follow me, and I will see if she'll allow audience." The servant locks the door, shuts it, and steps past Gad, dwarfing him.

Gad follows, the sense of being watched on him the whole walk.

The towering figure squeezes through the door of the greenhouse, emerging minutes later with sour expression. "The Lady said she'll see you. But be brief. I am to keep watch."

Gad enters the steamy building and sees Eva at a distance tending to a flower he does not in the least recognize. _She's in sunlight. Good, then she's not a vampire's thrall. Though, that'd be simple._ He waves to her and she quits primping the petals. "Mrs. Gemming?"

She nods. "You are a land surveyor? I'll have you know we've not acquired new land, nor have we built new structures. Previous records are up to date."

"I noted as much. However, until last year you were an unmarried woman. There are certain tax breaks made for such." He looks about, his heightened senses detecting no eavesdroppers. Already he is sick of the pretentious air. "Your husband, his occupation is in cartography?"

"That's correct."

"Your servant told me he was in his study. While I'd expect him here on occasion, doesn't his work demand he be away often?"

"I'm sorry." She leaned on one hip. "I don't see how this is relevant."

"His income will be weighed with the land. For occupations that require distant traveling, a break is made under the assumption the landowner will not be present to attend his property."

"I see. Can't the government discover this without me telling them so?" She looked down and to the left, revealing a bruise on her neck before quickly turning back. "Yes, he's not done a thing constructive since we wed. He locks himself in that study weeks at a time, and I don't even know if he eats while he's in there. He isn't like the man I married at all, but why I am telling you this?"

"Why are you?"

"Because I'm tired, because he hangs over me like a shadow. Tell me, are you really here to look at the land, or are you more interested in Elliot's job?"

Gad looks over his shoulder, seeing the broad outline of the servant standing at the door.

"He can't hear us." She said. "This is my sanctum. My husband used to come here with me. Said it reminded him of the wilds of Orogro. He's said no such things since coming from Morwin, and he's not set foot in here either."

"Can you be discreet about our conversation?"

"All you've come in here about is to ask if the pump house is new."

"I want to know what happened when your husband mapped Morwin. I tried after his party, mercs from a guild to the south. All died tragically young. What I do know is that they were sworn to keep silent about the trek, and it ended more quickly than it should've. Seems odd for a simple mapping."

"I think I know who really sent you, but I'll keep it to myself. You're a terrible actor." She waits for his response, receives none, and goes on. "I grew up here with my grandfather. I was quite the tomboy. I spent a lot of time in those woods and, yes, it was plenty dangerous at times. I never could draw a map, but I know how long it takes to see that whole place."

The greenhouse door opens, and the giant man sticks his head in. "Wish me to escort him out?"

"Still tending to legalities, Godwin. I'll send him when we're done."

The man nods and returns to his post. Gad realizes the only reason Godwin isn't standing in here with them is because the man overheats easily, as evidenced by his glistening forehead.

"I can tell you where they entered the woods. You look too rugged to be a land surveyor anyway, even with those lenses. Yes, I can tell you're wearing them. Also the stubble of your beard is grey, and I wouldn't doubt that to be your true hair color, so drop it when you're around me. I'll play along, and you'll find out what happened. Deal?"

Warily he nods.

"Good. The forest is just east of here beyond a lone apple tree. If you stand at that tree and walk directly east from there, you'll find where they went in. Wild grapes grow there. Used to get myself sick eating them as a child."

Gad leaves the greenhouse, becoming Cedric once again. Godwin passes him a hard look but says nothing, ducking his head in and checking with Eva.

He goes to the tree she mentioned and walks east to the where the grape vines are. There are no grapes on them now, but the vines hang freely around the trees, a pathway cut into them and beaten trail to boot. Gad retrieves his gear before returning to enter the forest. In all this time he had yet to see a monster, and he wasn't about to be caught unawares.

The woods are thick and mixed with deciduous and evergreens. This trail he walks is littered with fallen branches but has yet to grow in, meaning someone has made a point to come here often enough. Or something.

The forest closes in on him as he walks, growing denser and darker. Still he sees no trace of monsters. There is plenty of deer and bear sign, and he hears numerous chirping birds and chipmunks, but no raspy breathing, no curdling screeches. Even so, his hand never leaves the pommel of his sword. That, his ever reliable blade, along with the weight of the revolver give him an added bit of confidence.

Night comes but with it is not the familiar sound of a fledgling werewolf, the braying of a demonically spawned hell horse, the trembling thuds of vigilant treants, whispers from wind sprites urging one to hang from a tree or leap from a ledge. There are no death cries as some deer is torn asunder by a ravenous minotaur, no crackling boughs from the charge of an ogre, and no alluring singing from some cliffside siren. In the bizarre quiet, the hunter checks his area and sets up camp. Sleep comes easy.

He wakes up to a pain in his side. Eyes open he sees Godwin with his knees planted on his kidneys, and the gargantuan man's thick hands wrapped around his neck with frightening strength. A natural response takes over Gad, and he reacts without hesitation. His hand slides down his unrestrained hip, wraps around the handle of his gun, pulls it out and aims it square with the man's chest, and he pulls the trigger. There is a magnificent bang, and the white of Godwin's eyes wax. The hulking man rolls off of the old hunter and staggers to his feet, lumbering off into the brush.

Moments pass, and Gadren reclaims his breath. Rising to his feet he observes the trail of blood leading farther into the woods. He follows it.

Though he'd only ever used a firearm a few times in his life previously, he knows from his father just how potent such a caliber was, especially at such close range. He wonders if it was loaded properly, for even a man like Godwin wouldn't go far with a chest wound such as that. _Don't be naïve._ He draws his sword and continues.

The blood path goes seemingly forever. He becomes quite certain at this point it isn't even blood but some twisted candy trail meant to lure him, but he can't help but go on. This whole contract had been nothing but dead ends, and now he's finally onto something. He follows it over fallen logs, through brambles, and up and down slopes. Finally there is a clearing, and the blood lightens.

In the clearing by the light of the moon is a long short mound of dirt beside an open ditch. He breathes heavy, trying to perform the old exercise of waking from this dream. He does not wake and so walks to the ditch, peering in he sees no body. With relief he looks up and hears labored breathing. He creeps along, silent and steady. There is a hollow behind an oak, and he enters it.

He knows one illumination spell which summons a phantom torch, and he uses it. This cave, hardly more than a burrow, is just big enough for him to walk in crouch. He doesn't hear the breathing anymore, but what he sees catches his attention.

There are two human skeletons lying against the wall. One is smaller. Upon inspection the hunter determines both are men. The smaller is clutching some weathered yellow parchment with the nonexistent grip of how the bones settled. Sitting at the tip of the left ring finger is a gold band, tarnished but still immediately recognizable. Aside from that, the skeleton lies naked. The other skeleton is hilariously enveloped by clothes which must have once fit well but now flow tattered and tent like around the white frame.

_I'm an idiot._ "Doppelganger." He whispers. He bends down, gently removing the gold band. "Sorry your name's been smeared, Elliot." And to the larger. "Sorry Godwin." Then he leaves the burrow.

Every fiber in his being tells him to check the grave again. He knows there'll be a trap, but knowing defeats the purpose, doesn't it? He walks over to glance in, and sure enough there lies the corpse of his long dead brother. He kicks dirt in, openly trying to provoke the creature.

The eyes open, brimming with tears. "Gaddie." It says just as his brother once did. "I'm cold. I want to go home."

He plays along with this ancient memory, not caring for the moment how the doppelganger learned it. "Home is in the stars far away."

"Will you take me there?"

"No. You're going somewhere better."

"Brother, I didn't get to tell you this last time."

This is not part of the memory. It is a lure to get Gad bent over, and he decides not to play the fool. He holds up his sword and plunges it into the grave, into the false boy's already bleeding chest. The dagger reveals itself. It had been under the boy's leg.

"And what is that?" Gad asks, not feeling any triumph whatsoever.

"Bastard!" Its voice becomes that of a thousand men and women. "They know you did it! You buried me alive!"

Gad removes his blade from the creature's chest. "You are a monster born of this world's wild energies, not my brother."

"I was born more naturally than you!" This proves too much, and it coughs a chunk of bloody lung up. Its voice lowers. "You killed him so that you might live forever. Isn't that right? What will you do when all the monsters are dead, and you're the last one?"

Gad reaches down and grabs the doppelganger by the hair, not bothering to answer it or be careful. He drags it onto the dirt mound, its breathing now quick and choking. He raises his sword overhead, gracefully making an executioner's chop. The creature's head rolls into the grave, and its body takes true form. Slightly bigger than the boy's, built like a tawny man, and skin dark not with human colored pigment but stony like a shadow. He pushes the body in, leaves to get his shovel, and repeats a task he'd done some couple hundred years past.

In the morning he reports to Eva. After this he returns to Victor for his bounty.

### Light Keeper

Cid Ivers was the kind of man who didn't care much for dwelling on the past, despite how haunting his surroundings were. His wife had left him a widower before the island became a refuse fishing port, but it was all just a passing thought. No more significant than the fact that a boy named Bjorn used to eat chalk when Cid was still being taught histories he would never remember.

Back in those fair days, when she had graced his presence and melted the crust from his beard, there had been vessels to watch and warn. But these days he found himself standing on the lighthouse's balcony, gazing into an empty sea. The fishermen were the only ones sailing into port nowadays, and they never waded back in after dark. He wondered what use the pier company had to keep him in lodging at the old cape nightlight. Cid supposed it was all about pity.

On one particular day, as on so many others, Cid leaves the balcony and walks down to the cubbyhole that Frieda had dubbed his "study." Inside is his desk, irrelevant clutter, and a candle she had bought down by the market after a merchant ship had rolled in. He never touches this candle and doesn't dare light it. There is electricity in the lighthouse, and to interfere with that candle would be damnation. He may not hold onto it like a relic, but Cid has enough respect to leave it just where she left it.

He sits down at the desk and knits his hands together under the shadow of the white wax tower. He isn't praying, as he has forgotten the gods his schoolteacher had taught, the ones of thunder and of waves, all meaningless things to Cid. This is Cid's only time to think, his only time to dwell. Because here, Frieda is with him and clears his mind. Beyond this room are conundrums, paradoxes, and other such nonsense that threatens every man to become a heap of wrecked mind. When he finishes his moments of reflection, Cid stares at the candle and wonders for perhaps the ten thousandth time what it smells like lit.

But there isn't a moment to spare for a man with nothing to do. Cid leaves his little shrine and climbs down the staircase. There is mail to be gotten, and "routine keeps a man from wrapping his thoughts in knots." Bless his teacher; he did remember something.

Outside is the smell of ocean, and the sight of watery horizons. The island isn't large enough to occupy any border between land and sky. That has always fallen to the contemptuous sea, to be his horizons, to surround him utterly, to imprison him. He walks down the lane, which is really nothing more than sinking rocks and knee high grass, to the iron sleeve. Inside is that same salty air with nothing to accompany it.

A thought passes through his mind that perhaps his brother will write him a letter, or better yet come to visit from town. Cid is objectively doubtful of the notion. Sven Ivers has not been seen by the likes of Cid Ivers since before Frieda's passing. That is how all things have become, Cid knows. His life had ended when hers did, yet he is cursed to draw breath on this lonely cape with its daunting rocks and useless lighthouse, condemned to live with memories he cannot grasp, a simple husk of lost purpose.

Cid closes the mailbox.

There are many things that will not interfere with fate. Taxes are not among such things. The only letter Cid has read this year is the one demanding a portion of his meager pittance. How meaningless that revenue would be to the island, he knows. But Cid has his duties, and he supposes it would do no good to have the man come up here and seize his few assets. Let them have their pennies. It will cost them more to file his earnings than he will be allotted to give.

He leaves the lighthouse unattended for the first time since the year before, and for the same reasons. What greater purpose did the government serve, or at least observe? It was all ironic that his thoughtful vigil over what remained of his old life should be interrupted by men in nice suits who had never been to the island. The taste of it was sweet, really. Not like sugar though, more like antifreeze.

His feet come down mechanically and soullessly like set-block typing casts on the smooth sidewalk of the port town. People who had known him once do not see him, because he is the Cid of a new life, which is a dead thing to these spritely folk.

Inga has done his taxes before, and he suspects she does it for a few others. Cid does not talk to her when he drops off the necessaries, and he doesn't negotiate what her percentage is. She can keep all of the return and be happy if he sends her something this holiday. Then again, she may run on pity like the dock boss. Either way, she'll reserve his solitude for another year, and that is worth all the wages he has ever earned.

"When a man jumbles his thoughts, his actions scramble, too." So his teacher had given him two lessons to live by. What a hard and melancholy winter that had been, the first he had ever seen to affect the pier. They had been managing their batteries and forgotten to send Cid replacement lights. On a cool, but still temperate, January day, the final light burned out. Cid knew it was time to end his vigil.

Perhaps he would not be punished if he moved the crux of Frieda's memories for a special purpose, he reasoned. Beyond the lighthouse, above where the waves so endlessly crash into the cape, Cid stands with the candle in one hand and a lighter in the other. He turns and sees the darkness of the beacon room and knows no one will be coming to light it again. Cid is certain they all know his second life is coming to a close. The steady breeze he has eroded his soul upon all these long years dies down, and he lights the candle; its scent is that of all the years he cares to remember. Cid takes one last look at his watch, that vast horizon of dull but angry waters, and steps off the edge.

Red Sun

Karen looks through the shielded window of her family's cabin, watching home drift away into the black backdrop. The red aura beyond, a reminder of this new chapter, perhaps denouement, in human history. There are hot tears welling around her eyes, and despite popular belief, they do not float away. No, these tears cling like globs of sorrow against the bridge of her nose.

She had been a researcher stationed in Antarctica, one of the relative few deemed valuable enough to take along. They knew this day would come, but all the calculations had given them comforting time. This changed not only how humanity would survive but how old they viewed the universe. It had only taken a month for temperatures at the base to rise to tropical levels. Flooding killed the majority, panic another portion, and others were simply abandoned to that rock. Only a month for the little yellow star to grow large and red. It was almost ironic, when you got right down to it. The death of the sun would cause a lethal spike in global temperature.

She took a look back at the plain white room, devoid of any personality. Richard was reading to Emma. He held tightly to a safety bar and to her. Her husband wasn't the brightest mind back on base, but she was grateful he was here. It might only be a matter of days before the star swallowed Earth, collapsed, and killed everyone in the solar system regardless of emergency measures. Yet there he was, reading their daughter a bedtime story, as if she would grow up someday to tell it to her own children.

Soon it would be time to sleep. They would engage the magnetic floors, and each room would rotate, creating a false gravity made of inertia. This "Ark" as it was called was a prototype, and motion sickness hadn't been worked out. Still, being able to lie down for sleep and keep one's muscle and bone mass was said to be worth it.

Karen set her gaze on that blue rock again. It seemed to be moving away inch by inch, the same way the ground moved when you were up in one of those old, slow jets. Somewhere down there was her home, once a frozen desert, now a seabed. How long would it be before those oceans were burned away? She supposed that would be the most obvious sign of the end. Soon all that blue water, the same water she and Richard had met upon on their way south, the same water that had formed the snowmen she'd made as a girl with her father, would evaporate. Emma would never truly know about those vast waters. For her and the rest of humanity, there would only be red.

Faceless

Who is that nameless figure, the one whose face is always unseen but whose presence is always darkly known? It stalks the streets when we're alone and dwells in the corner of our eyes. He haunts the underside of beds and peers through closet doors. Is he the reaper of souls and the keeper of nightmares, or is he but a figment of fears and fantasies worn and falsely manifested? But that faceless gaze holds power, power to paralyze even the stoutest of hearts. When the nameless figure is seen, his silhouette a damning image, who is left with even the strength to run?

If you watched any newscast or big budget film, you might think small towns were dead. One might come to the conclusion that the less populated regions of the world had passed on, some forgotten novelty from better, simpler times. You might be walking down the street in the shadow of a building too tall to see its top and believe for a moment that only that exists. Small towns dried up, and those few that did not are only kept around for writers and directors to exploit, to scrutinize how oh-so-quaint these villages were. One might be fooled into believing that.

But small towns do live. They are not the heart of commerce, nor are they the bones of economy. They shall forever be the capillaries, the veins and vessels, through which the cities may pump blood. In such small towns, one might believe, that there is no crime. That the biggest problem is what Mrs. Haywood will be bringing to the church luncheon. Small problems for small people with small lives, country bumpkins living that fabled life that has certainly been forgotten.

Stanley Orsen is well aware that small towns are not so simple. He was "born and raised" as they say, in Mokawa, Michigan, after all. He had seen police chases go by his house, just the same way they would in a hustle-bustle metropolis. He'd gone to school with kids that snorted cocaine and shot up with heroine, just like city folk. People were people, more or less; they were still the same.

Stanley is walking the streets on the north side. It is dusk, and it is autumn. The air is cool and crisp, the leaves have mostly fallen, and the Halloween decorations have largely come down as well. Stanley would describe this air as "November sharp." Because, how could it be crisp when the morning frost was too thick to break underfoot? Crisp is how someone describes a potato chip, something crunchy meant to be broken. December will bring "harsh" with it, but "sharp" suites November just fine.

His left hand is in his pocket, toying with something made of latex that fits just like a glove. His right is swaying back and forth just below his narrow hip. His jacket is partly unzipped, as it helps to display his deep chest and accentuate his broad shoulders, which the ladies always seemed to like. His hood is down, and he refuses to pull it over his combed hair. It would make him look like a thug, anyway. His mother used to say he'd catch his death of cold if he didn't bundle up more, but he supposes he has a few more good years before a cold can take him down.

He goes through a residential area, the place city folk think dominates the landscape of any small town. The movers and shakers from such a city would think of this as a sort of suburb, a place for the horses to rest after a long day at the cubicle farm. Men would come home to their honeys-in-aprons, hug their three kids, and rest in their slippers in front of a box television that hasn't been on the market in over a decade, or perhaps listen to a wooden radio. The fantasy unravels more the further one goes. The next part is that the man smokes a pipe with tobacco from a racially suggestive can, while the wife bakes an apple pie, because no one ever gets tired of that. Afterwards, the kids bring Father the paper, while the milkman waltzes on by and doesn't think about kidnapping anyone. Everyone will be in bed by nine, and Mom and Dad each have their own bed. Wrap that up in a nice little bow and make a Christmas card out of it.

Stanley keeps walking.

It is dark when he passes the strip club on Stills Street. It is the kind of dark his mother would've said gives boys scoliosis and warts. It had always boiled down to a corny wives' tale with his mother, it seemed. She could never say simply that the dark was dangerous, that what is done in the dark is dirty and that she wanted Stanley to steer clear of it. Because saying that would be admitting that Mokawa had vandals and sleezebags. And wasn't that a dirty thought? Such a filthy thing to be aware of, it was far better to fill the noggin with gobbledygook. Innocence and ignorance were one in the same, and most would agree with that wholesome, home-cooked truth.

Stanley goes into an alley and thinks about all the things his mother told him. He is standing right where one would imagine a good person to be standing before getting mugged or murdered, maybe even raped. Stanley never worries about his own safety, though. Not even in this shady alley on the bad side of town. Because Stanley grew up into a strong man, and strong men need not worry for themselves, as his mother always said. If you were strong enough and fast enough and smart enough, you didn't have to worry for your own self. You could stand right there in the heart of danger, and the would-be crooks would be afraid of YOU. And the idea of it put a smile on Stanley's cold, wind beaten face.

Better cover that up.

He reaches into that left pocket again and pulls out the latex mask. It fits snuggly over his smooth skin, and even has the decency to cover his hair and chilled neck. He waits and he thinks, alone in the dark where no one else can know his thoughts. And when his quarry finally draws near, a girl who has left a little too late, and whose bouncer bodyguard has deemed her safely escorted off the property (no one cares if she makes it all the way home or not), he comes for her with love and care, the way only a small town man can. After all, what good are the veins if you don't make them bleed every now and again?

She sees him too late, if what she saw was really seeing at all. The recognizing of a dismal fate would be closer to the truth. He is too close and too large and much too quick. There isn't time to scream, no time to grab the pepper spray, and no nerves for it anyway. He is death. His face is that of the faceless figure, the entity who dwells always on the fringe where deepest fears meet coldest realities, and to stare into it is to be overcome with debilitating toxins. But sometimes, he wears a mask.

His Christmas

Stanley was going up his steps after a brisk walk through the neighborhood. He always had a daily stroll, but today he made time to stop at each house on the block and a few others. Everyone was so happy to see him and get his Christmas card. And, in his experience, it was never a bad thing to be admired by those around you.

He turns the key and then the knob, and his mahogany door swings open, allowing the scent of vanilla to waft out to him. He shakes his head as he shuts off the cold December air. He usually forgets to blow out those candles, and it's going to cost him dearly someday. He makes yet another mental note to remember next time, and at this he smiles. If the mental notes were literal, his mind would be a bird's nest of little yellow pieces of sticky paper.

He walks into the living room, pops open the basement door, flicks on the light, and makes his way down the old rickety steps. There is a slight musty odor, and he can hear his guest. He wonders absently if she's aware of the smell, but he dismisses the notion. Will definitely need to put another couple of candles down here, he thinks.

He reaches the bottom and turns to his table, an old thick thing made of wood and memories. It had belonged to his father when Stanley was too little to reach onto it, and his mother had left it to him years later after she passed. Above the table were new memories, photos of those he took interest in. He considered these his dearest friends, whether or not they knew the full depth of his affection.

Glancing over the photos is like turning pages in an old beloved book. His guest's husband is standing by her in one, and each is glowing with holiday spirit. They are under a mistletoe, frozen in a tender moment. This is Stan's freshest picture, and he means to recreate it. She will understand, should even embrace the idea. He's a forgiving fellow, and he sympathizes with her ignorance. People have done worse things than forget that Stanley is the one that deserves such attentions. He will forgive her. Yes, Stanley will indulge in her repentance.

The next picture is a little older, and he delicately places his fingers over it. In the dim light it almost seems to be a part of the wall, but he takes it from its pin and holds it close to his face. In this photo she is radiant, an utter angel. He smiles lovingly at the glossy image. If only she could understand how beautiful she was to him. There was simply no way to put it into words, so he hoped his actions would speak for him. They would have to.

He steps away from his table and to her corner of the room. He sees she hasn't touched the food he left her, and he even made her cookies in the shape of pine trees. It was his mother's recipe, and . . . didn't she realize how she was betraying him? His heart sank, and a great sorrow struck him. His mother had warned him about women that didn't appreciate. Oh, she just couldn't be another like that, after all the love he was giving her. He decides to give her a chance and show her how good he's being to her. He takes the tray and shoves some of the food into his mouth. It's cold but still delicious.

"See?" He goes. "I made it just for you. Please." He pushes the tray and what's left back to her.

She is restrained, but her chains give her plenty of freedom to take the food. Instead she looks away and weeps.

She always turns him away, and though it hurts, he forces himself to remain calm. He reaches out and caresses her face, hoping to impart his warmth. She is naked and quivers, trying desperately to hide herself from Stanley. He takes his other hand, runs it up her bare chest and pauses at her chin. He removes the gag and wipes away her tears.

"Do you not love me?"

She is sulking. She'd given up on screaming and fighting a week or so beforehand, and recently she'd taken to pleading. "Please, please, please . . . ." She trails into loud tears. A minute passes, and he knows she wants to say more. He waits for her, not rushing, because he loves her. Finally she stops sobbing, and he wipes her tears once more. "I just want to go home. I want my family."

He pulls away from her. She doesn't realize that she is home and that he is her family. "Selfish woman." His mother mutters behind his eyes. It's his voice in there, but those are her words, and she's always right.

He returns to his table, and now his eyes are streaming. He takes the blade, and oh how he hates it, but there's just no other way to make her understand. He returns to her with it in hand. All she can muster now is a whimper, as if she wants to leave him forever. Stanley bends down and opens his Christmas present.

Holiday Blues

"Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum." He said, wearing both his red suit and a shy smile, as he placed the spiced bottle on the counter.

She could hardly believe a man so big could be this cute. "Is Santa overworked again this year?"

"The elves are real taskmasters." He beamed down at her. He could see it. She was naughty. "Always worth it though."

She handed him his change, using the opportunity to hold his hand a moment. "Maybe sometime I could get a tour of the workshop."

"Yes," this was fun, "you can see all my toys."

She blushed, and he left.

Stanley thought she was a whore. He didn't like whores.

He was a top accountant at a large firm in the city. Every year he got two weeks of vacation in December, which he used to decorate his house, volunteer at the soup kitchen, and ask children at the mall if they'd been good this year. He never went anywhere on these vacations. He always said, "All year I get. This is my time to give." And give he did.

For his income, he had a modest two floor modular. It was simple, and it was cozy. It afforded him the time needed to string lights, place candles, adorn trees, place a reindeer here or there, and of course there had to be a gag decoration. This year it was a blowup hillbilly Santa, holding a triple X jug of moonshine.

He meticulously placed every detail of his yard and roof. The reindeer always faced south, the trees were carefully frilled with silver and gold leafing with matching angels atop. A Frosty, clearly chuckling, rested delicately but firmly on the shingles. The display was always the envy of his neighborhood. It was festively charming and had yet to go beyond into what would be gaudy and obnoxious.

The inside was themed differently every year. Last year it had been snowmen, and this year it was gingerbread. He lit cinnamon and nutmeg scented candles throughout the house, covered his tables in candy cane cloths, bought gumdrop curtains, wreathed every door, and every doorframe needed a mistletoe. He covered the walls in a wrap that looked like graham cracker and frosting, wrapped the rails in white and red tinsel, and in the den he put up his model North Pole Railroad, complete with an elven boarding dock which ran from Candy Cane Lane to the workshop and around to the Reindeer Racetrack.

It had been his mother who got him into the holiday spirit when he was a boy. She used to call him her "Little Gingerbread Man" as they decorated the tree, strung the lights, and baked cookies. If there was frosting to be made, and there always was, she'd let him lick the beater. When he came in cold from the bus, she'd have a cup of cocoa waiting for him, and they'd snuggle up in a blanket together and watch one of the Rudolph films.

Finding her replacement was proving difficult.

If one were to ask Stanley what he wanted for Christmas, he would say he'd been blessed enough and wanted no more. Though in truth there was one thing he did want, but to say it aloud was to ask for pity. While his home was no mansion, it was big for him, and he wanted someone to share it with. He wanted an honest woman like his mother.

Though he played the game well, he detested most of the women he flirted with. They were usually putty in his hands, stuff of no resistance. As his mother used to say, if a woman didn't make him work for it, she didn't make any man work for it. Stanley was worth a worked-for-woman she'd said. He liked best the ones who put him off and kept him at arm's length, but even among them he'd found no keepers.

Stanley went about his house, checking the décor and making sure all his doors were locked. Mother always taught him to be careful, especially this time of year, when derelicts and thieves looked for easy jobs. Once he was satisfied with his inspections, he went to the basement door. He opened it, flicking on a light switch, and descended the steps. He was sure to close the door behind him.

This room was unlike the rest of the quaint little abode. Undecorated and cold, the basement sat under the house like a subterranean island. It was dark even with the lights on, its windows were inconspicuously covered by shrubs outside and clutter inside, and the furnishings were nonexistent.

Bolted to the uncaring stone wall was a pair of chains and shackles. On the floor near this was a drain and an empty silver bowl. On the other side of the room was a gray steel table. On the wall above this rested a corkboard with many little pins stuck to it, but none held anything up.

Against the wall between these two sets of objects was a little white Frigidaire. Stanley walked over to it, looking at the set of chains with a frown as he did. He opened its door and inside beheld all the things this fridge kept. The morphine he stored atop the fridge, but there were other things that needed to be in here, one of which was his beer. He closed it up with a sigh. The beer wasn't going to cut it.

He went upstairs, retrieved his rum, and returned to the basement, taking his seat at the table. With the first swig he gazed at the blank board and all its little colorful tacks. It was empty just as he was. As the bottle became lighter, his attention painfully shifted and settled upon the chains.

There was no one to share this Christmas with but the bottle.

Different Plans

It happened naturally this year. He always started this the day after Halloween, gathering supplies with which to Christmas decorate. He had most of what he needed. Wallpaper, tablecloths, lights, and he'd already acquired the outdoor ornamentation. He found himself in a crafts store, perusing for new tinsel to replace the ratty ropes he had left. And while he stood in the aisle, carefully examining his options, a woman stepped in front of him and grabbed her own roll.

She tossed him a look which read: _You're silly, thinking so hard about this._ She paused a moment. "Get the smaller ones there." She pointed at them. "A little more per foot, but you won't have to pick bristles up after you tear them down." She went on her way and he his.

In the checkout line they bumped into each other once again, and he took a moment to take her in. She was a taller woman, perhaps only an inch or two short of six feet. Her hair was straight and long, brunette, and without any noticeable frizzing. Her eyes were almonds, and they were sharp, bespeaking intelligence. She wore a modest gray sweater and jeans, but by the way she held herself Stanley believed she was rather lithe. A certain Conway Twitty song began playing in his mind at the thought.

"It almost seems like you followed me through the store." She stated, leaning back from her buggy.

He had done this at times, but he hadn't with her. "I should've." He said. "You have better taste than I."

Did the clerk notice their exchange and slow down with the customer in front? Stanley wasn't sure, but he thought it was the case.

"Us gals usually do." It was a pleasant remark, laced with nothing.

As she put items on the belt, Stanley took a moment to observe her left hand, a habit he'd developed, and saw there was no ring.

After his purchases were made, an impulse began swiftly welling up in him like an unexpected sneeze. They had done the little dance, but she had not swooned, had not melted before him. She had in fact retained her own shape, and he thought that perhaps he was the one bending a bit. It was pure joy to have such a rare experience.

He caught up to her at the entrance doors, now fully certain he was being a fool. She regarded him, not appearing the least bit surprised. But to his delight, she didn't seem unhappy about his presence.

"Say," He started, twinges of regret cropping up in him like internal gooseflesh, "I'm going to be the mall Santa this week. Maybe one day afterwards we could get some coffee. Something warm. And maybe give me a few more pointers. I struggle every year." The next thing went against his nature. He always told women his name was Henry, but the urge to take a chance had never been stronger. "My name is Stanley Orsen, by the way. I probably should've started with that."

She looked up at him, as the other holiday shoppers circulated around them like dust caught in an air current. He was wearing a shy smile and not even faking it this time.

She didn't say a word until after she'd taken her store receipt out, scribbled on the back, and handed it to him. It was her name and number. She repeated the first, "Karla Mason. Give me call. I'm free Thursday and Friday evening."

He did just that.

Things had gone well between them. On that first outing he'd still been in his red suit, and he'd managed to play it off in the best kind of corny, the self-aware kind. It had been ages since he'd been on that kind of date, one that didn't lead to the bedroom and end in his basement. He held tightly to his heart what Mother had said about easy women, and he wondered if she'd approve of Karla.

The second week of his vacation and Christmas was upon him, and despite his usual tradition of having a guest shackled to the wall downstairs, he was looking forward to another pleasant outing with Karla. He could see she was interested, but she deflected any attempt he made at seducing her, and he relished it.

They were together at an Italian restaurant on what he considered to be the first real date. He wasn't wearing his red suit, and she was wearing a new perfume.

"I was thinking," He began, "if you aren't doing anything Christmas Eve or Day, perhaps I could cook you dinner."

"Oh," She replied, pursing her lips. It was an expression he loved to see but tended to dislike what she said after. This was no different. "I've been wanting to tell you. I'll be flying back to Boston Christmas Eve to visit family. Sorry Stan, but I won't be back until after the new year."

He raised his palms and nodded amiably. "By all means, I understand how important family is." His eyes went to the ceiling in a thoughtful gesture before returning to her. "I can take you to the airport. See you off."

"I'd like that."

Stanley drove her to the airport as promised. His traditional method of knocking her out and bringing her home instead of continuing course would not work. She had his real name, likely had mentioned him to friends, and was expected to be somewhere. Besides, there was still that something about her that made him want to treat her differently than all previous quarries. She was no doe to be stalked from the shadows. She was a queen, and the heart of such was not won by cunning and force but by merit and deed.

On the way there his phone began to ring. Reluctantly he answered to one of the mall's managers. This one's name was Rick.

"Stan." Rick went, "Is this a bad time?"

Karla gave Stanley a glance from the passenger seat, and he shrugged. "As fine a time as any. Need anything?"

"Yeah, I hate to put this on you, but can you cover today? I know you usually don't come in the week of Christmas, but Bill slipped in his driveway and broke a hip. Just today. Tom said he'd fill in tomorrow, and then we're done."

"When exactly?"

"Can you be here in twenty minutes?" He could, but that would not afford him the time to do anything but drop her off.

He looked at her, and she asked, "What is it?"

He held the phone away. "They want me to cover at the mall. I wouldn't be able to see you off properly."

She leaned across the seat and pecked his cheek with a warm kiss. "Go on. I can handle myself."

He sighed, bringing the phone back. "Yeah I can do that."

"You're the best, Stan!" Rick was jubilant and loud enough for Karla to hear.

She got out of the car and leashed together her luggage in one efficient scoop. "Thank you." She said, letting the door hang ajar to say farewells.

"If you asked, I would drive you all the way there."

She leaned in and across the seat. This time she reached behind his head and pulled his lips to hers. "You're sweet." Her smile was the sun.

"Text me and tell me when you takeoff. And give me a ring when you get there, please."

"I will." She pulled out of the car, a hand going up to the door. "I'll see you in a couple weeks." And she shut it.

Stanley covered for crotchety old Bill. Oh, he was thanked plenty, and the children were as eager as ever to tell him their wishes, but it didn't change the fact that he wanted to be with Karla.

He left from the mall and headed to the liquor store, still wearing his suit. He was after something strong. It would be the first Christmas he spent alone since Mother passed.

Swing

He was on a shapely oak seat, one which was comfortable and contoured without overt cushioning. In front of him was a silken tablecloth which upheld gleaming silverware. A sterling set of fresh pink candles and a vase of roses he had requested. There were dry cups of fine wine and a depleting bottle. The flickering flames cast dancing shadows against the petals like ballet silhouettes.

They had finished eating some time ago and were enjoying one another's company as the wax began to drip. This was their time, precious earned moments. His work kept him busy, as was the case with her. Soft words passed between them, things of deep understanding, of tender meaning. It was an echoing ballad, a reverberating series of gentle similes and sweet promises. The world could crush their ambitions, but in this space, this vacuum, their exchange was sincere.

In a booth on the other side of the room was another couple. Though there were several pairs around them, these two stood out.

They were arguing, and it was killing the mood.

He cocked his head in their direction, sighed, and his smile wavered.

"Some people," he began, "they just . . . they—"

"Don't appreciate these occasions?" She inserted.

"Yes." His happy expression returned, and he took a moment to examine the gold band encircling his left ring finger.

"You've always been festive, dear. I know how important this is to you. It's important to me, too." She leaned forward, placing her own hand on his. "I have an idea." She gestured him closer.

His brows raised. It was rare for her to have an idea he did not enjoy. He leaned further still. If it was a suggestion which demanded some amount of secrecy, his interest was more than piqued.

She whispered the details.

"Do you think?" He asked at last.

"Could it hurt to try?"

He consented it would not. They finished what was left of their wine and, arm in arm, walked over to the now settling argumentative couple.

He asked the tentative questions, and they responded ripely. Swinging, as they put it, would be "just what was needed to spice things up." It could hardly have been better if there had been bows fastened around their necks.

They all left together. The attendants and other patrons all seemed oblivious to the movements of this impromptu group, and he could hardly believe it. It was just too good. She always did have an insight about these things. His was sharp, yes, but she was borderline clairvoyant.

These two, named Patrick and Cindy, had a few too many. There was some coaxing required, but they agreed to carpool, leaving their vehicle behind. It would've only complicated things.

They drove a while, longer than Pat and Cindy had anticipated, exchanging pleasantries, giddy flirtations, and climbing up the hill country into no-man's-land.

Now sobering, trepidation was apparent on the two as they arrived at the lonely mountain cottage. Reassurances were made, and the two acquiesced, especially when informed of the hot tub.

"By the way," he said, "Henry is my middle name." He glanced at his wife. "Was never fond of it. Friends call me Stanley."

"And I" The wife added, "prefer Karla." It should've been a red flag.

They went into the log home. It was large but arranged into cozy spaces of hardwood flooring and homely knickknacks adorning the walls. Tin signs with warm welcoming messages, porcelain statuettes arranged to depict timely family scenes, perhaps of father and son fishing or a mother and daughter clumsily baking. There was a pleasant aroma wafting throughout, as if those glassy figurines might actually be making confections. It was comfortable, and it put the two at ease.

"So . . . ?" Patrick inflected.

"Hot tub first." Stanley replied, hanging up his coat and urging them to do likewise. "I'll get the jets going. Would you mind coming with me to the basement afterwards? I could use a hand filling a cooler. You get thirsty sitting in that thing, and believe me, you don't want to get up for a drink."

The men went to their tasks, and Karla discreetly told Cindy where the bathroom was. After this, with the two women blessedly being very similar in build (though Karla was much taller), she lent Cindy an old bikini. Though, she mentioned lustily, the clothing would likely not last long.

The women went to the tub on the back deck, which was steaming, frothy, and incredibly inviting within the mountain air. They sat across from one another, talking of normal life but always edging back to what the evening had in store. Cindy was visibly timid and excited, and Karla did what she could to ease her mind as they "waited on the boys."

The trees rustled, the coyotes yipped, and the powdery February snow whipped off the eves. Several minutes of waiting went by before Karla shook her head with a grin.

"There's a pool table down there and a big TV. It's Stan's den, and I wouldn't be surprised if he got poor Patrick tied up talking about the picture, or maybe some of his sports memorabilia."

Cindy laughed. "I don't think Pat's down there against his will. He never stops about that."

"Right? Pretty silly." Karla tilted her head. "There's also a pretty big sectional down there. Why don't we go surprise them?"

"Oh," Cindy's face was already hot from the water, and she didn't think the suggestion added any more heat, though certainly her body tried. "I guess so." She cleared her throat. "Lead the way."

The two went back in, and Karla grabbed a couple towels from the laundry in the hall. She had Cindy follow her to the basement door and down the steps. When they reached the bottom, Karla nodded, gesturing at the dumb white glow of the idiot box against the normally dark floor.

Cindy saw the rear outline of her husband's head. He was sitting on that couch, watching a football game. She walked around and bent down to look at his face, purposefully pushing her breasts together the way he liked. She couldn't do this without his enthusiasm after all.

But his face was blank, stolid.

"You didn't really think I'd let you touch my husband, did you?" Karla asked.

Before Cindy could reply, something heavy and painful found its way to the side of her head. The pain suddenly vanished along with everything else.

Stanley looked down at his bride and then at the unconscious bodies. "Well dear, what to do now?"

She pressed up against him, and his hands naturally went to where she wanted them. "Oh, anything we like. Happy Valentine's. I love you."

Their lips met, and he all but had her floating in his arms. "I love you, too."

Chivalry

Sir Siegfried, high knight in Her Majesty's court, rides the border between the duchy and neighboring land of Olsiri. He is returning from duty after months of noble, yet unimpressive and dull work at a halfway fortress, where he trained squires in the arts of knighthood. It was not as glamorous as the bards would make it out to be. There had been no raids of brigands, no savage beast attacks, not even a curious student. But now he is riding back to court to report that all is set nicely in motion and to participate in this year's tourney of chivalry.

The tourney was a longstanding tradition, taking place at the start of summer to celebrate the land's prosperity and virtue. This would be his third chance to partake in the chivalrous competition, and while there was no shame in losing, there was great honor in winning. He vows on his crest to win this year, for a victory would secure his image before Lady Yuria, to him the most delightful maiden in Her Majesty's court.

His steed, a fine and well-trained beast, trots along with little input as the knight dreams of what victory would taste like. He can see himself standing proudly in the glorious sunlight, his sword held high as the crowd applauds his grand feats. Then the Duchess herself would come down into the fairground to bestow upon him the title of champion. He would kneel to receive the title, and when he arose Yuria would be there to crown him in laurel. They would sit at the champion's table with the Duchess, and he would regale all around with tales of heroism. Some short time later he would woo Yuria, and she would consent to a proper courting. His face would be as resplendent as the gleaming steel of his armor after rain breaks into sun, and surely thereafter his story would be one those lofty bards retold for years to come.

"Watch where that thing clods itself, would ya?" A most real voice snorted.

Siegfried grabbed the reins and pulled his horse from a flower bed. He was embarrassed that he'd gotten so distracted. It was unbecoming. "Yes, good citizen." He replied. "It would seem this long journey has dulled my senses."

The citizen, a poor and old looking man merely huffed at this and bent down to tend to the trampled earth.

Gerhus Krissten stands at the castle's sanctuary door. Working within the castle walls has been a dream of his since childhood. Now not only does he stand as the last defense, but he does so as a knight. Things are mostly quiet, no wars about, and the royal family has very few enemies, making his duty one mostly of posterity. He is fine with this. As a boy he'd been tossed from home, and as a teen he had been forced to help quell an uprising in a northern village, and what came was a massacre. For his endurance, it seems he has been granted his current position, which also allows him a fairly regular audience with Lady Yuria, to whom he promised no request would be too great to ask.

Word of Siegfried's return reaches Gerhus from down the grapevine. For the most part he is kept up to date with the comings and goings of the castle, but this had slipped by him. Gerhus watches over the serene courtyard with its white marble fountains and myriad flower patches, and a smile creases under his helmet. It was easy to be happy with others in this place, but it was hard to find companionable individuals when you were knee deep in mud and your lungs burned with pitch smoke. Gerhus and Siegfried had been apprenticed together as boys, and ever since those training days, they had always been at each other's aid. It was said that there were friends who stuck closer than brothers, and both these knights would attest to that fact.

Gerhus is not the first to greet his old friend but neither is he the last. It was the kind of day the storytellers would use to describe a peaceful land, as if fair weather was indicative of good hearts. The air was cool and pleasant, the sun shining resplendently but without scorn, the birds sang their songs, and you could taste a subtle sweetness in the air. On this fine day Siegfried is let through the outer gate. Dismounting, his horse was led to the stables. Between him and his objective is the door which Gerhus guards. This of course is a convenient route, and when he approaches the guarded door, he removes his helmet. Gerhus does likewise and the two exchange a one-armed hug, their armors clanging.

"Brother, it's good to see a familiar face." Siegfried says.

"Yes," replies Gerhus, "you've been missed in these parts. But we can catch up later, perhaps over a game of cards and a round of strong drink? In the meantime, I wouldn't want to hold you up."

"A grand idea, but who shall buy the rounds?"

Gerhus grins. "Well, the loser of the cards I should think."

"Hardly fair. Your coin purse will be weightless by the evening's end."

"Bluffing so soon? I hope you can do better than that at the table!" They both laughed.

A few days passed, and the weather wasn't quite so fair. A harsh wind blew in from the east, bringing gales and rain with it. But the elements were not enough (some called it an extra challenge) to postpone the tourney. The knights of the land and all qualifying foreigners gathered south of the castle at a field owned by a prominent landowner. There were a multitude of tents set about with pinstripe colors. The air here, despite the gloomy atmosphere, is filled with a gentle aroma of fried bread. Performers go about, while merchants haggle trinkets of good luck, and stall operators dare the citizens to feats of accuracy and strength, all while teasing them comically.

Events are set up for the knights and take place over the course of three days. The first day is a polarizing battle of wits and strength. The event of the day is a timed obstacle course, which includes both horse-mounted and on-foot segments. Crested armor must be worn throughout the entirety of the tourney, making the first event the one with the greatest drop off rate. The evening event is a round of chess in which only winners qualify to continue the next two days, halving those not cut off in the obstacle course.

On the second day Gerhus is pleased to still be in the competition, and he's glad he didn't get paired with Siegfried in the chess match. Both are still in today, and this day's events are geared toward personal ability rather than overcoming an opponent. The second day is also about horsemanship. The daytime event is an archery challenge while mounted and running at a full gallop. Five minutes is allotted to each contestant to strike as many targets as possible and with true aim. Gerhus always had a knack for aim, and he knew his friend was as practiced as he.

The more challenging event was the second, which was both a test of accuracy and perception. With a similar time limit the knights would be given a lance and set to ride through a field, skewering apples set on various objects at various heights. No one was told how many apples there were in total, and tallies weren't made until the event ended. This had been the event to end the tourney for Gerhus the previous year, while Siegfried had gone on to the final day.

It was growing dark, and those tired by the day's activities thinned out, only to make room for those more interested in the night's festivities. The fire dancers started their routines, rebelling against the dark with torch flashes and dragon's breath. The commoners guffawed at the puffs of flame as if the simple twirling made the scientific burning of pitch a magical summoning.

Gerhus is waiting for the results of the day to be posted outside the judge's tent. He and a dozen others. Tiring of that, he decides to take a stroll through the grounds and loosen his muscles. The last day was make or break, and he didn't want to be stiff for it. He passes the stalls, children and adults alike giggling at the silly nature of the games. From time to time his heart aches, when he sees a young man vying for a prize for his lady. The code of the common folk is a straightforward one with far less layers of procedure and schemes, and Gerhus finds himself envying the candid simplicity.

He begins looking around, consciously hoping to find Siegfried, subconsciously hoping to find Lady Yuria. Only champion laurel would be a fitting display for her, but somewhere below all the gallant chivalry he wonders if an honest confession of his good intentions would be enough. It would break the order of things, he knows. He'd spoken with Yuria many times while stationed at the castle, but it hadn't added up to anything. Those held in the shackles of the court abided by an unspoken set of rules when comporting oneself with a love interest. It was full of riddles and dark pits where serpents brooded, and before the pure examples of the common folk he found himself lamenting this facet of knighthood.

As if by some uncanny stroke of fate, he hears the distinct voice of Lady Yuria, asking for someone to stop. It isn't until he turns around and sees her that he understands she was calling him. He smiles and bows, robing himself in the heaviest cloak of proper etiquette.

"Sir Krissten," she walks swiftly up to him, holding her flowing dress up out of the drying earth. In the soft moonlight she is the image of vitality and grace to Gerhus's eyes. "I was hoping I would catch you. I was helping the judges post scores, and I wanted to inform you that you qualified for the final event."

"My fair lady," he beams, "you honor me with this message. Surely the other knights were not so fortunate to be graced with your presence."

She blushes visibly even in the dark. "Yes, but I know not the faces which belong to their names. I fear my voice would be of little assurance to them."

"Perhaps, but it is a boon to me." Under the words and armor, he quakes inwardly. "As gratitude, would you honor me once more by allowing this humble servant to escort you to your quarters?"

"I would be delighted, good knight."

They went, her arm locked with his.

Siegfried overheard the conversation from his tent, trying to place the two voices with those of strangers, but he could not. He left the tent and made his way to the judge's. He was scrambling through the annals of his mind for a course of action, coming only to the conclusion that he needed to be in tomorrow's event. If he could somehow claim victory, he would still have a chance at Lady Yuria's hand, which seemed infinitely more valuable now that it was being taken away.

He pushed through the gawking contestants, some who were lamenting while others breathing sighs of relief. For whatever reason, the scoreboard seemed nigh unreadable, as if someone (probably a gawker) had thrown a handful of sand into his eyes a moment ago and somehow kept it from hurting. He blinked hard, and his vision cleared. He ran down through the names, and was pleased to see his one place above Gerhus. A voice asked if he qualified, and another answered when he didn't.

He was going to need some rest.

The final event was a race of endurance. The few remaining contestants were to run from a starting point in the fairgrounds, two miles north around the castle, and back to the grounds. Then on horse a mile further south to a course set in the woods and again on foot, before finally getting to the Chaild Lake, where they would be permitted to remove armor in order to swim across and to the finish. The forest course was the longest, and in all there was about twenty miles of land and water to cover, most of which being in a suit of armor. Many knights made it to the forest each year, depending on the heat, and this was considered a decent run. In fact there had been years when stopping at the wood was enough to go on to the champion's crowning, due to contestants succumbing to dehydration, heat stroke, and drowning..

It is thankfully cool and cloudy on this day. Gerhus and Siegfried wish each other well, Siegfried having released none of the resentment toward his friend over the knight. He had determined that "may the best man win" would be a definitive judgement, but there would be no need to bemoan circumstances. Siegfried believed he would be the one in laurel come evening.

The herald went over the rules, which nearly any child could. The rules were so old, revered, and simple that breaking them would be more of a surprise than anything. No sabotage and no shortcuts was what it came down to. After the formality was over, he blew his trumpet, sending the runners clanging off.

Siegfried and Gerhus led the pack, keeping pace with one another the way rival brothers would. It was a matter of pride, and neither would consider anyone else worthy of running with them. Those on the side of the road cheered, got drunk, and took bets on who would go the full course. At the start, the word was that these two knights would burn out quickly, but when they still headed the brigade when returning to the grounds and mounting for the woods, predictions became fanciful.

Neither Gerhus nor Siegfried even realized they'd been trouncing the other runners until their tired legs paused at the waterway. They took a few moments to cough, pant, and take off the infernal armor they'd been wearing for the last decade, or perhaps it was a century. A tourney operator stationed at the lake's shore brought them each a horn filled with spring water. The knights, trained to endure the rigors of battle, drank slowly so as to avoid cramps. They both asked for another horn and drank carefully when it was brought, but turned away a third when offered.

"Do you think they'll sing about this?" Gerhus asked.

"This moment? While we're panting as dogs and redder than a brat's behind? I should hope not."

Gerhus jumped in, and Siegfried followed.

A fear as tiny as an olive pit fermented in Siegfried's gut. If Gerhus crossed the shore before he, he'd be overtaken in the standings. He wanted to be at his friend's back in this victory, but wasn't this his tale? The feeling that Gerhus was stealing from him grew stronger on the waters, until the seed of fear sprouted into an idea. The idea grew into a plan as black and vile as the monsters he feared as a lad, and it disgusted him. But the plan was also enticing, offering him what he believed he desired most. It was too dark, but . . . perhaps if he asked first.

"Gerhus!" He called over the low ripples. They were somewhere near the middle of the lake, and no one could hear or see.

Gerhus stopped a hundred feet ahead. "What is it, friend?"

"I've a muscle lock. Will you wait a moment?"

Gerhus did not reply but instead swam back to his companion.

"Do you require aid?" Gerhus asked when within an arm's length.

"No, it passed, and I think I'll get across fine."

Gerhus's face lightened.

"But if I could ask you something." Siegfried's insides were hot under his cold skin.

"Of course."

"If you win, which I hope you do, what will you do?"

Gerhus thought a moment, a warm smile forming. "Be merry, of course."

"So nothing would change?"

"Well, a few more years and I'll be grey. Before that happens, there is a maiden most fair who has my attention."

"You snake! You hide this from me?" Siegfried chuckled.

"I feel as though this isn't the time for such a conversation. You'll laugh yourself under."

"Ah, maybe. But does it not take the mind away from the body's pain?"

"True enough." Gerhus began swimming, and Siegfried kept up.

"Well?"

"Well?" Gerhus repeated.

"You tell me you've at last set your eyes on a precious jewel, and then you tell me not what rare mineral it is."

"Keep it hush, if you would." Gerhus seemed to slow down. "Lady Yuria. You've met her. I'm quite taken by her, and I like to think I've made an impression upon her as well."

"Then I wish you many years of luck and joy, and I won't spill this to even one."

"Thank you, friend."

Siegfried threw extra effort into his strokes, matching Gerhus. Gerhus looked over and went to hasten his own pace, but suddenly there was a weight on him, and his head ducked below the surface. It took him half a minute to understand, to his horror, that Siegfried was holding him under the surface. He fought to push away and get to the air, but the shock of what was happening took his strength until it was too late to regain it.

Siegfried waited for a few minutes after the bubbles stopped, careful not to put too much pressure on Gerhus on any particular spot. He wanted it to look like an honest drowning. "Yes, I saw him ahead of me, seizing up. He was limp when I got to him." It had been too easy, this. It disgusted him. That olive pit's counterpart wished there had been more of a fight. There was no joy, no satisfaction. It was surreal, and he wondered if he'd really done what he seemed to have done. Surely not.

"Gerhus?" Siegfried asked the lifeless form. "Gerhus, it was but a jest!" There was no response, because it was no jest.

He continued the swim, pulling Gerhus's body with him. Genuine tears mixed with the lake water on his face, and he considered several times to try and drown himself. But, that olive pit told him this could be salvaged. There could be life after this, and a fine one at that. All he had to do was commit to the plan, and it would see him through. This was but an ugly bump on the road to happiness.

He bellowed as soon as he reached the shore, begging for help. If Gerhus was alive, which he was certainly not, he could be revived and made well. Otherwise, well, Siegfried was the hero of this tale, was he not? A victory at the cost of tragic loss. The bards devoured stories like that the way urchins do stale bread.

He was dubbed that year's champion, even before the tallies were made official. He sat that night at the champion's table with the Duchess and a weeping Yuria. After several drinks and somber music, he went to Yuria and placed a hand on her shoulder. To his bitter delight, she allowed his comfort. Then he said to her, "I am sorry, my lady. Sir Krissten was my dearest friend."

The Inside

I've been wandering through the ruins inside myself. Broken hope, like remnants of a lost city. So far gone, I can't even understand what it used to be like. All I see is rubble and debris under endless skies of grey. I go back and forth, scrounging through the lonely wreckage, and I find it wearisome. What were these buildings, and what was their purpose? I don't think anything could ever have lived here.

There are people around, but they can't see me hiding in here. Up on the surface, like a reflex, I smile and laugh. Every time I do, it seems as if the refuse scatters a bit wider, and the bits left are ground into thinner stuff. I wonder if anyone up there can hear the tone in my voice. It's been so long since I donned the mask that they probably think it's my natural speech. I'm so deeply damned that I can't take off the façade. When I open my mouth to tell the truth, only hollow lies proceed.

I'm suffocating in here, choking on stale air. Sometimes I wonder if my gasping is noticed, and that's when I hush myself. A paradox unto myself, I wish to remain unobserved, and simultaneously I starve for attention. Just a few moments of kind succor, and it would feed me a lifetime over. But no, I like being invisible. No one will miss me when I'm gone. Perhaps when the last remnant of self dies, all these dregs will be swept away and made clean. So I wait impatiently for the end to come, comfort in the fact that every passing moment brings it closer.

I'm sitting on a bridge of broken dreams over a river of despair. The middle has collapsed, and there's no longer a way to pass safely to the other side. So, I sit out here and watch the cold waters flow beneath my dangling feet. I see the corpses of old hopes like flotsam drift downstream. I envy the dead things, for their suffering is at an end. I squandered them, tossed their bodies in myself, and now I've naught left to do but to join them. I inch a little closer to the edge, thinking of all the pain below that's kept me at bay. There is no going back to the way things were, and it's only a matter of time before I wither. I numb myself to the fear, feel the solid remains of the broken bridge disappear from under me. I push away, feeling the wind wash over me. At the mercy of gravity I descend, as time slows to frame by frame, and I meet my watery grave.

Doves

There were once two men living in the country near a village. Each one had a spacious lot of property and a humble store of possessions. Prized by both men were white doves, each man having one he treasured dearly, for the wide country was lonely without a companion.

Each man's dove had free roam of their properties. One day the first man's dove was out looking over his fields, when she was lured to the village by a pair of boys with a bag of seeds. The boys offered her their seeds, if she agreed to come and play with them. Tired from flying about so much, she was eager to regain her strength and accepted.

The boys brought her to a barn where they played hide-and-seek, tag, and some other lighthearted games. But the boys, mischievous as they were, kept the seeds from her until she was completely spent. Once she was too tired to fly, the boys caught her and began tossing her back and forth. The dove was very frightened by this, because being thrown so much was hurting her. After a time, the boys left, as their mothers were calling them to supper. The dove hobbled to the seed sack, ate a bit, and struggled to get home.

When the dove returned to the first man, he saw her injuries and asked, "What has happened to you?"

The dove, very shaken, explained.

"You should never have left our lands!" The man scolded. "Would you like me to go and teach those boys a lesson?"

The dove shook her head and said no.

But, when the man heard her reply, his ears changed it to "No, you aren't man enough." So he, filled with anger, left his dove alone to pursue the boys. When he found them at their homes, he and their fathers whipped them with willow branches. The boys, knowing how to fool their fathers, pretended to be hurt more than they were and apologized to the man with fingers crossed behind their backs.

So the first man returned home to the dove and told her what he had done. When he finished he asked her, "Now, are you happy?"

But the dove shook her head.

The man was very upset by this and left again. He went outside and dug up a store of gold he'd hidden a long time ago. When morning came, he went back into the village and used his gold to buy seeds and a silver cage filled with cushions. When he returned home again he gave his dove the delicious seeds and placed her in the cage.

"There," he said, "now you are happy, because you have the seeds you wanted and you are safe."

The dove agreed with him but only because she didn't want him to go out and do anything more. She spent the rest of her days unhappily locked up.

Now at about the same time, the second man's dove went out into his fields and was lured to the village by those same boys and their bag of seeds. The boys did to her exactly as they had done to the first dove, and she returned home, hurt and afraid.

When the second man saw his dove he asked her what had happened, and she explained.

After hearing of what had happened to his precious dove, he gently scooped her up and held her to his chest. Then he said simply, "You will always be safe here."

And the second man's dove was very happy.

Heretic

A world where the sky is always a hue of green, and fire blazes across horizons. Where the air is always tinged by sulfur, and the winds are caustic like acid, where knights journey to die. Lights dance in the starlight, powered by corrupted magnetic fields, and there is no shelter from the weather, be it rain or gales or meteor showers. Harsh and abrasive, life has given way to endless plains of barren waste, broken up only by the bones of the dead.

Sir Zion walks Ganith 7 as he was bid. One of many cursed worlds where heretic knights are sent to squander out the remainder of their defiled lives. Normally his ship would be in the distance, awaiting his return so that he might take refuge from whatever nightmare planet he had come to aid. But this time he is stranded, and there is no hope for rescue. As a veteran he has been given the honor to go M.I.A. The truth of his accusations and exile will remain hidden from the public so as to not tarnish his good name. That is his reward, and this is his punishment.

Armor he had pleasured to wear into many a battle and through innumerable elements was corroding right over his flesh. One foot after the other, he takes his steps over a hollow expanse of obsidian. Special alloys in his sabatons resonate with the hard stone, creating a jostling sound like the armors of olde. This suit had protected his lungs from gastric swamps and his bones from sundering blows, but all the same it was being reduced to simple materials. Soon it would be nothing but a shell for him to hide in and not the trusty second skin he'd come to know. Before long the sensors in his visor would short out, and visibility would become poor. Then the batteries would lose circuit, and the weight of the armor would be his to bear alone. Some short time after that, the armor would be compromised, he would be exposed, and he would most surely die.

Salvation for a heretic such as himself was simple. If he would but repent of his wickedness, then the gates of Eternia would be open to him when he died on these wastes. Alternatively, it was said that a truly innocent heretic would find a way off their cursed planet, that the Seer would know his own and spare them such a cruel fate. Of course no one had ever escaped their exile. Zion knew this, and he knew a few other things as well. Most of which had been deemed over his head and not safe to stay in it. But he supposed it would be possible to get off this rock, if the air weren't so poisonous, and if the radiation weren't so rampant, and also if there were any resources whatsoever to be found upon it. Alas, martyrdom was this world's only known form of release.

Step by step, breath by breath, death was approaching. Soon it would creep over him with burning, choking fingers. It would fill his lungs with gasping liquids and his muscles with licking flames. It would be without mercy, without awareness of such privileges as easy death. It would pull him away from his career and family, to the great abyss or the golden city. He wasn't sure which would be his destination, but the idea of being sent to a desolate place greater than this put a thin layer of sweat on his plated brow. It was no longer a question of "if" but of "when" and "where." The time was soon, of that there was no doubt, but did it have to drag on so? Zion wondered if other knights had ever been driven mad before death, though their time to consider was short, it was a great burden to ponder.

A rocky outcrop appears before him, nearly hidden by the sandy winds. He trudges toward it, air wailing about him, hungry for his life force. He can feel the grains blasting his resilient suit, and for a moment thinks he can almost smell the sardonic currents.

On his right hip is his pistol. On the left is his sword. McCaffin Armory had forged the sword, had upgraded the edge to be bolstered with laser energy after his promotion to Paladin. Its weight and lethality were reassuring, though he supposed he might never need it again. Instinctually he drew the pistol, a marvel from The War Lab. It worked with the same principles as the cowboy six-shooters from antiquity. A reliable revolver, accurate and dependable. But unlike the oversized bullets from the deserts of Old Earth, Zion's gun fired deadly packets of photons, and the cylinder graciously held six hundred shots. Falling under the shadow of the outcrop, he trod silently in his bulky suit to counter any demon which might have a den on this damned world.

Under the overhang, the gales died and with them the assault to his armor. Had he food and water, the suit would keep him protected for two years. How ironic he thought it would be were he to survive the battering of this harsh place only to die of starvation and thirst. The shelter went on into the ground, a cave of sorts, a reprieve. He wanted a moment to rest and think without death looming so closely in the forefront of his mind. Zion walked in a ways, saw no signs of life kept or life lost and holstered his gun. At the very back of the cave was a surprising find, a table and chair. He accepted the succor and took his seat, so very much like his own at the table of Knights Eld.

There he pondered his exile and reconsidered the terms of salvation. Perhaps it was not so simple as walking to death, and maybe there really was a Seer. After all, someone had placed this nice lounge here, and he supposed he might have a friend on the convict ship. If the top wanted him dead and knew of this cave, he'd have been dropped on the other side of the planet, where true hopelessness and despair would've conquered him. And was it normal for exiles to keep their arms? He was unsure.

Hope welled up in Sir Zion. It would be too much to escape of his own merits, but if this respite proved anything it was that he had friends. If only he could get his transmitter to cut through the warped magnetism, he would need only contact a trustworthy ally, or more likely one was on the way. Had it really only been minutes ago that he stared into the fate of absolute death? He crossed his legs under the table and held his arms comfortably to his chest. All he had to do now was wait for his rescue.

Zion

He had slain the beasts.

His ride into town was celebrated. The maidens, in fluster, tossed down their silken cloths before his path while they perched as songbirds from neon balconies. The lads and lasses walked beside him, shining his steel horse with clean fabrics like fine bootblacks. The men cheered, the ones of service offering complimentary accoutrements. There was talk of heroism, of fine drink, and hearty food.

A feast was thrown in his honor. He'd been to grander, more elaborate occasions hosted by nobility or even His and Her Majesty. But, there was something to be said about the endearing cheer and merriment of the commoners. Their joy was joy. It was not political, dishonest, or sham. When they raised a glass in his name, it was not to swell their own reputations but to bolster his. Indeed, in many ways the simple folk, through all their crude traditions and lack of etiquette, were purer than the most polished of blue bloods.

That night, as he gazed into the stars from his honorary suite and still smelling the blood of monsters, a message came through his helmet. It was laying on a table, and he had just gotten comfortable with the free moving air around his head. He went to it and slid his eyes up under the visor.

It was a message from the Crown. While all messages were unique when sent to a High Knight, the steps he took in response were always the same. He would affirm the orders and be on his way. It seemed the soft trophy which was this hotel bed would have to be replaced by the familiar cabin of his ship.

It was time to be off.

From the bridge of his ship, he watched the world he'd aided shrink and be replaced by the infinite void of space. Zion leaned back, allowing the computer to do its job. Out here in the nothing, there were no uprisings, less bands of derelict marauders, no pesky multiheaded abominations. Maybe someday, he reasoned, he could lay down his blade and gun and take up residence on a hospitable asteroid. He sighed at the thought. No knight of the Crown ever died in his sleep.

Several weeks of flight went by before Zion entered the unfamiliar solar system and could see the rocky planet from his cabin. The ship would do all the heavy lifting, assuming nothing malfunctioned. In a day or so, he'd be exiting the comfort of his vessel and venturing into another hostile environment.

This was a frontier planet, according to the briefing. He would report in at a mining outpost, which someday might become a town or city. He was familiar with such planets; they were among his most often visited. With these it was usually a case of marauders or pirates coming in from deep space on raids. What with the unforgiving atmosphere these planets usually had, it was almost never wildlife he had to deal with, which he preferred. Beasts were only doing as instinct fated, but men were malicious. With marauders, they were after women or easy scores of resources. He loathed pirates. They were clever, often former knights either from his country or another. They were in the business of kidnapping, and they were, more often than he would like, well armed and organized.

Zion stroked his ebon beard. "Squire," He announced at the empty, sterile room, "can you give me the details on my current mission? I wish to know exactly what I'm dealing with."

"Sir," Echoed an adolescent boy's voice, "your current destination is Antares 67, or as the locals call it 'Lithos.' A distress message was formally sent to the Royal Knight Matrix and was confirmed to be legitimate." There was a pause. The computer was mimicking concentrated thought, even though all its dialogue had been chosen the instant Zion asked. "But I'm afraid the exact details are not available in the network. The information has been redacted, but author comments on the redaction suggest rogues, sir. The planet isn't naturally hospitable and has yet to be terraformed, so I doubt it's fauna."

Zion nodded, so the machine could see.

"Anything else, sir?"

"That's all."

The gray, waterless planet came into view from his cabin. He went to the bridge and to his armor. The Squire assisted with mechanical arms in putting his suit on. After he was plated, he strapped himself into the chair before the main controls, a formality if nothing else. The atmosphere was nominal and wouldn't be likely to cause turbulence during entry.

His ship landed at an unimposing dock at the mining outpost, his predetermined destination. Though he'd entered a breathable pressurized space of air, he kept his helmet. He didn't like showing his face, any weakness, until his duty was fulfilled. He also left his alloyed steed behind. The smooth terrain of the outpost didn't demand it, and he'd rather keep people from gawking while he asked for the details of the distress call.

The place hadn't been leveled by harriers, so he supposed he wasn't too late. There were men in yellow body suits walking about, sophisticated multi-tools on their wrists. They regarded the walking bullet and kept to their tasks. There was one working on the base of a light pole, and he approached this one.

"Greetings, citizen." Zion said to the turned back. "I am Alexander Zion, knight of His and Her Majesty. I have been dispatched in regards to a distress signal."

The man quit prodding at wires and turned around. He was young by the look of him, but he had some extra years of grime seemingly graphed onto his features. He was a worker through and through. "You'd want to speak with Doctor Braun." He shook his head. "But, you're late for him. Sorry, but I wish you'd gotten here a few days ago."

Zion looked down at the man. With the physical augmentations he'd received from the military and in his plate, he stood a full two feet higher than the worker. Yet, the man seemed completely at ease facing him. He respected this and wondered if, under different circumstances, this one would've been a good candidate to join the Knights Corps.

"Late or not," Zion responded, "I'm here to answer the call. If Doctor Braun isn't available, with whom shall I speak? It doesn't matter who, so long as I'm given direction." He paused a moment, and the man before him shifted. "You could give me the details."

The man removed a glove and wiped his face. He swiped at a device on his wrist, punched in a sequence of numbers on a projected screen, and powered it down. "They don't care who you talk to, the royal wizard or a bum, you sign out before you take a break from work." He took a breath and wiped his face again, smearing dirt across his brow and down a cheek. "Follow me to the rest area, and I'll tell you." He turned and put a cover over the exposed wires. "I need a drink for this." He began walking.

Zion followed.

The break area was a large building fitted with a cafeteria and some basic recreation. Overall it was much like Zion's ship interior, a white and sterile landscape. The food was behind a long bar, hidden in cold storage. The bar itself had a running digital display of what foods were available, awaiting someone to follow the prompts and be served from a dispenser at the end. There were tabletop games, some of which were in use, and visual screen entertainment besides.

The man took a beverage from a machine by the bar and then had a seat near the tabletop setups. Zion sat across from him, sinking deeply into a chair which was not prepared for an eight foot tall man covered in thick metal.

"I thought you'd have grabbed something with bite. That's only juice." Zion remarked.

"Still work hours. I needed a drink in the sense that telling you what's going on will make me dry."

"Before you begin, what is your name? I believe I've given you mine."

The man cocked his head to the side, puzzled. He shrugged. "Eddy Parish for whatever that's worth. I'm also Maintenance Worker Thirteen Thirty-Seven. That's what all my friends call me."

Under the armor, Zion mimicked the puzzled look Eddy had just given him. "You should wear your name more proudly."

"Listen," Eddy leaned forward, "we little people don't have meaningful titles. That's all there is to it. You wanna hear the problem now?"

The knight nodded.

Eddy took a swig of liquid and set it on what appeared to be a wooden coffee table, though it was surely synthetic. "It's been going on a few months now. A gang of cutthroats has been touching down to the surface and harassing our operation. Security handled them just fine at the start, since there's nothing worth taking from here." Eddy knitted his hands together. There were a few other workers that had stopped their break to listen in. "Then a bigshot from Corporate came in. Dr. Braun, foremost researcher of..." He rolled a hand, "... something above my paygrade. He came with his own security, and I don't know how word got out, but suddenly this little dig became a priority for those pirates. They showed up in force, killed our security and Braun's, and then took the doctor with them. That's where we stand now. Braun sent the distress call, but I see we were no priority. And Corporate says to continue work as usual."

"Pirates?"

"Yeah. They have their own ships. Unmarked, so I can't tell you if they were Crown, Federation, or what. They're not from Antares."

Behind the visor, Zion frowned. "Can you tell me where they are, where they might've taken Braun?"

"Of course. They left all the details. Ransom, obviously. The company doesn't want to pay it, though. They say they don't negotiate, but I think the doc isn't quite as valuable as these scum thought. If they found that out, well." He tilted his head, stuck out his tongue, and rolled his eyes up to the whites.

"I want these details they left, and I'll decide what to do from there."

Eddy furrowed his brows, his dirty forehead folding into dusty canyons. "I think you should ask for backup. Not to tell you how to do your job, but these ones knew what they were doing, and they're armed."

"How well are they armed?"

Eddy almost winced. He rocked his head side to side. "They outgunned security, but I already said that. Also, some of them were wearing armor like yours. Not as new and shiny, but apparently still functioning."

"Tell me everything you can."

Eddy did.

Zion very much would have liked to take Eddy's advice and call in a contingent. He grabbed more details from the other workers, and the odds only stacked higher against him.

He went back to his ship to think. The Squire confirmed his assumption. If he called in for support, it would be at least three weeks before it arrived. Braun would be dead by then, more than likely, and the derelicts might be moving on to new territory. He asked it about the coordinates Eddy gave him, and the Squire confirmed it to be authentic. The next rocky planet in the system, Antares 66, and more specifically the location was that of an abandoned mining operation by the same company.

In the privacy of his cabin, he removed his helmet and gauntlets. He had to run his hands through his hair with bare hands. The machine pretended to understand, but it couldn't. Sometimes he had to rub his scalp and scratch his beard.

"Squire," He called, "take me to these pirates."

"Sir—"

"I know, I know. The rate of success is low, and not asking for support given the circumstances isn't protocol. I got that already. Just please, do as I command."

Another calculated pause. "Yes, sir. But I will be inclined to dissuade you all the while."

"That's fine. I can mute you."

The ship began its ascent, and the Squire began listing the most likely outcomes. Zion went to the manual override and muted the computer, as he had warned.

When he got into space again, he started wondering over the mission. He was out here in the frontier, and the mission details had been redacted. He didn't like thinking of foul play amongst his own, but it was getting hard not to. He unmuted the Squire, and it was not flooding the air with warnings.

"Squire," And he sighed, "have I done anything heretical?"

"There are no records of misdeed."

"And do my comrades hail me?"

"Vocal records and visual body language from previous encounters suggest that, yes, they do."

Zion shook his head. "See Squire? You don't know everything."

The machine did not respond.

Zion secured his helmet, as the ship prepared to land again. As he did, the Squire ran one more line of questions at him.

"Sir, are you suicidal? I ran a quick test on your vitals and chemical balance. You checked out fine, which contradicts these actions of yours."

Zion wanted very much to ignore the question and let the machine come to its own conclusions, but he knew it wouldn't. If it ran out of logic, it would simply repeat the question until an answer was given. "No." He finally said. "I would very much like to keep on living." He paused. "But one thing. Should I run into trouble, take this ship back to base as quickly as you can. I'd not let them get their hands on any more equipment."

"Yes." It replied.

He had the ship land a short distance from the coordinates and rode his steed the rest of the way. It was the heat of the day, and a sandy wind whipped about him. There was no detectable presence, and in one deep pit of his heart he hoped the rogues had already moved on. That this mission would be a failure caused by distance and time. Guilt washed him at the notion and swept the thought far away.

Zion approached the old outpost, a lifeless facsimile of the new. Still he saw no signs of scouts or surveillance. If they were still here, there'd be a trap. The longer he had to wait for it, the worse his gut felt.

So he sat upon his mechanical horse, waiting in the shadow of the old complex while the wind howled around his armor.

He stayed for a long time before his visor detected movement caused by life. Then it was just a short passage until he was surrounded. Zion had been cautiously optimistic, but his hope was thoroughly quashed the closer the derelicts became. They encircled him and stepped forward from his front, a clear gesture to open a dialogue. He couldn't see it, but Zion knew there was a smug grin behind the armored face.

He bowed his head and then looked around. He wished in vain that he could peel away all the armor and gaze directly into their eyes. "So," He said, "was there ever any emergency at that outpost?"

The one in front of him wore the same armor as he and replied, "Only financially."

"You're lying. I don't need the software to tell me so. It would've picked up on the miners." He recognized the other knight, and he suspected the rest. "You killed civilian security to lure me out here? Did you kill Braun too?"

"He is making his way to this system's sun. Without a ship or suit."

"Be happy." Another said. "You have the honor of going missing in action instead of a dishonor and public execution."

"Me, dishonorable? What fairytale is this? You must have framed me. But I don't understand. I've not crossed any of you."

The first again. "That's exactly the thing, Alexander. No one will be able to vouch for you. You're respected enough that the Crown will cover up your heresy and have you sent on an exile."

He took a breath. He couldn't believe he was wishing for pirates. Zion looked around. There were eight surrounding him, each as well equipped as he.

The first knight went on. "We mean to take you into custody peaceably, so that you may be tried and officially sentenced. We know you'll fight, and we know that you know you won't win. But you'll do it all the same."

"You're damned right!" He shifted and drew his rifle.

He managed to fire twice before they were on him, dismounting him forcefully. He shook them off, drew his sword, and fell back into his training and lightning reflexes. For a few seconds he thought perhaps the stars had aligned, and he would be able to outperform them. But they continued to flank him, so he made ready to die here, an honest man. He parried and countered, closing off as many of his weaknesses as he could.

Then he felt the heavy hot blow in his side, and his knees begged to buckle. He went on until they disabled him, and he prayed that if he did not bleed out that the atmosphere would end him. But no such mercy came. Zion was restrained and dragged back to a ship like his, where he was thrown into a holding cell and stripped of his armor.

He felt the ship ascend, his captors out of sight now but within earshot. He asked, "What now?"

A voice down the hall answered, "Tell him Squire."

The familiar boy's voice replied, "You're going home, sir."

Daedalus

Isaac Dulante, son of the great engineer Desmond Dulante, accepted the results of his final physical testing. He was qualified in both mind and body, but the added scrutiny was assurance. He was readying to embark on a journey not unlike that of the primitive pioneers. He would pave the way, broaden humanity's horizons. He and his small crew would be the first to travel beyond Mercury to observe the sun.

Desmond had always been fascinated by technology, had always, even as a child, sought to edge past established boundaries. A free, unconventional thinker, since his youth he'd been lauded as a genius. The research he spearheaded was what would take his son on an expedition to earth's own star. It was radiation shielding which he had conquered.

The morning of the mission was clear. All instruments, components, and computers had been checked meticulously and then a few more times for good measure.

The crew, Amanda Harrier, Caren Augman, Peter Orninski, and Gregory Smith., gave farewells to their loved ones as Desmond wished Isaac the best. Desmond was sure of his work, and he would be in Mission Control, keeping tabs. Even with all precaution, however, this was arguably the most dangerous journey ever to be made.

"I know they've tested you, but I want to hear it again from you." Desmond said to his son. "Are you ready for this?"

Isaac, who bore the weight of a great legacy upon his shoulders, had but one answer. "Yes."

The launch and the proceeding few months went by without incident.

Though on a delay, the senior Dulante watched as his son approached **the** sun. They had just passed Mercury's orbit as projected, and the crew remained healthy. Though his technology had been subjugated to extreme conditions before, it wasn't until seeing those positive vitals when it truly counted that he was set at ease.

Mission Control, which was composed of ten times the number venturing in space, all let out a cheer when the ship reached the extent of its travel. The sound of clapping hands, of high-fives, resonated through the room which now buzzed with delight. Though the mission was not complete until the ship rounded one side of the sun and slung itself back on course for earth, the coveted data was being streamed in.

Though, Desmond noticed something before the rest. Was the ship still approaching the sun?

Isaac peered out the small window. Even this close, his father's design allowed him to behold the sheer brilliance. To think, this could be classified as a dwarf. That was such an easy thing to say on earth, where it was but a small yellow disc up in the sky. Here though, Isaac thought he could be told it was the smallest known, and he would still marvel at its grandeur.

"Sir." It was Amanda Harrier, the only able to speak it seemed. "We're here." She could add nothing more. Neither could the others.

Isaac looked over at her and the rest of the five man crew. He was in charge of this team, this family. The eight minute delay with earth made that necessary, and it gave him a small window.

"Take us closer." He said aloud.

Peter made the reply, "We've reached our goal." It was not an argument, merely a statement, as if perhaps Isaac had forgotten in his wonder.

"Take us to the edge of safety. I doubt we'll ever have another chance."

With the help of Amanda, Peter went to the manual control panel and directed the weak thrusters to cease their braking process and let them drift in a bit more. "Control, I mean your old man, is gonna chew your ears off about this one."

"That's fine." Isaac said, amazed.

They did as he instructed and nosed their way to the limit of calculated safety. They continued on until Control overrode their inputs, and through the delayed comms Isaac indeed had an ear beating.

Aside from that hiccup in human decision, the mission continued undeterred. Isaac and his team collected what data they could, staved off atrophy, and looked forward to their return.

He couldn't believe he had been so close. They always said to reach for the stars, but he had actually done it. Oh sure, in terms of conventional travel they'd still been quite a ways from the yellow sphere. But relatively speaking was altogether another matter. They had touched it, or so it seemed. Come as close as one could to a flame without being singed. They basked in a radiance that many only ever understood a fraction of. Weren't he and his crew a bit like Moses in those old stories, whose face had shone after speaking to the bush? He thought they were.

The crew of mission Helios was on course and soon to reenter earth's atmosphere. Now within reasonable range, each member activated a camera on his or her suit. The decent footage would be released to the public later, but it had a live feed to Mission Control.

Conditions were favorable. They would land, while not entirely gently, along the southern coast of the UK.

However, as the earth's gravity began to do its work, Orninski noticed a problem.

"I ran the diagnostic three times now. Our weak landing thrusters are fine, but the parachute release is offline. Completely." Peter shook his head. "I can't even tell if the automatic altitude release is working."

"No problems yesterday." Isaac said, another stupefied remark.

"Because there weren't any. It's not safe to work on it now. We've only got a few more minutes to buckle up."

There were two unspoken truths floating in the air. Isaac refused to say the first, which was that his father's technology hadn't held up quite as well in some areas as it should have. They all knew it, but he would not give it voice. The second, however, he was obligated to. "I'll take the panel and crawl into the parachute compartment. Seal it up behind me. I'll make it release myself."

Greg, who always wanted everything out in the open, began, "The negative pressure—"

"I know." Isaac cut him off. "I'll be ejected immediately, hopefully not getting caught in the chutes, and only knocked unconscious if I'm lucky."

They muted comms with Mission Control and took a moment of silence. They only had a moment.

"I flew too close to the sun." Was the last thing Isaac said to his crew before removing the hatch that might as well have led to his tomb.

He found the release, and its computer triggers did all seem to be fried. He waited, knowing full-well what he had to do, what it meant, and how likely it would be to fail even so.

When the time came, he did what he had to.

Desmond Dulante was sitting, as he could no longer stand, in a motionless roller chair in a comfortable room. There were far away voices asking him if he was still with them, but he thought no, no he was not. He was in some kind of fever dream one gets, the kind that with enough exposure lead to madness. Here he was, powerless, watching his son fall unconscious and off course.

He could only mutter, "Please, send a boat. Oh please."

Break Me

Clip my wings and ground me thusly. Curtail my forked tongue and silence this wailing beast. Oh wounded behemoth, my ephemeral soul, with dull ebon claw. Have the hunters pursued and clasped thy gaping maw? Did the prey bide its time to grow old and clever? Monster, my self, your enemies draw near. Their razor blades honed, for your arteries to sever. Revenge, sweet ambrosia, to you who devoured that which was dear.

Strip this crest from my bosom and sunder my shield. Expose my deeds, the sowing of evil seeds. Oh fallen knight, my strength, with shattered will and sword. Did the devil's deal with you strike a chord? Paladin, my pride, the demons are close. You've reserved a chamber in their hellfire morose. Betrayal, kinslayer's greed, what bitter rewards are left to yield?

Character Flaws

The knight who raised his sword to the winds of change. Their gales, melancholy abrasion, whisk the chaff. His soul, a husk, carries far, his mind left to derange. Was this quest for a grail or wizard's staff? His friends but blood upon his plate, woeful crimson stain. His shattered heart, devout organ of might, now quivers insane.

Raging leviathan, whose tide broke the shores. What greater fiend could rend your scales? From such wounds now your lifeblood pours. Oh Jörmungandr, by foe or by self, your strength fails. Your brood reduced to flotsam, but rock tossed seafoam. Desecrated pride, honor bereft, still will you roam?

Young scholar of tomes grand and great. Did your ally, fiercest knowledge, turn and betray? Did you dip the quill and desire to be an author of fate? Yet now it seems you, lofty minded, were but its prey. The pages you penned, gilded comedy, a fictitious story. Truth's ink congeals, maroon and gory.

Youthful soldier who took up arms. Beckoned by old men, who sat fat and gorged, you gave your life. Did they dispose you like refuse for mere baubles and charms? Then they, gluttons and derelicts all, cast your brother into the same strife. Oh brother, beaten and battered, who wears two men's scars. Succor teased, and now, bedded under bridge, you watch the cars.

Lover unrequited whose chest did ache. Was your amore but infatuation, superficially created? Haughty minded, for wisdom deprived, you laid everything at stake. Then, too late, your treasured rose, your safe strong arms, did fall for one vile or loathsome charmer hated. Oh admirer kind, who traded hope for sorrow. Does a broken heart have room to grow?

Friend so dear, who left self forgotten but for others. Where did your life wander, your plans and dreams? Did you lay it all aside for those you call brothers? Oh selfless, tender giver unthanked, trampled and advantage taken it seems. You faded, like ether dissipated, into the fray. Perhaps, when heavens align, you'll be praised one day.

Peace

He sat in the field, tasting acrid smoke and admiring the blue sky. Truly it had turned into a beautiful day, almost untouched by the deeds of man. The cold winter air had given way to mild spring winds, and the flowers were just in the peak of bloom. He could smell cherry blossoms in the smoke, and it gave him a peace. The grass under his hands was warm and soft, but the puffy whites overhead appeared positively velvet. He sighed, taking in both the wisps of smoke and that pleasant cherry aroma.

There was no need to fret any longer. In fact, any action other than relaxing would be futile. All of his friends were dead, if they really were friends. On the same note his enemies were also dead, and he was critically injured. He could drag his mangled body back to the smoldering car, but he couldn't go anywhere. Certainly there was nowhere to go, and all he needed to do was sit here in the green field under that blue sky and wait for the end. Besides, his makeshift tourniquet would come loose if he wormed around much, and it would just cut his remaining time.

He lied down, careful not to exasperate his shortened leg. The sun covered his skin like a thermal blanket. It was warm enough to be pleasant and not in the least bit overbearing. He had been wearing a nice three piece, and it occurred to him that he was ruining it with grass stains. He smiled, the sun encouraging him to do so. Here he was, worrying about some green spots, while the lower half of his right leg was missing. He hadn't assessed, but certainly he was a bloody mess.

He cupped his hands behind his head and used them as a pillow. Overhead flew a flock of geese, their V a bit lopsided, which made them look endearing. A songbird chirped a little tune somewhere behind, and it sounded as if it had a partner to reciprocate the notes. Perhaps it was his dazed state, but he thought these birds had an organized rhythm flowing between them, almost like they'd been rehearsing this and just now got to perform it for him.

The sun began cooling down, and he knew what that meant. He hadn't glanced down at his leg for a good while, but he supposed he'd lost a lot of blood, tourniquet or not. Along with the cold, his head started feeling light, and he grew deeply exhausted. It reminded him of when he was a young boy, coming home from school and taking a little nap. Ma always had a peanut butter sandwich and milk for him afterwards, but that had been a sleep he knew he'd wake up from. Now all he could expect would be the fatigue to grow and the cold intensify, until he shut his eyes. Breathing had become an honest labor, and he used what little bit of strength was reserved in his lungs to hum along to the songbirds. The gentle vibrations of his own humming cradled his consciousness and carried him down into rest.

Clerk

The register is no longer white, and its buttons' markings are no longer clear. It has somehow faded to the color of old paper and water stains. The drawer and its spring have been removed some eons ago, so it now pulls open manually, fingernail scratches marring the cheap pinewood. Just new enough to have a digital screen, sometimes its internal calculations have a hiccup. From time to time it fails to declare correct change, and other times its tax estimates are multiplied by the millions.

Martin is standing before this old register, ringing up items for a regular who can't be bothered to remember his name. She asks for it every time she comes in, and he no longer cares to be pleasant about it. Mechanically he spews out his name, which come next week will prove to be a fruitless task. She'll be in here buying her eggs, her milk, and her tabloids and ask him yet again.

Sometime later, when his twenty hour long eight hour shift ends, he goes to the back to swipe his card and punch out. There's a note on the wall next to the bluish grey time clock, a message from management to the lesser mortals reminding them to wear their smiles always. Martin reads the note over and over, knowing which manager wrote it, his ire inexplicably rising. Keeping a big fat grin on your face was not so easy when you were a doormat for every person that came lolling in through the front door. What this message was really saying behind its flower hour delusions was "Take the crap and like it." Martin reads it again, overcomes his desire to rip it off the wall, and clocks out.

The parking lot is damp with a light drizzle just warm enough to be liquid. Martin left his jacket in the car, a rusty old station wagon he miserably wishes he could replace. He puts his key in the door, jiggling it left and right. One of these days that key is going to snap, and he'll be left stranded. He knows it as surely as he knows his name. At last there's the click on the inside, and the handle yields.

He starts the engine and waits for it to stall. It does, and he turns the ignition again, listening to the whining starter. It turns over and stalls out again. He tries one more time, and this time it stays. The third time is always the charm, right? That's what he tells people, and he guesses that's the best way to salvage pride about his mobile trash heap.

The windshield wipers clear all the water, save for a patch directly in front of him. So he drives home squinting, the lights of other vehicles a brilliantly blinding band of white stars. The radio quit working a week ago for reasons unknown, and the heater stopped last winter.

He pulls into his driveway, but it isn't really his. It belongs to his parents, so does the house and almost everything in it. He turns off the old beater and sits for a few minutes, staring through the rain and at the light emanating from the first floor windows. He's preparing himself for the backhanded comments, the passive aggressive arguments, and the relentless guilt. All he wants to do is go inside, have something, anything, to eat, and go to bed. What he knows he'll get is, at best nothing, at worst it'll be a condensed rendition of the stress he had at work. Martin considers sleeping out here, but putting off the circus will only make it wilder later. He gets out and goes to the door, opens it quietly, and enters.

The meaty aroma of stew catches him immediately, and hunger he had been unaware of awakens. He walks to the kitchen and sees the water collecting over the dome of the crockpot.

"Hey, kiddo." His mother says from the doorway to the living room. "Go wash your hands. Food's about ready. Hungry?"

"I wasn't until I smelled it."

They eat in front of the TV. His mother sits by the window in her chair, while Martin and his father share a small sofa in the back of the room. The light's dim, emphasizing the idiot box's glow as it casts absurd shadows about the room. Martin sits here, eating stew he did not make, under a roof he does not own, and sitting on a couch which doesn't belong to him. He's earned none of the comforts of this place, a fact of which he's shamefully aware, and it makes everything bitter.

"How was work?" His father asks. He's a sharp faced engineer, perhaps reflecting the geometry of his work.

Martin shrugs, hoping this will stifle the conversation.

"You know it isn't any worse at a real job."

Martin nods.

"Don't you want your own place? You can't live here forever."

"Kurt!" Martin's mother intercedes, "The boy can stay here as long as he likes."

"The 'boy' is twenty-five years old, for Christ's sake. Moving out is a part of growing up, and he's done growing."

Martin is halfway through his bowl now, but that great appetite has disappeared as quickly as it surfaced. It always goes this way, and he hates letting his mother stand up for him. He would stand up for himself, but how could he when he had no ground to stand on? Of course he wanted his own life to start, but he lacked the means and motivation.

"He'll move out when he's ready."

"I moved out when I was eighteen. He's most of the way to thirty now, still sleeping in his old room." He turned to Martin.

Martin doesn't shrug or nod, only stares at his cooling stew.

"Are you trying to say he's a nuisance? He's never been in trouble like other people's kids, he pays for his own stuff, and he helps you every time you have a project around here."

Martin's stomach feels as though it's shrinking. Every time he lets her do this for him, it gets like that. He's wondering now if it wouldn't have been such a bad idea to stay outside.

"No, he's been a fine kid, but he's not a kid anymore. A man needs a space to call his own."

"You're impossible." She says. "He goes to work just about every day. Obviously he'll get a better job and be out on his own, but you aren't helping or speeding that up by berating him like this."

"I'm just saying that if I were him, I would be embarrassed."

"It's like you haven't heard a word I said."

Martin's stomach is about the size of a tick. His whole body feels the same way, and he's certain that if he were to look in a mirror he would not be a twenty-something man. He would be a shy child no older than ten, with that tells-all look of shame dragging his face to his feet.

After some indeterminate time Martin finds himself in the room he grew up in, checking his email for job application responses. As usual there's nothing but spam. Every once in a while he actually gets a rejection notice.

He checks the rate of tuition at the state college and a few community colleges nearby, and somehow it's still more than he can afford. Not that he ever had a major in mind, but at this point he supposes he's getting a little too old to go. There are commercials that would disagree, but despite the message of education they're seemingly promoting, all those messages are really about is fattening someone's wallet.

Martin goes to his alarm clock, his most invaluable while simultaneously hated possession. He sets it, thinking about how his life can be measured in the fleeting minutes of its digital face. It was only moments ago when it was buzzing, christening yet another burdensome day. He knows it'll be only a few more before it repeats.

Martin drifts through the chaos of another day. When he started working at sixteen, the trivialities of the service industry had been unbearable. He learned that after so much time of listening to better-off-than-you morons who couldn't tie their shoes, you begin repressing and ignoring the world around you. The word going around for that was "numb" but that implied a dull tingle, as it was always said "I feel numb." Of course, if you feel, then the term was senseless. Perhaps more cliché, but more accurate, Martin would attribute the ability to wade through such toxic days as a form of internal death.

After another eternity at the counter, he begins compressing the day into a string of small moments, and four o'clock and his replacement come. He's dully aware that he's unhappy, but he supposes he should be. He was at the bottom, looking up at the rest of the world while it planted its filthy boots on his face time and time again. He can't shake the feeling that if he were on an assembly line, he'd be discarded and marked as a dud.

He swipes his time card and looks at the note left by management. He takes a pen from a table under the clock, readies to write "Take the crap and like it" below the intended message, before he throws the pen down and curses under his breath. It just wasn't worth the fight.

Six Words

Expectations

Sometimes I feel

Like a disappointment

Distancing

Trying to protect someone

From myself

Precipice

Turning my chains

Into my noose

The Washup

My name is Ingríðr, daughter of Bjarni and Olga. I serve the patrons of the Fisheye Tavern under the employ of Freyja of clan Völsung. My father was a Viking, or so my mother relented in saying after years of telling me he'd been lost at sea. It's hard to know for sure since I've never seen him. She never told me how they met, and I've come to unpleasant conclusions as to why. However, I'll never have the chance to find out, as my mother died well in age in her fourth decade. For the past six years since, I've had the good fortune of working for Freyja, a salty and stern old __ skjaldmær, that is to say a shieldmaiden. She has treated me as her own and offered me boarding in her tavern.

I am fifteen, perhaps halfway through with my years. Freyja assures me I need no man. While that may be true, I find myself wanting one all the same. I have rather plain features, and the village boys always were sure to tease or ignore me. The only attention I get from men these days is from the fishermen, and then only when they're deep in their cups. It isn't the attention I want.

Then there came a day, not so different from any other, when things changed.

"Wench, my mead's lonely over here! It could use a wee bit more companionship I do say!"

I brought the fisher some more. The same kind as his last. As I filled his tankard, his arm reached behind me. He pulled me closer by the waist, squeezing me without caress.

"How 'bout a kiss for thish fine seafarer?"

I spilled some of the honeyed brew when he did this. I pushed away, but his arm and desire were both stronger than my terror and disgust it seemed. "No!" I shouted back, hoping my word would do what my body could not.

To my delight, Freyja saw and overheard. She didn't even have to come over. "Ivar!" She bellowed from the bar, "If ye don't let the lass go, the only thing ye'll be gropin' are what's left o' yer teeth!"

The arm immediately lost all its strength. "We's jus' havin' a pleasant bit o' conversin' here!" He called back, perhaps a draught or two more sober than he'd been a moment ago.

Later that night when our patrons had themselves either under the tables, in a room, or stumbling back home, I went out to draw water for cleaning. I had done this task a thousand times before, and it was among my favorites to do. It got me away from the smell of ale, mead, and sweaty pits.

But as I carried my bucket back, I was stopped by two men. From whence they came, I did not know. I'd have preferred drunks from inside. At least they'd be staggering and easy to dodge, but these ones were in their right minds, though it seemed very clear their intentions were wrong.

"Getting a bit of water there?" The first man asked. It was dark, the clouds overhead were thick, and it was hard for me to tell their features. "Got yourself a pony what needs a bit to drink?"

I was taking steps back, as they were inching forward. I knew what they were going to do. I'd seen the look before, but Freyja was always there to save me. Her, or a rightminded buddy talked sense when my pleas went unheard. I wished then I was strong like Miss Völsung, because I could tell the second wasn't going to talk any sense.

"Oh, but she's a fine filly herself, isn't she?" He chuckled. "You must be so tickled, hearing such compliments. Aye lass, we've many more fine things to say. If you'd only come a bit closer, we'll whisper such into yer ears."

In one motion, I dropped the bucket and turned to run. I thought if I could only outrun them until I got back inside, I would be safe. But almost right away one of them had me clutched around the neck. It was obvious now they'd been ready for my flight. They had done this before, and I was horrified. I knew what was coming, and I only managed to yell for help once before a hand covered my mouth as securely as a vice.

Is this what my father had done to my mother?

I prayed then to the gods that I would die there. Now I was pinned, and they were tearing at my clothes. It seemed my cry for help went unheard, so perhaps those gods would hear me instead and have mercy on me. If they but knocked me unconscious, I would consider myself blessed. For I don't think I'd have been able to stomach living if I'd been awake a moment longer, as the worst was about to come. But for all my desperation, anger, and fear it seemed all I could do was cry silently.

The worst part didn't come, though. I could still feel pressure on my back, but the two perverts had stopped trying to peel me from my coverings. I thought that perhaps I had passed out and had woken up lamed, just starting to feel the extent of the beating that had come along with the violation. But it was still dark, and as I was coming back to the reality I'd been trying to flee, I heard another man's voice.

"I met a few eunuchs down south." The third man's voice remarked. "I'd butcher the job, but I think you two would be better for it."

The one holding me down shifted his weight, and it became harder to breathe. "Sod off! This one just about begged us to do this to 'er."

I managed to turn my head a bit and see that the second man was trying to reason wordlessly with his friend. I could not see the third, but I heard his approaching footsteps. He must've been large.

Suddenly the weight came off me, and the hand that held my mouth was gone. I heard the man who'd been on top hitting the ground nearby with a thud. I was sobbing uncontrollably then, and I found it impossible to get up and run. I did the only thing I could. I watched through hazy eyes as a hulking mass of fur and iron effortlessly broke the limbs and spirits of my assailants.

The two men thoroughly thrashed and unconscious, the third came over to me. Again I was terrified. He wanted me for himself, and if he could so easily break those two, what hope did I have? I was sitting then, though I can't say I remember how I wrenched myself upright. But in that moment all I could do was tuck my head and let the tears stream.

A large hand, one which had just mercilessly sundered jawbones, gently touched under my chin and lifted my head. If I kept my eyes closed I wouldn't have seen him, but that touch was so different from the treatment I'd had only moments before, so I let down my guard and opened my eyes.

Even in the darkness, I saw him well. He was a rugged looking sort. Though not the thickest I'd ever seen, he had a full blonde beard, broken only by a scar that ran down his right cheek from eye to jaw. Where the beard did not touch was smooth skin, so I guessed he wasn't too old. When I saw his eyes, however, I knew I was safe. Behind the northern blue seas with which he beheld me was a kind sympathy.

He sighed and turned away. He must've had a cloth on him, because the next thing I knew he was gently wiping the streams from my face. As he took away the last tear he said, "I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner. Are you hurt?"

Emotionally I was a wreck, but when he asked, I realized that they hadn't yet bruised me or twisted me wrong. I shook my head, knowing to open my mouth would start another spout from my eyes.

"Here." He said and covered me up with the great furred coat he had been wearing. It was heavier than all my clothes put together. My hand was in his, and he helped me up. "Let's get you inside."

The tears started again. I couldn't believe I'd actually been saved. Maybe the gods really did hear my prayers and sent me this valiant warrior. I wanted to thank him, but all I could say was, "I have to get a bucket of water." I sniffled. "To clean up with."

We were at the door then. It had been so close. "You go in and get yourself settled. I'll worry about the water."

I went in as he told me. Freyja was putting away cups and saw me. I don't remember what she said, and I don't remember just what I said. What I do recall is babbling to her about what had happened. She was a tough woman, but to me she'd always shown softness, and I did the rest of my crying on her shoulder.

He came in after that. In the light of the lamps, my earlier thought was proven. He was not all that much older than I was, despite that beard. But he was even bigger in the closed area, and I thought then that five men wouldn't have been able to stop him.

"Stranger," Freyja said, "you must be the one who helped my dear Ingríðr. She is like a daughter to me, and I'd have clubbed the louts just as surely you did. Come, sit. You'll drink free, and I'll gladly offer ye a room, should ye need it."

"Thank you." He said. "I'm glad I could help."

"What's your name, lad?" I was grateful Freyja could speak for me like this. I was so shaken still.

"Hafþór." He replied.

"Tell us about yourself, Hafþór."

He seemed reluctant to explain himself, but he came around, trying his best to accommodate his gracious host, "I was a Viking until recently." He held up his enormous hands, knowing well what that reception might've turned into now that Freyja heard he was one of those raiders. "I was taken from my home as a boy and grew up traveling with my captors. They'd have sold me, but I grew fast and helpful. In time I became one of them. They taught me to fight and . . . do other things." He shook his head. "The life didn't suit me. The last time we were ashore, I broke off from the others and headed up the coast. I'm looking to start anew. My pa ran a lumber mill when I was small." He paused a moment, and I felt guilty not saying anything, only looking at him. I knew what had happened to his father. "I was thinking maybe I could get into that business myself."

Freyja smiled. "Stay here the night. You'll have a warm bed and in the morning a good meal to fill yer belly. My brother Ulfgarðr owns a mill. You've earned my word, and I'll send it."

"Thank you."

For the first time in a while, I was able to speak coherently. I looked at him and said the same, "Thank you."

Late Arrival

He turned into the driveway and flipped the high beams to low. The engine was making that damned clunking noise. Normally he would just turn up the radio, drown it out. But, that was breaking as well. He made a quick breathy laugh at his rearview mirror, unable to see his haggard face in the dark. Now that the radio was broken, he would have to face the music.

He would have to face all of it.

It should have been storming that night. It was February, and a good blizzard would've closed up the driveway. He'd have gotten stuck, and that would've bought him time. What it was instead was a clear night, the full moon lending its dusty light to the snowfields on either side of the drive. Why, if it had at least been windy, things would be blown in. But it was calm. Cold sure, but calm. It was a perfect runway to the house.

He parked and killed the engine. In the silence it wasn't clunky. In that moment, with the dark windows before him and the night's light about, everything was perfect. The stillness and all its chill were incorruptible. He leaned forward and gripped the steering wheel, its leathery surface creaking in his grasp. The car was starting to cool off. It was nature's way of forcing him forward, making him take shelter in that four walled human construct before him.

He didn't realize it until he hit the bitter air that his face was hot, as if he needed the reminder that this was all stressful.

When he got to the door, he took the keys from his pocket. On a night like this, he didn't have to fumble for the right one. On an ordinary night that would be fine and dandy, thank you very much. This night, however, he'd have gladly taken the dark, the storm, and a downed tree across the drive would've been welcomed.

The door opened without incident, and he was quiet about it, ginger one might say. It was only instinct in these sorts of situations to tuck one's tail and pray for mercy. He knew the door could open, if she hadn't changed the locks already, and there she'd be, steaming like a kettle. He deserved it, but she was not waiting in the entryway, flicking on the light to his return and spewing well-earned vitriol. Again, it was quiet, so he shut the door behind him.

He passed the living room, expecting her at the recliner, wine glass in hand and unburdened bottle beside. Once more, no sign of her.

A fear ran its bony fingers from his temples to his neck before trickling down his spine. She would be rightfully upset, but she always vented with a raised voice. He thought though, and the dread rose, what if she'd done something more rash than simply changing the locks? The worry flared inside him, and he wanted suddenly to jolt up the stairs. He restrained himself but made for the steps, his eyes misty at the mere consideration.

Slowly he pushed open the door to their bedroom, hoping and praying for her furious face, her righteous anger. In the pit of his stomach he was sure anything else would only be devastation, that he would see her lifeless form. The idea that his idiocy could drive her to such an act increased the mist to a little rivulet.

She was lying in the bed, and he feared he might go into hysteric sobs. Then he saw the steady rise and fall of the sheets, and relief came all at once.

There she was, her straight black hair, which as far as he knew held no grays, nesting around her head. She was on her back, and that moonlight pouring through the window allowed him a good look at her face. She had definitely been crying. Over him, of course.

He hung his head in private shame, and again came that feeling of perfect stillness. What he'd done to her, what he was doing to her, and how she could tolerate it. He didn't know.

She was still beautiful, so it wasn't that. Certainly his coworker never packed his lunches or rubbed his back after a long day. His coworker never brought him soup when he was sick or consoled him when his father died. So, why did he do it, and why didn't he stop at the first? He hadn't the foggiest. Only that, perhaps he was some base demon.

What he did know was that the stream on his own face wasn't going to stop any time soon and that he was going to get well-acquainted with the couch.

Taboo

He walked up to the door of his parents' suburban home. It was late, but they knew he'd be getting back well into the night. Even so, he knew someone would still be up, waiting to fire questions he was too tired to answer without edge.

In his coat pocket were two movie stubs. Neither his mother nor his father were going to check him, but all the same these pieces of paper felt bright and heavy, as though their outlines protrude and make themselves known.

He entered and locked the door behind him.

The living room light was still on, and he could hear the white noise drone of the television. On a Friday night it could be either of them or both. He hoped it was his father, who would likely be asleep on the couch. Even if he was awake, he wasn't the type to pry.

"There's the night owl." It was his mother. He had been trying to pass up the stairs, but she'd turned from her sitting place in the other room and locked him with her gaze. "Did you have fun?"

"Yes." He replied and inched a bit closer to the steps, his escape.

"Well, talk to me a minute. I hardly see you anymore." She muted the television with a casual, memorized tap at the remote. "Where'd you all go?"

"The mall for a bit. We ate at that new Chinese buffet. Then we went and saw a movie. That's pretty much it."

"The food there any good?"

He was glad to hear this question. It would divert her from her usual chain of inquiry. "Really good, actually. They had a lot of things to pick from, and I sampled everything."

"Nice!" And that was as much as she cared to stay on that topic. "So, who all went?"

Did she know? No, she always asked that question, and he was ever obligated to inform. "Oh, just a couple of us."

"Yeah, who's 'a couple of us?'"

"Just me, Bobby, and Samantha. Ben and Jessica were both busy."

She titled her head slightly, or at least he thought she did. "Well, I'm glad you had fun."

He climbed two of the steps, freedom within his grasp.

"Hey." She halted him once more. "You going to bed?"

"Not just yet."

"Would you run downstairs real quick and grab the laundry baskets? It would save my back. If you just set them on the kitchen table, I'll fold them."

"Sure thing." He wanted to be amiable. He was, after all, in the homestretch. He did not like lying, and maybe he didn't need to, but he felt like he did. How was he supposed to make this work?

He turned on the basement light. This would only take a couple minutes. In the morning this would all be old news, and he'd be safe for a week or two.

He really needed to plan more group activities.

He was still wearing his coat, and he reached into the pocket. He took the two stubs out, glossed over their details momentarily, and ripped them up crosswise until they were but ambiguous confetti. He leaned over the trash. It was full of lint. He put a hand in and pulled up some of the gray fluff. Then he dropped the shreds and covered them. Perhaps it was overkill, but it relieved him that terrible weight.

He took the first basket up and then the second. It was the work of thirty some seconds, though it felt like a lazy twenty minutes.

As he passed his mother for what would hopefully be the last time tonight, she mumbled "Good night. Love you."

"Love you, too." He replied, trying to mask his actual feelings with his tiredness.

He walked upstairs and to his temporary safety. He couldn't hide Keisha forever.

Writer's Mountain

The mountain upon which he sat loomed over the village, its shadow like a tangible malice. Smoke rolled down its slopes and ascended into the sky, a miasmic odor accompanying it. A typical day. The town of Story was waiting for Writer's next volley of wrath to come tumbling down the mountain.

The Champion's Guild had a board full of job listings. The protagonists, heroes, and motley crews were dispatched to clear the smoke and quell whatever evil had been roused by it. In their usual fashion, success came moments before failure. This drew the ire of Writer more than anything else, but despite his best attempts, his own creations always managed to stop his assault.

The league of antagonists, villains, and monsters was more independently based, only loosely affiliated with one another. Their worry was not over what Writer wanted to do, because Writer always held a special place for them in his heart. Besides, only a member of the Champion's Guild was equipped to dispose of them, and only then if there was a history. And it was in these times when Writer was in a mood that they flourished. While the pompous, vanilla saviors stemmed the tide of chaos, those who lurked in shadows were free to stir up strife.

So it was on that day that Writer decided to, once again, annihilate his own creations. He gave strength to evil and disadvantaged good. He tipped the scales of balance and grinned favorably at the ensuing turmoil. Though, this would not be the first time he had done so, and he knew the end results would be the same. He was weary of the never-ending cycle.

Writer decided to erase the village.

The valley rumbled and rolled up as a scroll. Characters and plot points began trying to weasel their way into Writer's mind, to preserve themselves in his neurons even after their ink had been forgotten. His precious children, the disenfranchised evil ones, moaned as their origins were stripped from them. Their motivation purged, they curled as dying spiders, resenting the father who would debase them. The protagonists and other heroes deadened their hopes and stalwart determination. Then all the world as they knew it and all within were as a white husk.

Writer wailed atop his mountain. There was more to be had, though it would only be born of great anguish.

He reached out to the page and gripped it tightly. The valley collapsed into itself, as he crumpled the paper. Then into everlasting darkness it plummeted, as he tossed it into the waste bin.

Paper was archaic anyway.

The keystrokes came, and the great mountain thundered with creation. A new Story was being built, etched into the ether of fibers and electricity. Its spires arched up, resolute, defiant. It was a nexus of fictitious elements. It was segmented into districts, interwoven yet foreign to one another. Streets of neon and smog tangled with steam and steel. Castles of obsidian and forts of pearl. Overgrown jungles, ripe with flora and sweet mist. Still there were cold places, mansions of ice with bitter winds howling through the eves. Void expanses between laser guided rails and plasma propelled crafts.

Writer sat back and examined his new work. Certainly it was larger and shinier than his previous attempts, but he wondered if it would behave the same way. With a sigh he tapped the keys once more, and characters fitted into their natural roles. There were debonair steamboat entrepreneurs and gritted men, ashen with factory dust. Vampire lords skulked the shadows, hunted by sellswords and paladins alike, while peasant armies fought for their feudal masters. Animals and wild men mingled with one another, both hunted by the social elite of developed nations. Wolves howled in the snow, and people of frost eked out sustenance in the ice. Fleets of spaceships flitted in the black gaps, porting here and there in cities which teemed with life both familiar and unusual.

Pleased with the new design, Writer leaned contentedly within the bridge of his colossal vessel. It was his new mountain from which he would scatter the pompous lives of those below with but a few flicks of his fingers.

Then things were as they always had been. Story unfolded just as its predecessor had. The paint was new, sure, but the walls were the same. Writer watched, seething, as the fantastical lives below surged forth with hope. He shook his head and clasped together his hands. He had strived for as long as he could remember and wanted for only one thing. For them to fail as he had.

Fingers trembling with rage hovered over a panel. The keys upon which mattered not, only his intent did. He depressed the inputs, cursing under his breath. He would throw everything he had at them, if it would only change Story into something new.

There was a terrible barrage, as the canons of his ship unleashed unreasonable payloads upon the world below. The atmosphere peeled back, clouds scattering like ripples in a still pond. New clouds of dust and fire rose up, rapidly decaying mushrooms. Writer grinned at the devastation.

On the surface was ruin. The gleaming utopias, the verdant gardens, all were buried in ashes and desolation. Static characters were lost, those without names or real purpose, and so too were even a few with names. Their deaths meant, for simple sake, weight. Yet, the truly meaningful ones remained, resolute, hopeful.

He sat back and ground his teeth. If they were so determined to persevere, he would be sure to make it difficult.

The Last Relic

Tendrils of smoke from the camp's fire snaked upwards through the light drizzle, invisible and hidden by the starless sky's blackness. The flames fought the moisture back, undeterred, sizzling coals and keeping dry the ring of rocks surrounding. Somewhere beyond the light were things which watched, things that thought, things that were hungry.

The keeper of the fire came up to it, his jacket tattered and failing at keeping out the misty rain. In the flickering dark light of the flames his worn green camo coat and pants appeared more like moss, as if he was a wood born entity, maybe rock. There had been creatures like that long ago. Strong, hardy beings that swept man away when threatened. But, mankind was clever and in their caves bred like rats, until they overwhelmed, subdued, and exterminated the life established before them.

Not that there weren't still dangers this far out. Slinking, stalking things would creep up in the night, slither into one's tent or bedroll. Maybe one would feel it against the skin and wake up before dying, but if one was lucky there'd just be a little cough as something force fed itself to the unwary traveler and devoured flesh from the inside.

Fire kept such things at bay, so if sleep was desired, one had to get a good bed of coals going and pile on the wood. Rain complicated. A light drizzle such as this hardly made a difference once things caught, but if it turned to a deluge after going to rest and suffocated the flames, one would only wish for a flood. Drowning would be a mercy.

The glowing wood collapsed into a hearty bed of coals. He sighed, tossed on the bit of dry wood he'd collected, and lied down within the warmth's reach. He had a small tarp which he used as a blanket. The heat had blessedly dried the earth beneath him, and though it was far from comfortable, he began to nod off.

Faintly he heard the melody of a flute and the rhythmic chiming of cymbals. The tune was fast, lively even, and it drew tears to well up and out of his closed eyes. It was the song which he'd heard as a boy when his village celebrated the fall harvest. It was not marked by the same skill and quality as the songs which came from the cities, those iron bastions of metal and glass. But it was a spirited anthem all the same, one passed down through the generations, one that was hated in youth but loved and cherished with age.

His shut eyes relaxed their trickle, and he fell into sleep.

He awoke to the peaceful rustle of pine branches under the gentle ministrations of a spring breeze. The sky was vast beyond the trees, a washed up blue given by a sun which had dawned some while ago. He turned his head on the earth, observed the last remnants of his fire, and returned to his sleeping position. There was no danger, no reason he must get up this instant, and so he did not. He just lied there, taking in the melodic chirps, the noises which were so quiet they were of no real distraction. He whiffed the air, and it delighted him. The scent of pine, the aroma of vernal flowers. Not augmented by synthetic compounds or concentrations, the fragrance of nature caressed his nostrils. There was not even anything foul in the air to muck it up.

He closed his eyes again, not for sleep but for meditation. He was a long way out, far from civilized eyes and safety. He had told his family he was to go on a pilgrimage into the last wild, that it was quite spiritual. They ate that up, letting him go tearfully but with pride. He had told his friends at the bar that, in truth, he was in search of treasure. They too gobbled this up like hungry dogs will scarf a rotten ham. But neither of these were true.

He sat up, stretching out, before he stood and began after a tree. There was no one around for whom to be private, but it was rote.

This was the last wild, a place left unharmed by all the ages of progress. Not because of regulation nor protest but simply because mankind had not noticed it. Now regulation did protect it, but it did not maintain it, and there were no wardens or other such officers of safety. This was an undisturbed frontier, beautiful always, safe in the day, and lethal by night.

He set out after eating some game he'd caught the day before. He whispered to himself, a habit he'd picked up in recent months, verbally cataloging his supplies and plans. No one was out here to judge, and he found that unless introspection was futile, he was just as sane as when he left. His stride was long and smooth, and he put the miles behind him.

Some months passed. The ginger warmth of spring became the scorch of summer, the flowers bloomed and wilted, and wild fruits came forth. Then the oppressive sun lost its strength, and the light peaked days of summer diminished to the soft amber of autumn. His clothes had disintegrated some while ago, and he'd replaced them with the hides of deer and the fur of hares.

The goal came into view. In a clearing amongst the mixed trees was the remnants of an old temple, a legacy left by the primordial beings of earth and root. Inside would be something of immense value, though it would not be the treasure his drinking mates had imagined. An object of incredible meaning but not spiritual as his family would assume. It was a lost secret, a catalyst of immeasurable import, a thing which could propel humanity into the stars or drag them screaming to hell.

Despite the danger that awaited him, he would have it.

### Author's Notes

The stories you've just read were written between 2014 and 2017. They compose a large, though not quite complete, collection of my short stories, flash, and vignettes. Though there was no particular order, works of a series were put into sequence, and older works were more heavily arranged toward the beginning with newer prose following.

Many of these stories were written for contests and prompts. The rest were on whimsy.

All characters and events are, of course, works of fiction and are not intended to represent any real people or events.

Thank you all very much for reading. I hope you've enjoyed this little compilation.

108

