Prologue to "The Magnifier"

Prologue

MAKAILA SLIPPED IN HER OWN blood. She stumbled forward, quickly recovering her balance in order not to drop what she was carrying. Cries filled the air as she stopped momentarily to wipe her cut heel.

“Makaila!”

She turned around sharply, tightening her grip on the bundle in her arms and digging her claws into the wet grass. Someone rushed into her, grabbing her by the shoulders and pulling her close. “Thank Kaolin you’re alive! Both of you!”

“Perlong, what’s happening? When you told me to run—”

“Therians. They attacked the manor without notice. Merrows and Zerda mostly, but I thought I saw an Avian before heading out the service tunnels.”

Makaila’s eyes grew wider than normal. She stiffened for a moment, just before letting out a gasp of realization. Again her arms tightened around the bundle. “How did they find us? How did they know?”

Perlong grimaced. “I suppose they’ve always known. It was just a matter of time before they remembered.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Perlong. Why would they need it?”

A deafening explosion filled the night air. Both Makaila and Perlong turned as their faces lit up from the fire. A massive hole had been ripped from the lakeside manor, and flecks of wood showered around them. In the fading light they were able to make out the outline of one of their gardeners.

“Master Perlong, sir!”

The young gardener staggered in the wet grass, making an effort to reach them as quickly as possible. Another blast went off, causing him to topple over just in front of Perlong. As Perlong helped him to his feet the gardener began talking rapidly. Perlong did his best to soothe him as he pulled the gardener’s brown jacket back over his shoulders. Perlong was no Orc, nor a female one at that, but the gardener eventually regained his composure long enough to breathe between words.

“They’re everywhere! Most of the servants are dead; even the guards. Only a few remain.”

Makaila let out a yelp. “What about the Captain?”

The gardener actually laughed. “The Captain? He’s like nothing I’ve ever seen! If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead! He’s the only reason any of us were able to get away! The Therians actually fear him! There were bodies all around him!”

Makaila turned to Perlong, her eyes pleading. “We need to go back for him! We can’t let him die!”

For a moment the night seemed quiet as Perlong’s brow furrowed. He stared at the ground and slowly lifted his head until his eyes were level with Makaila’s. Sorrow clouded him.

“No,” Makaila said, tears filling her eyes.

“The Captain is strong. He will live. What’s more important to me is the well-being of my wife and child.”

Both Perlong and Makaila peered at the bundle of cloth in Makaila’s arms. Tears streamed from Makaila’s large eyes as she nodded to Perlong.

“You, gardener,” Perlong said, pointing to him for his attention. “We are leaving. I won’t have another of my staff left to die. You come with us.”

The gardener bowed his head. “Yes, my Lord.”

They were already far enough from the manor that the loud yells and screeches were drowned by the night. The three of them slid down the side of a grassy hill, slick with the watery trail of Merrows. Makaila clasped onto Perlong as they made their way down the hill, careful to make sure that she still kept a firm hold on her small child with her remaining hand. Reaching the bottom of the hill, Makaila stopped to catch her breath. Perlong was quick to get her back on her feet.

“No time to stop: they’ll be after us soon, if not already. Not to mention we’re too close to the water for my liking—Merrows could be lurking beneath.”

The gardener, who had been drinking from the river at the base of the hill, began to scoot away from the water with a wary eye. He quickly made his way next to Perlong. Makaila coughed as she forced herself back up. She shook her head in refusal when Perlong offered to carry the child. Clutching the bundle, she looked to Perlong, her bright red eyes glowing slightly in the dark.

“Whatever happens, we need to get her safe.”

“Of course.”

Perlong nodded, his own eyes beginning to glow a dim green in the night. He turned his head, looking east towards where the river ran into deep shadow. Perlong wrapped his hand around Makaila’s and began to pull her forward. Makaila hesitated.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re not going to make it, Makaila,” Perlong whispered as he cleared his throat. “But I’ll be a Slave to Shadow if our daughter doesn’t.”

Makaila let out a quiet sob and dipped her head. She tightened her hand around Perlong’s. “Okay,” she whispered.

They started forward, the nervous gardener in tow. It grew darker the further they got from the manor. They were still under the cover of the hills that rose from the base of the river, and soon they were surrounded by a thick batch of trees. The river grew thinner and more shallow as they walked—much to the relief of Perlong—and they almost felt safe until a third, loud, blast echoed through the night. It was louder than the last two and had an air of finality to it. It reminded them that they were far from safety.

Pressing on was difficult. Makaila’s cut heel continued to bleed, and keeping a good speed became impossible. Just as their cover in the tunnel of trees began to fade, and just as the river’s flow began to halt altogether, Perlong stopped. Makaila gave him a worried look.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. We’re here.”

“Where?” The gardener’s worry began to turn to excitement. “Are we somewhere safe?”

Perlong shook his head. “Not us,” he said, gesturing to the bundle in Makaila’s arms.

The gardener shook, an understanding flowing over him. For a moment Makaila thought he was going to run. But when he looked to her, a grim loyalty gleamed in his eyes. He stepped forward, hands behind his back in the fashion for devoted servants. Head held high, he leaked a sad grin.

“What do we need to do, my Lord?”

Perlong gave a gratified smile and motioned to the base of a dark hill, where a small fork in the river flowed. It wasn’t until they were nearly in the water that they were able to make out a cluster of boxes and barrels. Makaila began to ask Perlong a question, but he simply pointed. She was able to make out a small hole in the hill where the river ran. It was barely large enough for the barrels and boxes to fit through.

“It’s where I have the maids send out our old food,” Perlong explained. “It leads back into the Capitol.”

Makaila stared at one of the barrels. “What are you suggesting?”

“We need to get our daughter out of here, Makaila. We need to get her to safety. This is the only way she can stand a chance.”

“You want me to send my daughter to the Capitol in a wooden box?” Her words were slow and deliberate.

Perlong grabbed his wife’s shoulders and looked directly in her eyes. His expression was stern and regretful, but it somehow calmed Makaila. “I know you don’t want to do this; I don’t either. But at least this way she has a chance of surviving.”

Makaila began to weep. It was muffled; Perlong knew she was trying to hold it back. While she held her daughter tightly in her arms, Perlong and the gardener snapped the top off a particularly flat, raft shaped crate. The gardener was able to distinguish some of the cleaner foods from the barrels and laid them out in the crate. There was a moment where Perlong stood up sharply, searching for something distant, but the moment passed. It wasn’t long before they were ready.

Cradling her daughter in her arms, Makaila slowly made her way to the makeshift raft. A distant crack in the trees called Perlong and the gardener to attention. Makaila took the moment to bid farewell to her daughter. She laid her in the crate and wrapped her tightly in her cloth. She was so little. Barely over a year old, she was no bigger than one of the large fruits that lay next to her. Makaila leaned forward, nuzzling her nose against her daughter’s cheek.

“My little Flower,” she whispered, “you are so precious. No matter where you go, or what happens, I will always be there.”

“Hurry Makaila!”

Makaila closed her eyes, tears streaming down her face. “One last lullaby,” she said, looking to Perlong. Perlong nodded.

Gripping the edge of the crate she began to sing softly, her voice quivering, but still somehow retaining its beauty.

Far from the rocks of blackened stone
And past the nape where Whitehart roams
In lake of glass you’ll find your home

The ring of flowers in the glen;
A mother’s love she’ll have to send
A heart of gold to make amends

Makaila kissed her daughter one last time on her forehead. “Goodbye my little Flower.” She sobbed as the crate drifted down the dark passage and turned away just before it vanished altogether.

Perlong pressed his hand on Makaila’s shoulder as she stood up. “She’ll be okay,” he said more to himself than her, “she’s a strong little girl.”

“My Lord!”

Perlong spun around. No more than two hundred lengths away were two Therians. The glowing bulbous eyes of a Merrow were discernable even at their distance. Small spheres of light decorated its slimy aquatic body. Among the smallest of the Therian races, it still had an easy two feet on Perlong even in its hunched over position. Another Therian stood at the bank of the black river. It was massive. Easily eight feet tall, it brandished a long curved sword in one of its black, hairy arms, a ball of blue fire flickering in its spare hand. Four thick tails flowed behind it—a sign of its rank within its Leash. A Zerda.

Perlong pushed Makaila behind him, widening his stance and pulling a knife from his pocket. He knew it wouldn’t do any good, but there was no point in running and he wanted to fall with some dignity. Halfway between them and the Therians, in the black of the river—which Perlong was sure was far too shallow to hide anything other than rocks—another Merrow, webbed hands and all, emerged. It cocked its squared head at a sickening angle and issued a guttural cry. In an instant it melded back into the water, disappearing from sight. The gardener let out a shout.

“The other one’s gone too! What’s happening?”

Perlong scanned ahead. The gardener was right: the other Merrow had also vanished, leaving the Zerda on its own, its white teeth and eyes shining in the firelight. In a flash it was engulfed in fire, a loud crack similar to the one they had heard earlier in the night filling the air. And then it was gone.

The gardener shifted uncomfortably, a gardening spade clutched in his hand. “Where are they? What do we do?”

Perlong dug his claws into the ground, readying himself for the inevitable.

It happened fast. There was a snap and a bright fiery light, followed by the garbled sound of water being sucked down a hole. They were all there on top of them: the two Merrows and the Zerda—a flurry of fur and oily skin. Perlong pushed Makaila aside as one of the Merrows dove for him, its webbed dorsal spine raised in aggression. Perlong slid to the left, thrusting his knife in the Merrow’s right arm and making another quick jab to one of its large yellow eyes. It let out an eerie disjointed howl as it swiped blindly for Perlong. Jumping just out of reach he bolted forward, climbing up the Merrow’s side and quickly slashing at its throat. It fell in a wet heap, and Perlong did a quick look behind him and tried not to cry out at what he saw.

The Zerda had its giant clawed hand encased around the gardener’s head. A wicked grin, large and bright in the darkness, spread across its face. Its long snout quivering in anticipation, the Zerda uttered a loud snapping yell. The gardener glowed hot white and slowly started to fade into ash. It turned to Perlong and raised its silver sword. Perlong readied his knife. He knew it wouldn’t do, but he had no other options. The Zerda leapt forward, sword held high. And then it fell.

Perlong stared ahead in a daze. The Zerda was dead. And there, just behind it, was the body of the second Merrow. Something shifted behind him and he jumped to face it, his knife tight in his hand. It was Makaila.

She stood fiercely grounded in front of the river tunnel, a poison dart blower pressed against her lips. She was frozen in shock, and it wasn’t until Perlong rushed to her, holding her tight, that she showed any sign of life.

She shook violently, gasping for air as she curled into Perlong. As she calmed it became apparent that someone else nearby had been crying out in fright as well. It was coming from the tunnel.

Makaila pushed away from Perlong. In a frantic burst of energy she peered into the tunnel and managed to fit inside up to her ribcage. The crate was barely visible, even against the glow of Makaila’s bright eyes. It was jammed against a rock.

“The raft is stuck, Perlong!”

She reached out, her hand almost brushing the wooden crate. Behind her she was able to hear Perlong scream something as a wave of wind splashed against her back. A piercing shriek came from over her shoulder and, despite the fear the pulsed through her, she continued to reach for her daughter. Another cry rose out and something splashed against her legs. She tried not to throw up; she knew what had happened.

Perlong was dead.

In one last feat of desperation, Makaila squeezed forward, her arm outstretched. The crate broke loose. She smiled, her face salty from crying, as she watched her daughter drift away. She knew that it had all been worth it. Her daughter would live.

Then, with a forceful tug, she was pulled out of the tunnel and was swallowed in a torrent of feathers and blood.

To Sitting in a Tree

 This is a pretty strange Period Piece that I wrote on the fly a long while back. The concept was to see if I could write a short story usually absolutely no exposition; only dialogue. It was difficult, in particular, to show time passing and I think I may have cheated just a bit by using the triple dots in between these sections. Eh. Whatever. I had fun writing it! Let me know what you think!


To Sitting in a Tree

By Adam Gonzales


“Well now. There you are.”

“I’ve been in this tree for ages. Everybody else ran by without a second glance.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“So how ever did you find me?”

“Well no one looks up for a girl.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s simple, really. Everyone was looking where they wanted you to be; where they predicted you to be. But you’re unpredictable, aren’t you?”

“And?”

“And one only finds what they’re truly looking for when they’re actually looking for it.”

“Now you’re just being hopelessly confusing.”

“No. Not really, at least. Everyone will find someone else along the way eventually. But I know you well enough to look…up. Hence our current reunion.”

“Well that’s just silly.”

“Be that as it may, I did find you, did I not?”

“You did.”

“And?”

“And what do we do now?”

“Well now I’m to help you down from that tree, I suppose. Come, now.”

“But I don’t want to come down.”

“Well you must.”

“No I musn’t.”

“Well then, I suppose I’ll need to climb up there with you.”

“I don’t think that’s such a grand idea.”

“Neither do I, but that’s not going to stop me now, is it? Up I go.”

“Would you please stop?”

“Oh, come now! I’m not that much of a nuisance, am I?”

“You can be at times, yes.”

“I’m almost there now, anyways. See, I'm at the top branch already.”

“You didn’t have to climb up here.”

“Of course I didn’t, but here I am.”

“Here you are.”

“Well then. Hello.”

“Hello. Tired now, are we?”

“Oh no! Not quite.”

“I’m sure.”

.    .    .   

“It’s quite beautiful up here, isn’t it?”

“It is…. You know, if you crane your neck just so, you can see a meadow beyond those trees there.”

“Really now?”

“Yes. Just there. See?”

“Hmmm. Yes, I believe I do.”

.    .    .

“May I ask you a question?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“You weren’t talking about the trees just then, were you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Ha ha! No. You’ve caught me it seems. I was not talking about the trees.”

“You can be forward with me, you know.”

“I thank you for your permission, but you’ll find I feel myself too anxious to speak so plainly.”

“And yet you spoke just as plainly only a short while ago.”

“I suppose I did, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“Forgive me for that then.”

“Oh, don’t expect to bet let off so easily.”

“Alright then.”

“So?”

“So I believe I have something to tell you then, haven’t I?”

“Oh please, do tell.”

“Persephone?”

“Yes?”

“I do believe I have found myself infatuated by you.”

“ Oh dearest me, I never would have known.”

“Come now! This is no small matter!”

“No. But it is very funny.”

“Yes, I guess it can be seen in that light.”

“Yes it can.”

“Tell me this though.”

“Yes?”

“How long must we sit in this tree?”

“You’re free to leave whenever.”

“Right then, I’ll plan for a long stay, shall I?”

“I said you’re free to leave when you please.”

“And leave you alone out here? Ha! Most certainly not!”

“I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can. But every young lady needs someone who at least has the potential to watch after them.”

“And you intend to be this individual, do you?”

“I do.”

“I thought you might.”

“And?”

“And it seems there’s no getting rid of you, I suppose.”

“I would have to agree.”

“So.”

“So?”

“Here’s to sitting in a tree, then!”

“Ha ha! Yes! To sitting in a tree!”

Alacrity

My newest short story.

For Kirby. 

Alacrity

By Adam Gonzales

"It starts with light and ends with light, and in between there is darkness." - Sendhil Ramamurthy

Gwen blew a sharp whistle with her right hand. The wind was blowing hard and drowned out most of the sound, but she knew that Kingser would answer her call. She waited on the edge of the forest, the strong gusts blowing against the bright green of the rolling hills around her. In the distance, far to her right and just past the end of the forest, deep blue clouds were forming. She waited patiently for Kingser, her auburn hair playing with the wind.

                Lightning flashed across the sky in the distance. Its bright red light was too far to illuminate the hills where Gwen stood, but the impending nature of its coming was enough to set her on edge. She closed her violet eyes, looking for Peter in her Mind's Eye. The low sound of hoof steps broke her concentration and caused her to snap her eyes open. It didn't matter, she could no longer see him there.

                Kingser trotted up to her with his gold mane flowing.  He turned to her with an uneasy eye, his black coat reflecting the waning sun. Gwen smiled and pressed her hand against Kingser's neck.

                "We need to go home, Kingser. I need you to take me there before the storm hits. Can you do that for me?"

                Kingser snorted, nostrils flaring. He stamped his feet and whinnied as he looked toward the blue of the storm. Red lightning streaked through the clouds once again.

                "I know, Kingser. Trust me, I do. But we need to do this. If we don't then they all die. Even Helen."

                The large stallion gave a final stamp with his feet and brought himself to rest. Gwen gave him a weak smile and threw herself over his back. She felt his muscles tense as she clutched onto his mane. Leaning next to his left ear, she pressed her body flat against his back. "Fly, Kingser," she whispered.

                They were off in a flash. Gwen was able to make out the distortion of the colors around her as Kingser took off. She had always been in awe of his remarkable speed and found his ability of Celerity incredible. No other living thing on the planet could match Kingser's speed--only light was able to compete. And like all other Actives, Kingser's power came from the sun itself. And the Evenstorm was closer than ever now.

                Gwen closed her eyes again and squeezed Kingser sides with her legs. She felt the him slow to a normal gallop so that she could concentrate long enough to use one of her own Active abilities. She opened her Mind's Eye and thought of Helen. Colors began to mix and swirl in her head until she finally was able to see the face of her younger sister scream in terror. Red light flickered in Helen's eyes and Gwen could make out the faint image of the sun splitting apart in the reflection.

                When Gwen opened her eyes, she immediately looked to the sky. They were headed towards the Evenstorm at a steady pace, making their way towards the small city below them at the base of the large hill. If the Evenstorm continued then it would soon consume the sun, tearing it in half and stealing the powers of all the Actives on the world of Talvalier. If that happened then her sister would die. Of that, Gwen was sure.

                After all, she could see all possible futures.

                The  Evenstorm continued to crawl ahead, the city of Avalice just outside its reach. Gwen tightened her grip and clicked her tongue, signaling Kingser to regain momentum. They were there in seconds. It took a moment for the world around them to focus back into place, but the colors quickly lost their blur and adjusted to normalcy.

                Avalice had one dirt road that stretched from the gate of the city's entrance to the open field that lay far at its back. The buildings were made from rosewood and were topped with open-thatched gable roofs. The road was clogged with people staring up at the Evenstorm with frightful eyes. The deep blue of the clouds were almost upon them. Lightning continued to spark through the clouds, igniting them in blood red fire that subsided almost as soon as it had begun. They were only minutes away from their doom.

                Her violet eyes flashing in the shifting light, Gwen ushered Kingser ahead, yelling at the swarm of people in front of them to part before her. Halfway through the city is where her aunt lived; where she would find Helen. She couldn't lose her only sister, not after she had already lost Peter. She had all this power, but felt so helpless in her ability to actually protect those who she loved. Her love for Peter had been beyond anything that she ever thought she could feel and now he was gone. If she lost Helen then she had nothing left to live for.

                The group of people in front of her aunt's house absentmindedly gave room for her and Kingser, never averting their gaze from the billowing clouds of blood above them. Gwen slid off of Kingser and lightly kissed his neck in thanks as she walked to the door of her aunt's house. As always, Kingser responded with a jerk of his head and a swish of his tail. Gwen brushed the sides of her brown leggings and made sure her bodice was buttoned over her olive shirt. The end very well might have been near, but Gwen knew that Helen would not tolerate unkemptness. She gave a hopeful look over her shoulder to Kingser and then knocked on the birch door.

                For a moment she was scared that no one would answer. But after a particularly large blast of lightning split the sky, the door opened. Her aunt Evelyn stood in the doorway, a slight look of confusion on her face.

                "Gwendolyn?"

                Gwen didn't wait for an invitation in, and instead slipped through the door. Evelyn closed it behind her and spun around.

                "What are you doing here? It isn't safe!"

                The low hum of murmurs and gasps from the people on the road could barely be heard inside the small and cramped house. Besides the cluttered eating table and counter there was only a small desk riddled with stacks of paper, and a closed door at the back of the room. Gwen started for it.

                "She's not there, Gwen!"

                Gwen turned around sharply. "What? Where is she?"

                "I put her somewhere safe." Evelyn was doing her best to avoid eye contact with Gwen. Her dark hair shielded her eyes as she pretended to be interested in what was happening outside the window to her right.

                Gwen felt her left eye twitch. "You put her somewhere safe? She isn't an object that can be placed somewhere, Evelyn!"

                "But she can kill us all if this storm does what I think it will!"

                "And just what is that exactly?"

                Her aunt leveled her head with Gwen's. "I know you've seen it too, Gwen! You saw the future, didn't you? You get that ability from me! If the sun splits apart then there's still some hope for some of us! But if Helen is near when that happens and she loses her power, then we're all as good as dead!"

                Red light splashed across the floor through the window. Gwen took a step towards her aunt and threw her left arm behind her back. The small desk toppled over and smashed against the back wall, propelled by the pure, un-caged, energy that Gwen was able to manipulate; her second, and final power.

                "You've seen the future, Evelyn? You know as well as I do that we can only see possible outcomes! I can stop it, stop all of them from dying, but I need to speak with Helen before I do!"

                This gave Evelyn pause. She turned away from Gwen and walked to the window. Kingser was waiting just beyond its glass. "Have you seen how that one ends, Gwen? It might not even be worth it."

                Gwen snorted. "Really now? Growing a conscience after everything you've done? What could possibly be worse then everyone here dying because you didn't even try?"

                "So you haven't seen it then." It wasn't a question.

                "No, I haven't. But it doesn't matter now. We don't have time for this, Evelyn! You need to tell me where Helen is so that we I can say goodbye! I know she's nearby, otherwise Avalice wouldn't even be standing! That's the only reason I allowed her to stay with you in the first place!"

                Evelyn was acting surprisingly calm. She pulled away from the window and turned to Gwen with a sad eye. She sat down, letting out a weighted sigh.

                "Your sister has helped Avalice  so much, Gwen. Her power is remarkable, and without her we couldn't have gotten as far as we have in rebuilding the collapsed mines underneath the city. The builders can only do so much, but with Helen's power to control earth they've been able to stop this city from collapsing! We're so close to finishing, Gwen! If you take her away now then everything will fall apart!"

                "And if I don't do something now, Evelyn, then she loses her power and the whole city caves anyway! At least this way, we have a chance! And I don't need her to leave the city in order to stop this from happening! You always do this! You can't always play God! You might have been blessed with more powers than the rest of us Actives, but that doesn't give you the right to decide our fates!"

                Her aunt's eyes grew wet. She stifled a sniff as she turned the other way. "What happened to Peter has nothing to do with what is happening now Gwen."

                "I--This has nothing to do with that!"

                A massive blast of red filled the sky outside and a low roar shook the room. It would happen soon. Gwen had to leave. She wouldn't get to say farewell to her sister after all. She gave her aunt a sneer and walked to the door.

                "Wait."

                Gwen stopped. "What?"

                "Have you noticed that your powers grow more prominent when you ride Kingser? Your able to see the future more clearly, right? Have you tried using your Alacrity while riding him? Have you used any of your energy transference?"

                Gwen turned around, her eyes narrowed. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

                Evelyn gave a weak smile. "Kingser is an Active."

                "Of course he is. He can run really fast. Celerity, they call it. But you're still wasting my time."

                "No, sweetie," Evelyn pulled her hair out of her face and stood up. "You gave him the power to run fast and he magnified it for you, making him even faster. You transferred energy into him unknowingly and he used his power to amplify it."

                Gwen's eyes grew wide. "But--That was Peter's power!"

                "Animals can't be Actives, Gwen. They've never been able to."

                "You told me Peter died! I brought him to you and you said you weren't able to help him when I returned! He wasn't even here!"

                "I never said he was dead. I only said that I wasn't able to heal his wounds."

                "Then how?!"

                Evelyn reached for something under her jerkin. A thing gold chain with a small bottle attached hung on the end. A butterfly flitted inside. She unplugged the bottle and held out her finger for the butterfly land. "Future Sight, Healing, Enhanced Sight, they have all helped me well. But my true power lies here, Gwen."

                She pressed against the butterfly with her free hand and Gwen watched in amazement as a human body seemed to emerge from inside the insect. The butterfly remained, but the small body of a six-year-old human child was present as well, standing there, beside her aunt. The girl blinked in bewilderment and, after seeing Gwen, squealed in excitement and ran into her arms.

                "Gwen!"

                "H-Helen?"

                Gwen held on firmly to her little sister, her eyes filling with tears. She picked her up and kissed her cheeks repeatedly. She kept her in her arms and turned to Evelyn. "What just happened?"

                "My true power. Body Insertion. I am able to force a body to occupy the same space as the body of another, be it man or animal. If they are an Active, then their power remains. Just as it did for Helen, and just as it did for Peter."

                Helen continued to giggle and hold onto her sister. Gwen nuzzled her and smiled, but her eyes were full of fear and hope. "So Kingser…?"

                Evelyn nodded. " But he cannot leave that body, for his own is beyond repair. He knows this. But Gwen, you do need him in order to stop the Evenstorm! Together, you can make it all go away. I have seen it! But you need to know that it won't happen without great and terrible pain for you both!"

                Gwen set Helen down, kissing her again on her forehead. "It's fine, aunt. Now that I know Peter has been with me this whole time, I have no need to fear." She smiled fondly, tears welling in her eyes. "With him, I know I can do what needs to be done. Thank you."

                Turning back to the door for the last time, she felt a little body rush into her. Helen was clinging to her with all her might. "You're going already? But you just got here! And you came all prettied up! And I haven't seen you in forever! And I don't want you to go!"

                Crouching down to the floor, Gwen grabbed a hold of her sister and swiveled her around so that they were facing each other. She parted the brown hair out of her Helen's face. "I know Helen. But I have to go now, okay? I need to make sure that everyone here remains safe. Do you understand?" She kissed her cheek. "I need to keep you safe. I love you Helen. Just promise me one thing, okay?"

                The little girl was trying so hard to fight back a wave of tears. She was hiccupping in her attempts, her face flushed red. "O-okay."

                "I need you to listen to aunt Evelyn and promise you'll do as she says. I need you to stay safe."

                Helen nodded, tears finally bursting through her eyes. She started to sob, and gripped Gwen shoulders with tight fists. Then she let go and ran to her aunt, clinging to Evelyn's long white skirt and staring at Gwen through blurred eyes. Gwen smiled and rubbed her nose as she finally made her way through the door.

                "Goodbye," she whispered, closing the door behind her.

                She was instantly blinded by a massive web of red lightning that spread across the blue clouds just ahead of them. The sun was almost covered and Gwen knew there was almost no time left. She hurried over to Kingser as the crowd of people screamed and began to scatter. Kingser was stamping his feet and neighing incessantly. But when Gwen yelled out his name, he instantly steeled himself. She rushed to him and pressed the side of her face against his neck.

                "Oh Peter, I didn't know."

                Kingser swished his tail and whinnied.

                "I love you Peter, and I've missed you so much, but we need to stop the sun before everyone dies. And I need your help."

                The horse jerked his head. Gwen smiled and closed her eyes, making sure to keep her hand pressed against Kingser's coat. In her Mind's Eye it all became clear. She knew what was necessary and was ready to pay for the cost that it would take. She opened her eyes and climbed on Kingser's back, clutching his gold mane.

                "This is it, Peter. This is where we make our last stand. Are you ready?"

                Kingser snorted.

                "Right, then. Fly, Peter."

                The were off, heading towards the last sunny spot in all of Talvalier just beyond the edge of Avalice. They were there in moments. Gwen slowly slid off of Kingser and looked up to the gap in the clouds. She kept Kingser's mane clutched in her left hand. Then, with all the energy she had--with her pure force of Alacrity--she unleashed a blast of energy into the sky. And she let Kingser magnify its intensity.

                Light emerged from her body and shot into the sky in quickening waves--bursts of life shooting out of both her and Kingser and erupting into the clouds above. The clouds began to part as the blasts of power continued to speed up exponentially, eventually condensing into a solid beam of unrelenting force. Gwen could feel her body giving way, could feel her soul living her body as payment for her divine act. She was rising slowly, leaving her body behind, and was astonished to find, not Kingser's mane in her left hand, but the gentle hand of another human being. She turned to her left and grinned.

                Peter was there with her, discarding his horse's shell to join her in her sacrifice as the clouds continued to swiftly disperse. The red lightning was becoming less and less prominent until only small sparks began to swirl through the fading clouds. Gwen knew this life was over, but she was beyond glad that she was able to spend it with the one who had mattered most to her. Peter's spirit brought her into his own as the last of the waves rushed through them, the mortal vessels still standing strong below.

                And somehow he kissed her.

                It lasted for an eternity. For ten eternities. It lasted far longer than Gwen even thought possible. She melted against him; his taste, his smell, his warmth--even in etherealness--engulfing her in a storm far more violent and powerful than anything the Evenstorm had to offer.  Reality was banished from their presence in its touch and Gwen knew, that despite all that had happened, that no matter what she had ever told herself, this was all she had ever wanted.

                After a time, she broke the kiss. She never wanted it to stop, but she knew that it had to. The overflowing Alacrity that surrounded them was dying along with their bodies, and Gwen was able to make out the small figure of Helen far below, looking to a clear and open sky free of cloud and shade. She felt a squeeze in her hand and found Peter slowly rising, beckoning her upward as he reached for the sun. Gwen let the fire of the sun fill her up as she gave her little sister one last look, and then--hand in hand with the one she loved--departed to the world beyond.

                And all became Light.

Candle in the Dark (Revised)

Candle in the Dark

By Adam Gonzales

The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot Lucien patiently watched.

Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.

An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier lackluster encounters, but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true nonetheless, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.

He glided into the hall wearing a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him—a man in grey and black tassels escorting him wispily to his place at the head of the hall—and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman dressed in black lace to the Ambassador’s right.

“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”

Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. It was easy; not that the news surprised him, for it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly—but Lucien found himself somewhat preoccupied by the Ambassador’s escort more than anything else. Suspicion and vigilance caused Lucien’s false stupor to portray some sense of raison d'être. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.

The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.

“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”

The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife could be the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting.

The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.

“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”

If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”

Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.

Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched it towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearl, double-edged basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across the visible part of its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly, catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her already desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into brutal spasms.

Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him—for the Ambassador’s escort was suddenly absent—but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall, Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. “That armor is not going to protect you, friends.”

 

The two men shared an anxious glance as Lucien walked forward slowly, keeping his dagger hand pressed against his thigh. The first man rushed towards him, holding his sword in the backhanded fashion. And as he swung his weapon at his target, Lucien dropped swiftly to the ground and hacked the bare opening in the man’s crotch, where the armor failed to protect. There was a piercing cry as the man collapsed to the floor, clutching the burning wound that would kill him within ten minutes time. Lucien stepped over his writhing body and nodded his head at the second man. There was a pause in his stance as he contemplated on whether or not he should do as he was supposed but he decided against faltering and raised his falchion over his shoulder, crying a fierce battle cry as he did so. The sword crashed to the ground missing Lucien as he speedily side-stepped the attack. There was a fleeting moment of fear in the man’s eyes as he realized his fate. But it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed shock as Lucien slashed the bare side of the man’s neck just underneath his helmet. Blood spewed out of the precise gash in his skin and a red rash, a side-effect of the poison, began to spread around the wound. Not that it mattered—unlike the previous victim, this man was instantly dead. His body lurched forward and buckled down to the stone ground below.

Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. He stepped purposefully towards the wooden door at the end of the hall but was stopped short by the thin poisonous needles that slipped in front of his face and embedded into the wall’s soft grout to his right. ‘Ah,’ Lucien thought with a sort of relaxation, ‘there it is.’

Lucien turned to his left, down the connecting corridor, and flashed a smile at the man standing at the hall’s end. He wore a dark grey suit lined with black velvet that matched the man’s short shadowy hair. Grey and black tassels hung loosely at his sides and back; the mark of a contracted assassin—the mark of a bodyguard. Lucien smirked as the man’s amber eyes narrowed in anticipation.  He knew this man well: they were fashioned from the same fabric—schooled in the same guild. Promystus.

“So you decided not to stop me from killing that fool of a man? Was that not your job?” Lucien bantered.

Promystus stepped forward lazily, his voice bordering on a drawl. “My dear Lucien, my job was to defend the dignity of an honorable man. It was not specified on whether or not he still needed to be living.”

Lucien tensed himself, readying for an attack from Promystus. “And why, pray tell, is there no one else here to help defend this so called dignity?”

Promystus laughed. “Dear friend, that pretentious idiot was far too pompous to even think that anyone out there could possibly dislike him. Besides myself there are barely twenty guards within this whole estate. But I would like to think that I would present more than enough of a challenge.”

Lucien slammed his body to the ground as another needle shot down the hall. Promystus uttered a curse and began running down the long corridor, his eyes fixated upon Lucien. Lucien rolled and quickly shot to his feet, barreling forward as he slipped a thin knife from out of the lip of his boot. He flicked it forward but Promystus dashed to the side, momentarily running on the base of the wall in order to evade the attack. A grin flickered on the assassin’s face as he arched in the air over Lucien, his heel smashing across Lucien’s forehead. A thin cut opened across Lucien’s face as a small trickle of blood trailed down his nose. Lucien flung himself off the ground and turned to face Promystus. He was holding a small dueling cane that had been hanging at his side, his fist clenched tightly around its metal grip. Lucien darted to Promystus’ side and threw his elbow into his ribs before he time to react. Promystus uttered a grunt as he dropped his dueling cane and crashed against the wall.

Lucien had the cane in seconds but was shocked to find himself kicked in the gut before he had time to swing it across Promystus’ face. Lucien lurched forward and gasped in pain as his head was smashed into the stone wall. Blood gushed from above his ear and as he struggled to get himself up.

Promystus chuckled despite his heavy breathing.

“Poor Lucien. Always was the valiant and noble one, were you not? You never quite understood that being an assassin was not a question of morality.”

Promystus was close enough now to Lucien that he could have easily stabbed him had he the strength. The man was pulling out a long dagger from his sleeve, readying it for Lucien’s death. Lucien would have none of that. In a sudden burst of adrenaline, Lucien reached for Promystus’ leg and sank his teeth into his skin. Promystus howled. As he toppled over, Lucien downed a small vial of liquid that he had been saving in his pocket for such an occasion—liquid opium; a mix that would temporarily keep Lucien stable and strong.

Pulling the dueling cane off the floor, Lucien turned to Promystus and sighed, struggling to speak. “Promystus. What you never understood was that ambiguity is the reason you never can seem to get your priorities straight—the reason that you constantly fail.”

In one swift motion, Lucien bashed in Promystus’ skull and smiled ever so slightly as the cracking of bone reverberated throughout the corridor. He tossed the shattered cane to the side and stepped lightly over Promystus’ body, wiping the blood off his face. Then, without turning back, he spoke. “It seems that it was not the Ambassador that was the fool.”

Pushing the wooden door that the men had been guarding open, he stepped out into the cold chill of the night, his feet meshing into the wet earth as he spied a carriage some two hundred meters in the distance—his avenue of escape. An alarm rang out in the sound of a gong as the panic within the elegant hall finally reached the gates of the Ambassador’s magnificent stone manor. Lucien knew that a dash to the carriage was almost futile, as there were at least five armed men (albeit protected only by thick leather plating) between him and it, but he tried it despite his better instincts. Slapping mud up off of the ground as he bolted forward, he pulled a small misericorde dagger out from his pants pocket with his free hand and flung it at the closest armed sentry. It stuck firmly under the man’s mandible and he slipped to the ground. Knowing that he would not make it if he tried to fight them all off, he passed swiftly by the following two bemused sentinels without a second thought. By the time he reached the third patrol they were all aware and ready for a fight. Lucien was stunned as the man smashed the broad side of his rebated against his right shoulder, causing him to lose his grip on his dagger and fall to the ground. The opium mixture was fading and Lucien needed to compensate for time lost to Promystus. Thinking rapidly, he slammed the man’s shins with a heavy kick so as to send the man to the earth. Then, pushing himself back on his feet and clutching his side from Promystus’ earlier attack, Lucien bashed in the man’s teeth with his heel. There was a loud crack as the shattered bones snapped out of place, but Lucien was used to such noises in his exertion. He did not bother searching for his venomous blade as the fifth guard rushed at him with a double-handed battle ax. Instead he swept forward beneath the heavy weapon and smashed his elbow into the man’s gut. And as the man lurched forward to gasp for air, Lucien wrapped his arms around his neck and looked into his face as his olive eyes flashed in the dark of the evening. In one fluid motion that was only possible for one as deft as Lucien, the man’s head was forced at an angle that was not possible to achieve in the world of the living. A splitting crack filled the air as Lucien released the man’s body from his arms, a delightful and satisfying sound—even if there was no time to actually enjoy it.

There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as the opium began to subside, and he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.

New Blogs

Check out my two new blogs, both centered around two new book series that I am writing (one with my friend Jason). Hope you like them!

Festral Dominions

The Magnifier

Cruel Snows

The challenge? Write a double spaced fantasy short story in under twenty pages, that was still a better love story than Twilight. Mission Complete.



Cruel Snows
A Short Story by Adam Gonzales


“I can’t forgive my friends for dying; I don’t find these vanishing acts of theirs at all amusing.”
– Logan Pearsall Smith




Ivan Arstaff didn’t understand. Nothing in this world was certain—he had been taught that much—and yet the prophecy foretelling his death was somehow unavoidable. The Wisdoms had assured him that he was meant for greatness and that his passing would save the known world, but that didn’t shake the shadow that he now carried over his head. He was to die, and it would be soon.

The other young mages had also received their Story from the Wisdoms, but Ivan could tell from their faces that theirs were full of hope, life, happiness, and—the thing that Ivan craved the most—normalcy. They smiled and laughed, happily exchanging their Stories with each other, gasping at the occasional reveal of something spectacular, and nodding at the predictable. Ivan wallowed by himself next to one of the stain glass windows of the Grand Hall. He had been explicitly instructed not to share his Story with anyone under any circumstance. So when Morgan Denning rushed up to him breathless and grinning, Ivan’s mood simply dampened.

“Hullo, Van! Did you get your Story yet?”

Ivan crossed his arms and turned off to the side. Morgan was strikingly beautiful. Her dark blond hair flowed down past her shoulders, with a patch of bangs falling over her left eye. The rose color on her cheeks from rushing to see him made the grey of her uncovered eye more vibrant than usual. Ivan noticed that it was also wider than normal, stared fixatedly on him. Leaving her gaze was difficult, but he was eventually able to stare at the blotched colors of the window. “Well?” Morgan said expectantly.

Ivan shrugged.

“Oh, honestly,” she said, making an obvious attempt to gain Ivan’s attention by pouting with her face, “it can’t have been that bad! Come on, Ivan! Tell m—”

Morgan had been stomping around Ivan in a show of disappointment and had, as Ivan had expected, eventually tripped over her mage robes. She made a loud thump as she fell flat on one of the Grand Hall’s dining rugs and Ivan couldn’t help but leak a smile, despite his predicament. As beautiful as she was, Ivan knew full well the reason she wasn’t taken. Not a moment went by without Morgan tripping, falling, or even setting something ablaze with a miss-worded spell. Morgan was the Academy’s greatest klutz. But Ivan couldn’t help but like her.

“You okay?”

A muffled sound came from Morgan, her face still planted against the rug.

“What?”

She stood up and brushed her robes. Her face was knotted in a grimace. “Yes, if you must know!”

Ivan snorted and did his best to ignore her by glancing around the different groups within the Hall. It didn’t take long for Morgan to pop up in front of him, inches away from his face. Ivan jumped back, yelping as some of his untidy brown hair fell in front of his eyes. Morgan giggled. “Tell me Ivan! Please? If you don’t,” she said, her face darkening, “then I will never let you rest.”

“I can’t.”

Morgan raised her left eyebrow. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Means I can’t,” Ivan mumbled.

Morgan stared at him for a minute, and Ivan could tell she was trying to figure out whether or not he was being honest with her. It wouldn’t matter: Ivan knew she would continue to pester him regardless. After a moment, she decided to pull away.

“Well! If you’re going to be that way, I guess I won’t tell you what my Story said!”

Again, Ivan shrugged.

He could tell he was frustrating her. If he was completely honest, he actually enjoyed doing it. She was easy to annoy, and for some reason she seemed pretty even when she was flustered—terrifying, but beautiful. Ivan liked to test his limits and see how far he could get without getting completely in trouble with her.

She waited, tapping her foot impatiently while Ivan leaned against the window, acting as indifferent as possible. Eventually she broke.

“I’ll tell you anyway,” she said excitedly. “Do you know the Chosen in the histories?”

Of course he did; everyone did. The Chosen was to save the world from a great and powerful Darkness. They were supposed to end all suffering, bring eternal peace, and do it all by a grand and mysterious means. He had only found out, during his own Story, that those means were through death.

Ivan was to be the Chosen.

Morgan hadn’t seemed to notice Ivan’s contemplative mood. She was still ogling him eagerly, her hands now clasped around his own. Her eyes were wide, and she bore a large grin. Ivan sighed and nodded.

“I’m to aid the Chosen as they overcome the Darkness! Me, Ivan! Can you believe it?”

Ivan wasn’t sure how to answer. He gulped nervously, wondering if this meant he was allowed to tell Morgan of his own Story. After a time, he decided against it; even if he was able, he wasn’t sure that he would want her to know. Not yet.

Morgan had taken Ivan’s pause for insult. She crossed her arms, pouting. “You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I do,” Ivan said, swiftly recovering. “That’s amazing Morg! I can’t believe it!”

“I know! I’m so excited! The Wisdoms tell me it’s to happen soon! And,” she added quickly, “don’t call me Morg. It makes me feel old. Or that I’m a house for dead people.”

Ivan smiled truly, for the first time since his Story. He was glad that Morgan would be there to help him. And he couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of hope that everything would be okay, even if he knew that it ultimately wouldn’t. It made him feel slightly guilty, but the feelings quickly passed as Morgan locked him in a hug. She smelled of strawberries.

“Whatever your Story is, Ivan, I know that it’ll end happy. You don’t have to worry.”

“I know,” he lied. For her sake, he tried to convince himself.

There was a loud chime as the Academy’s bell rang for the mages’ attention. The Wisdoms had gathered at the front of the Grand Hall and were demanding the attendance of the Academy mages. Ivan stepped forward in his sky blue and maroon robes, while Morgan followed in her green and grey. The group of fifty seven newly Storied mages gathered around the podium that the Wisdoms had placed themselves on. Morgan gripped Ivan’s right arm and shook slightly in anticipation. Ivan swore she was about to squeal from suspense before the Wisdoms finally called for silence. The tallest of the seven, a man dressed in orange and brown, cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“On behalf of the Wisdoms of this, the Grandfire Academy of Spells and Magicks, I, Ovanhoff Tellsword, would like to congratulate you on receiving your Stories for your day of commencement!”

The crowd cheered. Morgan whooped. Ivan rolled his eyes.

“Before dismissing you to your new lives—to your Stories, as it were—we leave you with a warning.”

Silence flooded the crowd.

“Your Stories come from the Well of the Earth. There is no disputing their truths. Doing so will only result in great calamity. Do not test fate.” The Wisdom’s eyes swept the room, and made noticeable pause on Ivan.

“And with that,” Tellsword continued, his voice booming, “we bid you farewell!”

The crowd cheered once again, all warnings given by the Wisdoms fading away into the exhilaration of their graduation. Morgan hugged him again, and then pulled him away with the crowd as they piled out the Grand Hall and into the bright light of day.



Five years had passed since Ivan had heard his Story. Five years living a bland life doing the same routine day in and out: wake up before dawn, visit the Wisdoms for his daily counsel, prayer study, history study, work at the mill for money, more prayer study, and the ever frequent visit from Morgan before sleep. Five years and he was still alive. And yet he felt dead.

His Story hadn’t exactly told him how long it was until his duties as the Chosen would come into play, but it had told him that it would be soon. Soon was apparently relative, as Morgan continued to remind him.

“I don’t understand, Van! The Wisdoms told me I was to help the Chosen! But nothing has happened these last five years! ‘Twill happen in few moons time,’ my arse! Ugh!”

“I’m sure it’ll happen soon,” Ivan would reply. “You’ll get your crazy adventure in time.”

Days would pass with little incident, aside from the occasional attempted escapade from Morgan, who claimed that ‘thrill sought thrill’ and that, maybe, the Chosen hadn’t revealed themselves because she hadn’t been daring enough. Ivan would force a smile, consoling her by reminding her that the Chosen’s duty was to stop danger, not seek it.

“Well that’s no fun,” Morgan retorted one afternoon. “I’m sure the Chosen’s life is full of excitement and daring! They are the Chosen, after all! You’re just saying otherwise because you don’t do the same!”

Ivan rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. His recent meetings with the Wisdoms had been focused around the physical attributes of the Chosen—which meant they had been focused on setting Ivan against traps, perils, danger, and dark magicks. Only the other day, Ivan had been smashed in the face by a large rock aimed to knock him off a two story plank of wood. Luckily he had passed it off as a clumsy trip to Morgan. He still wasn’t sure if she bought it; the scars were adding up, and there was only so much his sky robes could cover.

“Besides,” Morgan continued, leaning closer in to him and whispering, “there’s something exciting I never told you about my Story!”

Ivan raised his brow inquisitively. Morgan liked to talk, and it came as a surprise to Ivan that she had kept something from him about her Story for this long. Especially if it was as interesting as Morgan was implying. “Really now?”

“Mmmhmm!” Morgan nodded eagerly, and scooted in closer to Ivan on the red bench they were sitting on outside Ivan’s house. She stared at Ivan, eyes wide.

Ivan sniffed. “Well?”

Smiling largely, Morgan let out a soft squeal as she started to speak. “The Wisdoms told me that the Chosen—the Chosen, Ivan—would love me!”

Ivan coughed suddenly. “Wh-what?”

“That’s right,” Morgan replied, obviously gaining momentum, “the Chosen! Love me! That’s why I need to be more daring,” she finished in a deep voice, placing her fists on her hips and doing her best to appear imposing.

His eyes staring off to the side, Ivan tried to sound as unfazed as possible. “So,” he started, making sure to keep his eyes just outside her gaze, “did they say that you’d love him back?”

There was a long pause, and Ivan was sure that he’d said the wrong thing until he finally looked Morgan in the eye. A huge smirk was plastered across her face. “Is someone jealous, Van?”

Ivan did what he could to not seem flustered, but did so failingly. “Well, no. I mean, not really. Maybe. Just a little.”

Damn, he thought, I’m jealous of myself!

Morgan snickered and leaned back from Ivan. “Oh, don’t worry, Van! I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually. You just need to get out more. She’s there, you’ll see.”

 “Right,” Ivan said. She still didn’t answer my question, the sly devil.

He started lazily swirling a funnel of ice in his left hand; cold magick was his specialty. Morgan cocked her head to the side, her expression puzzled.

“Did I say something wrong, Van?”

“Huh? No. Just thinking.”

“About?”

Ivan sighed. He didn’t really want to talk about it, but he knew that Morgan wouldn’t leave him be unless he talked. He liked that about her. “It’s just, these Stories. They feel like a trap sometimes. I don’t like them.”

“Because the Chosen ends up loving me?”

“What?” Ivan’s ice dissipated. “No! I meant what we’re doing now. It’s like we’re barely living, keeping ourselves active just long enough for our Stories to take control. I mean, some people’s Stories are this life! Doing nothing but menial labor the rest of their lives, too scared to travel and sightsee, because that would be ‘tempting fate’.”

Morgan nodded slowly. “Are you okay, Ivan? You never did tell me your Story. Is everything alright?”

“I don’t like my Story, Morgan.”

“I couldn’t tell.” Morgan couldn’t help but slip in a small bit of sarcasm in tried times. Ivan knew it helped her cope.

“I wish I could talk about it.”

“Then why can’t you? Come one, Van! Tell me!”

Ivan grew stern. “You know that I can’t, Morgan. We’ve been over this. The Wisdoms forbade it.”

“Just like they forbade you from telling me why you need to see them every day?”

There was a long time where Ivan didn’t reply. She had pestered him about his visits to the Wisdoms for the last five years. And though they didn’t explicitly say that he couldn’t tell anyone about his meetings, he knew any information would give away the origins of his Story. So he hadn’t told Morgan.

“Now, see? This is why I have such a difficult time keeping things from you. You’re too good at prying things out of me.”

Morgan perked up. “So does that mean you’re going to tell me?”

Ivan couldn’t help but grin. “No.” Morgan crossed her arms, pouting. “But I will. And soon, I think.”

 Even with her sour mood, and her bangs hiding half of her features, Ivan could swear that he saw the hint of a victorious smile on Morgan’s face.



Less than two weeks later it happened. At first no one was scared, just confused. When everyone had woken up that morning it was still dark outside.

Pitch black.

There was no light to be seen from the sun at all and, outside of light produced by magick, all other forms of illumination were small and timid, muted by the blackness. Ivan knew immediately that it was the Darkness. He knew that he was supposed to stop whatever threat was produced. And he knew that he was to die.

Panic flooded through him, and the town seemed to reflect his fears as cries rang out in the dark. It didn’t take long, however, for Morgan to find her way to him by light of a bulbous flame she had produced in front of her to guide her way. She rushed forward, almost pressing the ball of blue flame into Ivan as she chirped with relief at him being alright.

“What’s going on, Van? I found one of the Wisdoms and they told me to look for you. Do you know what’s happening?”

“Listen, Morgan, I—”

A splash of green light split across the sky and outlined a massive humanoid form that loomed over the town. Loud cracks of sound pierced the shadows, and caused Morgan to quiver and lose her footing. Ivan grabbed her before she fell, and pulled her in close as two colossal and narrow green eyes formed at the face of the creature. Ivan was able to make out a vicious toothy grin from the light of the glowing eyes.

“Ivan! What is that, what’s going on? I—”

“Morgan,” Ivan said, grabbing her by the shoulders and staring her in the face, the light of the flame hovering over her shoulder giving him enough illumination to make out the terror on her face. “I need you to listen to me. I’m going to need your help.”

Morgan shook a little, biting her lip. “Ivan, what do you mean?”

Another deafening crack of sound reverberated through the sky as the demon fired a pulse of energy at the Academy, shattering it into thousands of stone pieces. The town was in riot, many fleeing to find what shelter they could, some—the mages—standing ground and attempting to harm the being with magick. Nothing worked.

“Ivan?” Morgan’s eyes were wide and glossy with fear.

“That creature is the Darkness, Morgan. And I’m going to kill it.”

Somehow, despite the screams, shouts, and cracks of sound around them, everything seemed to grow quiet and still. Ivan was surprised to see that, somehow, Morgan’s eyes had grown even wider. “What are you talking about, Ivan? If this is the darkness, we need to wait for the Chosen! He will come!”

Ivan shook his head and lead Morgan away from the fighting, pulling her behind his cottage. He lifted her hair over her ear so the he could see her face more clearly in the light of the fire. “There’s no need to wait for him Morgan! Didn’t you find it odd that your Story had you stay here, in our hometown, even though you were supposed to help the Chosen? Mine had me do the same, Morgan! It’s because our Stories knew that the Darkness would emerge here; because the Chosen was already here!”

“But Ivan—”

“Morgan. I’m the Chosen.”

Morgan gasped, the fire over her shoulder evaporating. Loud booms echoed through the blackness and Ivan did his best to ignore the shock on Morgan’s face. He needed to be bold now, more than ever. He almost found it funny how their roles swapped now that danger was upon them. He had to be the strong one for once.

“Listen to me, Morgan. I’m not completely sure what I’m supposed to do,” he lied. I need to die to save these people—to save Morgan, he reminded himself. “But I know that I’m going to need your help. It’s in your Story. I need you to stay close to me, and make sure that we can see where we’re going. Understood?”

Morgan nodded, her lips locked in a tight frown. Her hair had once again fallen over her left eye. With a snap of her fingers two bright balls of fire materialized over their shoulders. Ivan gave Morgan a sharp nod of appreciation, and then pulled her arm as he led her to the town’s old bell tower. They pressed forward, doing their best not to watch their fellow mages being smashed or disintegrated under the power and influence of the Darkness. It took them nearly seven minutes to get to the tower in the pitch black. When they finally did get there, Morgan was close to tears. Ivan pushed open the large oak door and rushed inside.

“Ivan?” she whispered under the glow of her fire.

Ivan scanned the tower’s entrance chamber, trying to make out where the staircase was. “Hmmm?” he asked absently.

“I—I know this isn’t the time, but I don’t think we’re going to… Well…”

A door stood at the far right corner of the chamber. Ivan could barely make it out. “Quick, Morgan. This way.”

He yanked on Morgan’s arm, attempting to lead her to the stairwell, but Morgan stopped him short. Ivan glared at her. “Morgan, we need to move.”

“Wait. Please.”

Ivan paused, a green flash from outside casting eerie shadows in the bell tower. “What?”

“Do you love me?”

There were a thousand words that Ivan wanted to say, but it would have been impossible to get them out at that moment. He pulled slightly harder on her arm. “Morgan,” he said firmly, “we need to go. Now.” The color drained from her face, Morgan allowed Ivan to direct her up the stairwell until they reached the top of the tower.

The first thing Ivan noticed when the stepped out was how cold it was. It was funny, after spending years manipulating ice he had never felt truly cold until now.

Maybe it’s because I know I’m going to die, he thought.

The Darkness stood menacing over the town, northeast of the bell tower. Ivan’s stomach lurched as he watch it raise its large claw and swipe a building to shambles—he could barely make out the small bursts of energy striking the Darkness from the ground below. It was almost time.

Something warm touched his forearm. He turned and saw Morgan giving him a resolute stare. Her eyes were wet from tears, and her face chilled white from the cold. “Ivan?”

Ivan sighed, closing his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he opened them again, and Morgan uttered a squeak of astonishment. Ivan’s deep brown eyes had turned icy blue, and it was clear that the air around him had dropped in temperature dramatically. Then, with a devious smirk, he lifted up his right hand, never looking away from Morgan.

A massive blast of blue ice erupted from Ivan’s hand, traveling at enormous speeds towards the Darkness. It struck the Darkness’ side, causing it to visibly stumble and raise a deafening cry of pain that resounded through the town. Ivan pulled his hand down and grinned.

“Where did you learn to do that?” Morgan asked, dumbfounded.

“What do you think I’ve been doing this whole time with the Wisdoms?”

Morgan issued a small smile and sniffed in the cold. Then she gasped.

Ivan already knew what was going to happen. He knew because he wasn’t dead. The strike against the Darkness was only a way to get its attention. But when Ivan turned around to face it, he knew immediately that he wasn’t prepared.

The Darkness was far larger up close. Its arms were gigantic pillars of darkness, with coiling tendrils at their ends in place of fingers. Hundreds of black spikes of shadow jutted out all around its body, demanding fear and terror. But the face was truly the most horrific visage Ivan had ever seen. The green eyes were narrow and slanted, lighting up a thin and abnormally elongated mouth filled with millions of sharp white teeth. Its bat-like snout filled the void between eyes and mouth, and glowed a deep green from the inside. Morgan gasped beside him, reminding him that he had something left to fight for.

The Darkness raised one of its deep black arms, and swiped at the tower’s top. Ivan sprayed the ground with ice in response, quickly pushing Morgan aside so that she slid safely out of reach across the frosted floor as the roof and bell collapsed, falling off the tower at an angle. The side of the bell clipped Ivan’s right hand as it fell, shattering three of his fingers. He blinked in surprise. It didn’t hurt.

His pause caused him a slash across his face as one of the Darkness’ spikes cut open his forehead while it pulled its arm back. Blood seeped down his head, some of if getting in his eyes. He heard Morgan yell in fright, and stopped himself from staggering too much as he turned to face his enemy.

More blood dripped down his face.

Then it hit him. He knew exactly what he needed to do. He waited for the Darkness to swing at him again, making sure to duck and roll as the arm came for him. He shot shards of ice at the arms, doing his best to stall the beast as he made his way over to Morgan. He stumbled forward, aiming a particularly heavy blast of cold at the Darkness, engulfing the entire area around them in a violent torrent of cruel snow. He did his best to keep it all away from Morgan.

“Are you okay,” he yelled over the howl of ice.

Morgan nodded stiffly.

“I need you to do something for me, Morg!”

He gave a small laugh as he watched her face twitch at the name. He knew she would get annoyed, but he needed to make sure she was fine enough to at least acknowledge the jab. Again, she nodded.

“You’re not going to like it!”

Ivan was losing his energy fast. The storm was keeping the Darkness form getting to them, causing it to screech and hiss in pain, but Ivan knew it wouldn’t last. The only thing strong enough to kill such an evil lay within the power of what the Wisdoms had called Holy Song. He did his best to explain to Morgan that Holy Song was performed with fire and blood; blood that could only be given willingly for sacrifice by death. She was to use his blood.

“Ivan, no!”

“Listen, Morgan! This is my purpose! This is why I was born! I was always meant to die; that was my Story! That is why I never told you!”

“Ivan, please! Don’t do this! You—”

“And this is your Story, too, Morgan! To help the Chosen defeat the Darkness! This is how! You need to do this! Trust me!”

The storm was beginning to wither, and Ivan was able to hear Morgan’s sobs above the wind. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her close. “Morgan, it’s going to be alright!”

Tears were streaming down Morgan’s face. She was trying so hard, Ivan knew, to smile. “Do you love me Ivan,” she yelled.

Ivan turned over his shoulder. The Darkness was starting to gain its strength. When he turned back, blood had poured down the left side of his face, a small rivulet streaming across his eye. “Do you remember what the Wisdoms told us five years ago?”

Morgan sniffed and nodded.

“What does your Story tell you, Morgan?”

“That I am to help the Chosen, and that he will love me.”

“Well, I’d listen to the Wisdoms when it comes to their talk about our Stories. ’There is no disputing their truths. Doing so will only result in great calamity. Do not test fate.’”

Morgan smiled.

The snow faded.

Turning swiftly on his heel, Ivan stood against the Darkness. It was staggering, and grabbed the side of the bell tower, splitting the stone wall and causing a jagged edge to fall at Ivan’s feet. Picking it up, he turned to Morgan and gave her a wan smile. Then in one swift motion, his slashed the stone across his chest.

Morgan yelled something and began to sob as Ivan fell against the stone floor. She covered her mouth and was about to rush to him, when the low rumbling of the Darkness brought her attention back to reality. Still crying, she shot a menacing glare at the Darkness and began to perform her Holy Song.

Ivan’s vision was fading fast, but he was still able to watch in blurred distortion as Morgan performed her magick. When it came to anything else: walking, running, or even performing other magicks, Morgan was incredibly clumsy. But when it came to using fire magick, Morgan simply danced. Ivan watched her twirl flames around her body as his own blood seeped from his chest and into the deep red of the flames. He watched in a somewhat selfish pride as she sent waves of inferno against the fading Darkness. Blood and fire churned about her, moving in long arcs and streams as they continued to bash against the great evil. Her face was severe and firm, anger and determination flooding it, despite the tears flowing down her face.

For her, Ivan thought, I could do it. For her, I could die.

Then, with his last breath, at the instant that the Darkness billowed away into the bright light of the sun, he spoke his final whisper.

“I love you, Morgan.”

And, even against the bright sun, he could’ve sworn he saw her smile.


END