[Katya]

That night, for the first time in a long, long while, Katya dreamed.

Living trees, a labyrinthine network of white ash that called to her, formed the breathing skeleton that was the Seelie Court.

Bark so white it glimmered in the unearthly darkness. Giant, phosphorescent fungi releasing lurid spores that created an eternal, glowing haze that hung in the air like words unspoken. Silken tree limbs, vines, woven so closely together that she could not fly.

Flowers-that-were-not flowers, comprised entirely of crystallized moonbeam and various semi-precious gems, floated lightly atop the chattering waterways that led to the Shining Throne.

Everything cold, clean, nearly sterile; an adamant veneer of rigidity, of unbending power and wealth and beauty.

It cut like a knife.

The feeling was pleasure and pain and all that wasn’t what she was.

Home. 

The air itself spoke. It sang a siren song, complexities of strings, and crackly-shattering, high-pitched crystal chimes vibrating around her. Always close, promising those sweet releases of absolute power and fortune and glory. It whispered promises and the seething shadows breathed lies upon the nape of her neck.

But it wasn’t right. Something felt purely... wrong. Her heart did not beat within her breast. It lay somewhere else. Somewhere warm and chaotic and hungry. Somewhere so much more alive.

And she looked for it, her heart. It was a calm, clinical search, really. Didn’t this happen to everyone? She could have sworn that her mother and father — and oh, how long ago that was — told her that this was so. It would always turn up again, after all.

As she looked for it, in that eternal, orderly living network of smooth, flawless branches and in the mists, something changed.

The trees shifted. They changed, the white, forever-pure bark twisting and corrupting and melding together.

The mists turned to smoke, thick, black, and cloying. It encircled her body and writhed over her skin in ways not entirely unpleasant. Sterile, crystalline chimes turned to the wild wail of strings, pan pipes, throaty and wanting voices singing out in the now-velvety darkness at random.

The fungi was far more oversized, towering dozens of feet above her head. Garish and vivid in the murk, dreamblossom, nightshade, fire-chasm bloomed and grew wildly as far as the eye could see.

Don’t touch! They burn. In ways that never leave you wanting more. But that stay with you and change you. That leave you needing, not simply wanting, more. 

She touched them. An involuntary moan escaped her throat. There was pain. And she needed more. 

She could hear the haunting strains of an eternal carnival, and they celebrated always in the gloaming. A place between Real and Not Real.

A bacchanal to surpass all other bacchanals, even the ones the humans boasted of. Raw need, caprice, selfishness, intensity.

Your demands are our wishes.

Not-Home, but Home. More than Home. Here is where she originated, born of a clash of wills; one Seelie, the other Unseelie. Both beings, however, whose passions ruled their hearts and minds and souls; not their Courts. Here is where she was meant to be, had always been intended for.  

Raw power danced over her body, her wings luxuriating in the feeling and drawn up to their full, impressive span. She closed her eyes.

Unbound.

If only she could understand. This is where she came from, not there. They’d misled her; not an easy feat for beings for whom untruths bring pain. The wrong kind of pain.

If only she could understand. She would become a being of smoke and fire and blood and passion. She could hear her absent heart beating wildly, mirroring the distant drums unseen in the wild tangles of forest around her. It was nearby. So near.

If she could only understand, she could reach it. Her full... potential? Hardly. Herself, her power and her passion, unbound and unbridled by convention and by living trees of ash that held her. More than merely her potential, although that was simmering there, too — herself, wild and dangerous and petulant, insolent and capricious and genuine.

The air around her, rich with smells and sounds and tastes that enthralled every one of her senses, shimmered and pulsed in the darkness.

A vibrant thrum of thunder without sound.

-Unseelie-.

Katya awoke violently in the night, disoriented and gasping for air; not recalling where she was, but hearing gentle waves lap the shore nearby.

Clothed only in bits of petal, pearly shells, and delicate vines, she shivered; even in the warmth of the Sanctuary night.

The darkness thrummed. Thunder without sound.

[Tormus]

That night Torm remembered.

The road to salvation was a Circle.
Familial duty leads to stability.
Stability leads to prosperity.
Prosperity requires familial duty.

So it had been for the Blackbeards for the recorded centuries.
The takers, for the dwarven language, had no word for thieves.
They had taken so long that it had become a tradition. 
Never too much, that it would be worth the effort of taking back.
Never too violently, less the clans grow angry.
Never too loudly, so that others would acknowledge their existence.

If the dwarves had human detectives and guards, the Circle would have been broken generations ago.
But what the dwarves lacked in dogged determination, they more than made up for in pragmatism.
As long as the Circle was tolerated, the Circle would keep other thieves away.

There was another name the Circle was known by, when Taker was unspoken.. or when dwarves were deep in cups and scorn.
"Ratcatcher."

It wasn't a polite term.

The Blackbeards had been Ratcatchers for generations.
And Tormus was expected to continue the traditions of his mothers and fathers.
To be a good thief, to take just enough to keep the larders full... and to chase off any competition.

But growing up, Tormus had always grown bored by the stories and exploits of his ancestors.
Every 'Rat' they killed earned more admiration in Torm's toes.
While the Rats did not have security.
While the Rats did not have salvation.
While the Rats did not have even prosperity.

The Rats had boldness.
The Rats had notoriety.

And... on a rare occasion.
The Rats inspired genuine fear among the dwarves.

And so Tormus left to follow the Rat-Song.
To take the uncertain path.
To embrace damnation.
To steal what had never been stolen before.

[Katya]

We saw her longing and knew her lost.
Oh little sister, would you leave us for a man?
What has he, that we can’t offer –
come, let us braid your hair
let us sing together
swaying like soft weed to the songs
that loop and flow, ribbons of seduction
velvet handcuffs we lock
each of us fast to the other.
Why would you leave us,
little lost note
in our loving harmony?
We reach for you
but you evade our pale fingers
as though they were sticky tentacles.

The sweet, unearthly chorus of voices shattered the velvet darkness. 

This time, she wasn't sleeping. 

....Was she?

On the uppermost floor of her home, the clear water filling her sunken-in stone bath (rather large, she supposed, but it suited her current tastes) steamed in the cool air of twilight. The scent of jasmine hung in the air; delicate bowls of heated oils sending additional, lazy spirals of steam up towards the ceiling.  

One moment, she rested languidly against the cool granite of the bath; water droplets and bits of petal beading and glimmering upon her rosy skin and creating spiderwebbed patterns across her uncovered wings. Her hair streamed smoothly down her back and over delicate shoulders in sleek crimson rivulets, the water adding darker dimensions to her coppery mane. Toying with a small, simple golden bead, rolling it between slender fingers, her amber eyes were faraway. 

The next moment, however, she was...

Elsewhere. 

The voices surrounded her, charming but lethal; like a graceful blade bedecked with goldleaf and dripping with honey. Her vision darkened and blurred, gradually clearing to reveal a wholly different scene. 

The Throne of Tears and Hysteria lay before her, twisted and dark, living metal covered by organic thorns of every shape, color, and size. The thorns dripped with a substance that, to the eye, resembled fey blood; but simultaneously carried the scents of a thousand wines across the clearing to her. She swayed a little on her feet, thankful for the automatic reactions of her wings -- they flared out and kept her from stumbling to one knee. 

It was unoccupied, the throne; sprays of firechasm, glowing, gargantuan fungi in a hundred different shades, and elaborately-twisted, quicksilver spiderwebs draped over, behind, and above it. 

Thunder without sound -- a wordless thrum of power. 

This time, she was brought to her knees -- the jagged obsidian path beneath her biting in, drawing out droplets of crimson-amethyst blood. Katya gasped for breath, the feelings of power -- a sheet of crackling electricity -- enveloping her skin. 

She could hear a bacchanal, better and more wild, uncontrolled, than any in her very long remembrance, nearby. Laughter, moans, here and there a voice raised in hoarse song, wild strings and pipes and drums. The scents of blood, smoke, sweat, and feasting hung heavily in the air about her. Her wings shuddered violently, and she worked to catch her breath.

Promise, we promise.  
Promise you. 

Little one. Oh, little one, what you could and will be. 
What you are. 

She remained kneeling there for an amount of time that later, she could never name. It hurt, and she welcomed the pain. 

What I am.

Closing her eyes, lips and cheeks stained red, she could smell the sea. Feel the playful crosswinds and hear the roar of the uncontrollable surf, and... 

What I am. 

Once more, thunder without sound. And... she was home. The bathwater was still pleasantly warm, and night had fallen. She stepped out, paying no mind to the stack of plush towels nearby. She slipped from her bedchamber and out onto the balcony, her steps light and her wings causing her to rise a few inches above the ground every so often.

The night air was cool upon her porcelain skin, the beaded water tracing down her body glimmering like shattered diamonds in the moonlight. Her wings were soft, crumpled, trailing down her bare back; a cloak of amber edged with silver. Droplets of blood marred the smooth marble beneath her feet. She paid this no mind, looking out across the darkened courtyard absently.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses

The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O mortal child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Go with her. 
Come with me.

[Katya]

A candle is lit, I see through her.
Blow it out and save all her ashes for me.

Curse me, sold her
The poison that runs its course through her
Pale white skin with strawberry gashes all over, all over..

Watch me fault her
You're living like a disaster
She said, "Kill me faster."
With strawberry gashes all over

I dreamt of a devil that knew her
Pale white skin with strawberry gashes all over, all over
Watch me fault her.

I lay quiet,
Waiting for her voice to say
"Some things you lose,
and some things you just give away."

Scold me, failed her
If only I'd held on tighter to her
Pale white skin
That twisted and withered away from me, away from me

Watch me lose her
It's almost like losing myself
Give her my soul
and let them take somebody else.


The delicate runework wove an intricate, bloody tapestry across her creamy porcelain skin; from her shoulder to the slender wrist of her left arm, the graceful, complex script was carved oh so deeply into her flesh. She was able, most times, to use her glamour expertly enough to cover them. 

She wasn't sure she cared to anymore. 

Living art. Pain with a purpose, one hurt for one lie. Every time. 

Reminding her that fallacy should never be taken lightly. Should never come without a cost. Reminding her of what could be, and what was. And what could not be. 

Lies, slander, calumny, mistruths, excuses... an entire catalogue, eternally reminding her of each and every time, conscious or unconscious, that it happened. The conscious ones, she carved herself. The unconscious ones... came to her anyway. 

They were healed, now. For the first time since... well. The first time in a very long time. 

Silvery traces remained, soft and shimmering. And the words had changed. They spoke not of lies, not now; but of broken chains, shattered glass, darkness and hunger, the unbinding of...

Of what?

Good afternoon, sir.
What can I do, sir?
Just say the word, sir..
Anything for you, sir.
Your friends all say, sir,
You don't deserve her.
I disagree, sir -- 
I live to serve, sir.

I think about
All the wasted time I've spent
I wanna be disobedient
I shoot awake
Wondering where my summers went
I wanna be disobedient.

I've been good, sir
So very, very good -- for what?
And I've given you
Every single thing I've got.
It's feeling strange, man.
This whole arrangement
Is gonna end with
Me totally deranged.

When I think about
All the wasted time I've spent
I wanna be disobedient.
I shoot awake
Wondering where my summers went
I wanna be disobedient
Disobedient, disobedient...

(Jessicka Adams, Rebecca Sugar)

[Katya]

This ball rotates in its orbit,
Even though sometimes every world crashes.
It's useless to think, that we are waited for..
Arise from the pit of creation, because everyone goes
to this battle in turn..
 
We balance on the tightrope
and another time, our eyes are directed downwards
Can any of us trust the other?
Stay lying on the floor for pity points.
 
Look into my eyes, say: We'll cope with this.
Although the two of us were sent onto the dark way,
Towards a place, where even the strongest don't feel their strengths
When we were doomed, to the ultimate hell.
 
In the darkness and blindfolded
We're searching for the finish line on this way
I know, that this is the final journey
and for sure not as beautiful as the song of a swan.
--Raaka-Aine


She stood, a languid hip resting against the thick wooden beam of Emlyn's dock; shielding her amber eyes from the brightness of the sun as she gazed out at the little port. The sunlight played across the relatively calm water in spangles, and her lips curved into a faint smile at that. 

The tall ship was eminently grand, one could not deny; her mast rising just over fifty-four meters into the clear azure sky. The sides were painted in brilliant colors of crimson, gold, and ochre -- almost taking Katya's breath away to see shining in the sun. The port bustled with her various hirelings, rushing back and forth down the gangplank and loading various bundles, heavy chests, expensive rugs and tapestries, and elaborate furniture items aboard. It was truly going to be grand, she noted to herself with a fair hint of pride. Her own. 

Using her wings for just the slightest touch of extra lift, she perched herself atop the beam, closing her eyes in bliss at the warmth of the sun upon her creamy skin. Putting the brilliance of her wings on full display, she stretched them to their limit and let them spill across her bare shoulders. Letting her eyes fall closed, she remembered. 

Lies and uncertainty. So many. More than enough to get lost in for ages. 

Or at least, for seven hundred-odd years. 

Every one emblazoned on the smoothness of her skin, to remember. To change. Never the same lie twice. 

Changing your face. Changing a hat. Donning what isn't yours, and making it your own. But never, ever, changing underneath. 

Until the first time that you are changed. 

What, then? When the stage is bare. The footlights are out. The audience has gone. And you are only left with who you are. 

What, then? 

When the game is played out. When you've taken yourself outside of it. Just you. Always there, across the crowd. Staying. 

Unavoidable. 

What, then?

With a hissing sigh, she opened her eyes, coming back to herself. She smiled, then, bright and sudden. Content. 

The hirelings had nearly finished the wingéd figure; perhaps by twilight, she had been told. 

The carved wooden figurehead rose above her, a lithe and luscious figure carved of the finest birch that her hirelings could find. Wooden wings spread wide on the maiden's back, oh-so-similar to Katya's own. The figure wore nothing but foam from the sea, and intricately-carved wooden blooms of exotic flowers. She had tattoos, running down both upraised arms and across her back -- various fey scripts that clearly marked and denoted her as Whore. 

And still she smiled. 

[Tormus]

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire,
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

Tormus had tasted desire. He and desire were old drinking buddies.
But there were moments when desire absolutely terrified him.
Desire made dwarves mad and did even worse things to pirates.
In his dreams, he saw the Honeydew again.

While not the largest plant in the jungles of the new world, it was by far the most pungent. A musky smell, emanating from a trunk as tall as seven dwarves, and a figure as chaste as a wizard's staff. If it was only that, the Honeydew would only be remembered in bawdy songs and sailor's legends.

The Honeydew leaked sap. And the sap leaked promise. It was said that those who drank from the Honeydew were granted visions of their wildest dreams: Harems full of nubile lads and ladies. Vaults full of treasure. Piles of socks that needed to be darned. Whatever a dwarf wanted a single sip of sap would grant it.

And the visions would last for the rest of your life, as the victim stayed there, perfectly content and perfectly still, as the plant slowly devoured them.

Tormus had managed to avoid the temptation of the Honeydew... if only because his nose was stopped up that day. But through a spyglass, he saw what the plant did to his crewmates. He never forgot the rapturous smiles of their dissolving faces. Nor the treasures and dreams they spoke of as they lay dying.

Since that day, he had always wondered what his own death vision would have been.
What form of desire might make a dwarf go so mad that they risked certain death for just a taste?

It had grown worse the past few weeks.
He had woken up smelling the Honeydew from all those years ago.

Was he awake?
Or was this all his fevered death dream?
It was one hell of a way to go.

And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.

-Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[Katya]

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
They strung up a man,
They say who murdered three.
Strange things did happen here,
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Where a dead man called out
For his love to flee.
Strange things did happen here,
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Where I told you to run
So we'd both be free.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Wear a necklace of hope
Side by side with me.
Strange things did happen here,
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Where I told you to run
So we'd both be free?
Strange things did happen here,
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.

Are you, are you
Coming to the tree?
Where they strung up a man,
They say who murdered three.
Strange things did happen here
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight
In the hanging tree.

--James Newton Howard

She woke in the darkness.

There were sounds of water around her, but not the familiar ones that she knew. Something was different. 

Lighting a candle with trembling fingers, she saw only that she was alone. 

So alone, little one. 

She looked down at her delicate palms, lifting them close to her eyes. They were shining, slippery, slick. Blood. 

Her own? Someone else's? 

Her palms were still recovering, it was true; the edges of a dagger having bitten deeply into them not so long ago. A pain worth the sting, but slow to heal. 

But they'd stopped bleeding long ago. 

So alone. Who will come for you?

The isolation was intense. She could see nothing beyond the shuddering sphere of light thrown out by the candle. She yearned for someone she could not see. Oceans between. Could only faintly hear. The longing. It hurt, like an ache deep within herself that couldn't be assuaged by thought alone. 

Are you, are you,
Coming to the tree?
Wear a necklace of hope
Side by side with me.

The blood dripped languidly from her fingers, and onto the wooden floor below. 

.....out of my hands, now. 

The hurt was palpable, everywhere and nowhere. Above her, below her, around her, within her. 

It hurt, and at the time... it was brilliant. Shining. Delicious. Inviting. 

Intoxicating. 

Strange things did happen here, 
No stranger would it be
If we met at midnight, 
In the hanging tree.