Stolen Ones

[Bailey Raptis]

((Author's Note: This post, and the posts that follow, are re-posts of storylines previously housed here. If you've already read them before, feel free to ignore them. I'll let you know when I reach something new. Thanks!))

I have a story to tell, and I do not know how to tell it.

My skills do not lie within my head. They are in my hands, my feet, my body. I can sew and cut fabric like nobody's business. I can walk down the runway like I am walking on clouds, each footstep soft and quiet like a spy sneaking behind enemy lines. I can stand as still as a statue, my breath barely moving my chest. Those are the sorts of skills that let you be a model and fashion designer. They are not the sort of skills that let you tell stories.

Still, I have a story to tell, and if I do not tell it, I am afraid it will eat me alive. Somebody needs to know what happened to me, What They did to me. What They will do to me if They ever find me and catch me. There are not enough of us out here to form a group, a union, an organization against Them. All we have had in the past is whispers in shadows, messages written in traveller's code, and the small groups we clung to like family. That we made family, in many cases.

I have heard rumors that there are others like me, meeting in library study rooms, smoky booths in empty dive bars, hidden rooms in coffee shops, and safe houses across the city. A man with a recording device meets them, asks them questions, and takes in their answers. He saves everything somewhere else in the city. I do not trust him -- how can he guarantee our safety? He is one man, weak, and They are so powerful. I will take my chances writing on my own.

Although I guess if you are reading this, if you have found this, it likely means that I am dead or I have been taken again, and keeping it to myself did not really work. Pray for me, that the former has occurred and not the latter. Read what I have written, know that it is the gods' honest truth, and speak up. Speak out. Let the world know what has happened to me, and countless others like me.

I would start this story at the beginning, but I do not remember when that was. Memories are one of many things They have robbed from me, so I guess I will start off with an introduction.

My name is Bailey Raptis. When I was a child, I was taken from my home by the Fair Folk. I am one of the Stolen Ones.

[Bailey Raptis]

What is it like to be taken by the Fair Folk? I am afraid I do not know for sure. Most of us are stolen as children, while we sleep. We fall asleep to lullabies sung by our mothers, or forehead kisses from our fathers, and wake up in a land completely and utterly different from RhyDin. Most of Them prefer to take us as young as possible, so that we do not remember life before Arcadia. Not all of Them, of course. Some of Them get off on chasing us down through dark forests, dank swamps, or foggy moors, wearing us down until we submit. Others will trick us into eating Fae food and drink without asking the cost, kiss us or sleep with us without making clear the promises those gestures signify, lure us into contracts with promises of great fame and fortune without us reading the fine print. The end result is the same. Whether by force, by deceit, or by stealth, we are taken and molded into whatever They want us to be.

It *** with your mind, your sense of time. A day there can be a year in RhyDin, and vice versa, and the exchange rate is never consistent. I have no idea how long I actually spent in Arcadia, except my vague and fragmented memories as a young child up to the moment I managed to escape. But I am getting ahead of myself there.

Anyways, I cannot tell you when things happened there, or how old I was, or even really tell you a credible story. It is all snapshots. They would withhold memories, sometimes, force them back on you as punishment, and strip them away again as a further penalty. Our chirurgeon spent months sorting through my mind to build some sort of timeline to keep me from going mad. But again, I have gotten ahead of myself.

I can recall some of the general details, and some of the specific things They did to torture and torment me. I was a living statue. They would lay hands on me, shifting my flesh and blood to clay, to brass, to bronze, to marble. Sometimes They melted me down, screaming, until I was more malleable. Other times They just wrenched my joints and sockets out of place, leaving me whimpering, begging, pleading for an end to the pain. Sometimes, if I behaved, if I went along with what They wanted, they rewarded me, but even Their rewards were twisted, unfathomable. An unnaturally blue fruit that tasted of lightning, electricity crackling between my teeth and tongue. A hairshirt whose individual fibers hooked into my skin, leaving me dripping blood until I burned it off with a torch. A marble with a human eye encased in dark glass, blinking at random intervals. I took them, hid them, reminded myself where I hid them, forgot where I hid them, got asked to return them, and then got disciplined when I could not find them.

Their punishments varied greatly. Sometimes it was just a shake of the head, or quiet words of disappointment in that damnably beautiful tongue of Theirs. I still dream in it, more often than not -- sorry, I know I keep drifting off topic. Sometimes, I was locked in a room, ignored, or maybe they would slip some food under the door once a day -- fresh or rotten. They would let me out, and pretend it had never happened. If I had done something especially bad -- or if They thought I had done something bad, or maybe if They were just feeling particularly cruel, I really never could tell -- They would mess with my memories. They loved giving me bits and pieces of the night I was stolen, and taking them back right away. Cold, in a wicker basket. Black thorns twisting and grabbing at me in a hedge maze. My kidnapper's constantly changing expression. A smile. A frown. Incoherent rage. Boredom. Me crying. The bright red candy he fed me to try and shut me up. The taste of Spring. Fresh earth and rain, rose petals, worms turning the dirt. Gagging, as he clapped a hand over my mouth and forced me to swallow, the smell of sweat and dirt under his fingernails. Sleep. I hated the memory, begged Them to take it away, until I realized it was the only thing I could recall of the time before I was transformed. It was almost as if They were waiting for me to want it, that horrible recollection, before They ripped it back out of my mind.

I do not remember much about Arcadia, and what I can remember I cannot really trust as 100% true. But I know for a fact what my first memory was: the day I managed to escape the Land of the Fair Folk. The day my family rescued me.

[Bailey Raptis]

My first escape attempt was a test. A trial run, so to speak. I wanted to see how badly They wanted me to stay in Arcadia. I was standing in a sculpture garden that felt more like a graveyard, surrounded as it was by low stone walls and a faux wrought iron gate. There were about a dozen of us, I think, shaped like stone angels and weeping women. They were about to turn my flesh and blood to stone when I punched the first Fae to approach me in the nose and rabbited. I did not even make it out of the cemetery before three other Fair Folk tackled me to the ground. My punishment was swift and pretty easy to understand, unlike some of the rest of my discipline: They beat me with Their fists until I passed out. It was one of the memories they let me keep -- probably an attempt to intimidate me into not trying that again.

It did not work. My second escape attempt, I tried to be a little more subtle about it. They had grabbed a bunch of us to decorate a hedge maze They had created in the backyard of one of the Fae's mansions. They had made the mistake, though, of bringing in real statues to go along with us. I did my best to stand as still as I could as they turned me into brass, and stayed still as the evening progressed. I had to still my heart, my breathing, as They went around and shifted the others back, but I managed to convince Them I was not living and They passed me by. When they had all left the house, I crept through the maze, out of their yard, and into a dark, open plain. From there I fled into a nearby forest and hid. They sicced bloodhounds on me, people who had been twisted into half-human, half-animal creatures with heightened senses of smell, hearing, and sight, but somehow I managed to avoid detection. I could not find a way back to RhyDin in the woods though, and after a few days passed -- how long, I could not even begin to tell you -- hunger got the better of me. I emerged from the forest, turned myself over to them, and prepared for the worst. They fed me, re-clothed me, shook their heads and tut-tutted. Why would I ever want to leave them? They asked me, and for a moment, I could not remember. Only for a moment, though. I soon remembered the beatings, the melted flesh, the twisted limbs and joints, and I began planning once more.

I finally succeeded on my third attempt -- and I had not even been trying in the first place. After all my planning and scheming, the opportunity fell right into my lap, and I took it.

Sometimes, They let a number of us Stolen Ones eat together in one of the Fair Folk's dining halls. They would sit us at a long, rectangular table, with heaping plates of food in the center, flanking a cornucopia filled with a vast array of fruits and nuts. There was carved turkey and ham, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, bowls of romaine and spinach salad, every type of bread you could imagine, towering cakes with white icing and tableaus with figurines that were bizarre and inexplicable: half-melted brides and grooms, angels and demons locked in combat, dragons bent into ouroboros. If we were lucky, They would actually serve us the food on the tables. Many times, though, They forced us to stare at the rich meal They had prepared -- They would either serve us gruel or stale bread, or They would not serve us at all. We would watch Them devour that dinner and salivate, to no avail.

That day, though, They let us eat. They provided silverware and plates, but most of us just ate with our hands and fingers, desperate for a meal that reminded us of home in a way we could not understand at the time. There was one of us, though, a man with a long grey beard that curled back towards his chin, who did not eat. Instead, he clutched a steak knife and a fork so tightly that his knuckles turned white. I tried to watch him as I shoveled food into my own mouth, but it was difficult to keep track of him and make sure I got everything I wanted.

One of our Keepers came over, stood behind his shoulder, and asked him why he was not eating. He responded by wheeling around in his seat and stabbing Him in the neck with the knife. The Fae stood there stunned for a moment, the blade imbedded in his throat, as brackish blood began pouring out. The whole room watched in shocked silence as He stumbled back a few steps and collapsed to the ground.

"Hurry!" the bearded man shouted to the rest of us, hopping onto the table with his fork still in hand. "The Others will be coming soon to check on us. We must escape now!"

"But They always catch us when we run!" A woman whose hair was living flame shook her head, the fire dancing in thin whips.

"Not if we work together! I have escaped once, and I will escape again. Besides, after that-" He pointed with his fork at the body of the Fair Folk, "-there will be no telling what punishment will be meted out."

"You’ve doomed us, you damned bastard!" An orcish-looking fellow banged a meaty fist on the table, nearly flipping over one of the plates filled with roast beef.

"Better to die escaping, then to die in chains!" Just then, the double doors to the hall swung open. A half dozen Fae dressed in dark blue double-breasted coats with high collars, white aiguillettes, and wide-topped kepi caps stormed in, smacking truncheons against their hands. The Keeper on the floor rose to His feet unsteadily, pulling the knife from His neck with a squelch. He tossed the blade aside and wiped the blood off of His Adam’s apple. I stared at the dead man walking with wide, terrified eyes, until the Fae's attacker called out to us again.

"Ladies...Gentlemen...to arms!"

[Bailey Raptis]

It was a slaughter. There were at least three times as many of us as there were of Them, but of the two dozen or so Stolen Ones present at the dining hall table, eight of us bolted right away. Of those eight, six never made it to the door. The Fae who had been stabbed slapped the walls, and kudzu vines burst out of nowhere, enveloping the escapees. They twitched momentarily as they fought futilely against the vegetation, then went still with a half dozen shudders. The other two actually made it out the door, and I never saw them again. I would like to think they escaped, but since they did not escape with me, and since I never saw them in the small community of Stolen Ones in RhyDin City, I can only assume the Fair Folk caught up with them eventually.

Except for me, there were 14 other Taken who fought against the seven Fae in the dining hall -- the six in gendarme clothes, and the injured one in waiter's garb. We had the numbers, and we had more dangerous weapons -- steak knives and forks versus blunt truncheons. The fight was not close. The Fair Folk moved so fast I could barely track Them with my eyes, and They hit much harder than Their thin frames suggested was possible. Now and then, one of us managed a lucky shot -- a cut across the face, a stab wound to the stomach -- but nothing seemed to faze them. The bearded man fought like a demon, but one by one, his compatriots went down.

I, on the other hand, wanted nothing to do with this fight. Instead, I hid under the table, ducking my head out every so often to see how things were going. At one point, the fighting had shifted away from the doors that led into the hall. There were just four of us left -- the one with the beard, the woman with the fire hair, the orc, and a woman who seemed constantly soaked with water, wet hair and rags dripping all over the floor. The leader of the insurrection kept throwing knives at the Fae, but They batted them out of the air with magic like children's toys. The fire woman and the tusked man had their hands full just blocking the array of batons coming their way, but I could see them faltering. All it would take is one blow to land, and that would be it. Meanwhile, the drowned woman stood at the head of the table, opposite the doors, her eyes shut in concentration. How did They not see her?

Thank the Gods They did not see her, for what she did next was the first break I had in making my escape. Out of nowhere, her eyes snapped open, stormy like the seas, and she lifted both hands to the ceiling. A massive wave of water crashed through the wall behind her, destroying it and knocking over the table, plates, bowls, chairs, Fae, the remaining fighters, and myself. The tsunami pushed me past everyone still in the room, through the doorway, and out. I did not waste a second looking back at whoever was still in that room. There was nothing that I could do for them but get caught, beaten, and tortured again. Out here, though, I could try to escape once more.

I ran, with no real destination in mind. I ran through fields that were once fertile, now salted and useless for some unknown reason. I ran across the mires, rotten with peat and nearly obscured by fog, my bare feet sticking in the muck and coming loose with loud sucking sounds. I ran into the forest, the light overhead blocked out by leaves and branches, the smell of decay still clinging to my nostrils. And in here, I found passage into the Hedge.

Somehow, instinctively, I knew this was where I had first traveled through when I had been taken into Arcadia. It was almost like the hedge maze I had tried to escape from before, but I immediately knew there was something different about this Hedge. The light that filtered in now was a sickly green color, as if the leaves of the plants in and around it had poisoned the very air we walked through. Thorny brambles lined the edges of the narrow and winding path. I reached out for one of the thorns tentatively, and the sharp pinprick of pain lanced into the core of my being. I could not help it. I sat down on the muddy ground and wept, even though I did not know why at the time.

The sounds of rustling branches spurred me to stand again. Oh no. No no no no no. They are going to catch me, and They are going to kill me, after They have tormented me again. I have to get out of here. I have to! Carefully but quickly, I made my way through down the path, through each twist and turn, through switchbacks and double-backs, through wild growth that almost choked off the maze and wide open gaps free of undergrowth. Finally, I made it to the end of the labyrinth.

Only, there was no exit. Only an impenetrable wall of bramble, surrounding me on all sides. I could hear Their footsteps getting closer and closer, and then the unearthly howling of some sort of beast. I fell to my knees and closed my eyes, defeated.

I felt Them on my back even before I looked over my shoulder -- the air rippled with heat and magic, and sweat began beading on my forehead. They had brought a three-headed dog with them, saliva and foam dripping from each one of its mouths, yanking against the leash in their lust for my blood. I turned around slowly, waiting to feel the sting of the whip, the thud of the baton, the piercing pain of teeth crunching through muscle and bone. Instead, I felt something else. Wind, blowing leaves around. It quickly picked up in intensity, driving back both Fae and animal in surprise. Right before my eyes, a tiny dot of purple energy grew until it was as big as my body. Then a hand reached through the portal. It was wrinkled, the knuckles gnarled and peppered with scars. Yet it reached forward, grasping desperately at the air, unafraid of what it could not see. The hand was clearly searching for something -- or someone. I did not hesitate, nor did I turn around. Before the hand could withdraw, I grabbed hold of it and held tight. The skin was rough and worn, but its grip was strong. It grasped me by the wrist and, without warning, pulled me through the magical gateway.

At least I will die free were my final thoughts before I blacked out.

[Bailey Raptis]

I woke up to the smell of something warm and sweet and slightly spicy. The aroma was faint at first, but as time passed, it grew stronger and stronger, tickling my nose, begging me to awaken further. My eyes resisted the siren song of whatever was baking, even as my mind became more and more aware of my body. First my nose, twitching with the scent on the air. Next, my arms and legs, clothed in some sort of soft fabric. My torso, too, but not my head, my feet, or my hands. I could not remember if I had been dressed before. And when did I fall asleep? My entire body was covered in a thicker, warmer material, and I felt the first pricklings of sweat on my forehead. Still, I did not dare move. Where am I? Am I dead? Is this heaven? Is this hell? Is there anybody else here? What happened? I listened to the whip and whir of the ceiling fan over my head, and finally opened my eyes.

The morning light trickled through the window and white curtains that had been partially drawn aside. I craned my neck backwards, and saw the headboard was covered in a blue-and-white gingham fabric. A little bit further above my head, someone had slapped planks of fine grain wood all around the walls. To my right was a short nightstand made out of mahogany. On it sat several paperbacks, a short vase with white hydrangeas, and a blue-and-white striped lamp with a cream colored shade. I shifted my body away from the window, letting my head rest on the pillow I had not slept on earlier. It was cool and smelled faintly of mint. I was just about to shut my eyes and go back to sleep when I heard the floorboards creak on my left.

A tall, weathered man in faded blue jeans and a short-sleeved red flannel shirt stepped into view. Wrinkles and laugh lines criss-crossed his face like rivers, and his hooked nose seemed to stand watch like a mountain above the valley of his mouth. A thin nest of gray hair sat on top of his head, and I immediately thought to myself, He is old enough to be my father. Or my grandfather. My mind paused briefly, and I wrinkled my nose. Who is my father? Is he my father? I did not have much more time to consider it, as I could feel his eyes upon me even before I turned my head to look at him. They were the eyes of a younger man, bright and sharp and yellow-green. They threatened to pierce right through me, and so I pulled the cover over my head to hide from his gaze.

That only bought me a moment's respite. The man gripped the edge of the blanket and pulled it off, the expression on his face softer than before. He smiled, opened his mouth, and began to speak. I could not understand a word he was saying.

"What?"

He repeated what he had just said to me, slower and louder, but I still could not understand him. About the only thing I could figure out from his tone was that he was asking me a question. I ran the syllables he had spoken through my mind, searching for some clue as to what he had said, but I drew a complete blank. The words sounded harsh and flat to my ears, like a song sung out of key and rhythm. In my mind, I tried to force the bits and pieces of his language to match the cadence of my own, but it just did not work. There was no pattern, no consistency, no clues as to what consonant followed what vowel.

"I am sorry, but I do not know what you are saying."

The man paused briefly, eyes squinting to hone his gaze, before he suddenly slapped his forehead and let out a loud, screeching laugh. He laughed so hard that he doubled up, wheezing, but when I reached for the blanket to cover up once more, he quickly grabbed it and held firm.

"I am sorry, son," he said to me in my own tongue. "I did not realize you do not speak Common." Another guffaw escaped his lips when he saw how much my eyes had widened. "I forget that not everyone in RhyDin speaks Common." The more he spoke, the more I realized that he was not a native speaker of my language. The rasp and smokiness of his voice did not help matters, but I had the feeling that even if those aspects disappeared, he was not entirely comfortable with the lilting flow of Fae. This...Common that he was speaking earlier, that must have been his first language. But then how does he know Fae?

The answer came to me suddenly, and I bolted up out of bed. "You are one of Them too! This is a trick!" I threw off the sheets and tried to rush past him, but he was still fast in his old age. He grabbed me and lifted me up in the air, his hands like vises just under my rib cage. My legs kicked at the air, then tried to kick him, but he held me away from his body and I could not come close to touching him, let alone harming him. After a few final half-hearted attempts to strike him, I gave up. I knew there was no way I could escape. Instead, I let my body freeze in place, my attention somewhere to the right of his face, looking at the doorway. He seemed to notice me staring, and shouted something in his foreign tongue back behind him. Another man appeared, even taller than my captor. His skin had a dull gray hue, and every part of him seemed stretched out: his arms, his legs, his neck, even his fingers. I glanced away from him quickly, even as he stepped up beside the man holding on to me.

They talked with each other in quiet tones, although they did not bother to whisper. I could not understand them anyways. I hung in the air, a marionette waiting for my punishment. After a minute or so had passed, the first man spoke in Fae once again. He seemed to have forgotten I could understand him -- or he did not care.

"He was stolen so young...Lyeorn, he is just a kid…" He shook his head sadly, and the second man approached me. Before I could react, he pressed his long fingers against my temples and spoke a single word.

"Sleep."

I blinked once and before I could resist any further, my body collapsed like a rag doll, my eyelids slamming shut like they were made of lead.

[Bailey Raptis]

For my first few days and weeks back in RhyDin, the ones who rescued me called me "Nemo Raptis." "Raptis" was the surname of the man who personally reached into Arcadia to save me, the older gentleman with the hawk’s face. I never found out if that was his actual last name, or if he had found himself in the same situation years ago as I did now: returned to the world he had been born to, but feeling utterly disconnected from it. Knowing that he had a name, or knowing that a name was something that people expected him to have, and yet not remembering what it was, and selecting another instead. Or having a name given to him, a gift perhaps from the person who had saved him. I never asked him, because I was not sure if it would be rude to ask, and now I regret never asking. I did ask him what it meant, and he told me it was Greek for "tailor". It struck me as odd, then, because he did not handle our clothing -- not even our laundry. I did not understand then, as I do now, that surnames are often artifacts of our past, of the jobs our ancestors did for generations and generations, year after year after year after decade after century after millennium. The names stick with us, even after we descendants had long abandoned farming, or smithing, or baking. How could I have understood all that? My past was nothing but a nightmare, with nearly everything I was supposed to be and supposed to have stripped away by the Fair Folk. I had no name, until my rescuers gave one to me. I had no family, until they came into my life. It was only years later, long after he was gone, that I discovered he was wrong: "Raptis" was not actually Greek for tailor. Someone -- possibly him, possibly a predecessor, possibly an immigration official ages ago -- had mistakenly transposed the letters in the original Greek word into Common. "Ράφτης‚" should have been written out in the Common alphabet as "Ráftis." Not for a second did I consider fixing his mistake. Not after I discovered his error, nor after I discovered the name I was actually born with. But I am getting ahead of myself there.

My first name, though? I decided to rid myself of his initial suggestion after a month or so. When I asked him what "Nemo" meant, he just laughed that screeching laugh of his and told me it was Latin for "no one", or "no man." I stared at him blankly. A week after I arrived, Lyeorn cast a spell on me that let me understand Common, without having to spend years being taught it. He placed a small slip of paper under my tongue, and told me to leave it there until it dissolved. When it finally did, my mouth was flooded with an intensely bitter mint flavor. I tried to spit it out, but Lyeorn clapped a hand over my lips and did not remove it until I had swallowed. Within minutes, the spell began to work its magic -- no pun intended. Of course, all it really did was put a Common-to-Fae and Fae-to-Common dictionary in my head. I would hear a word, like "potato" or "leech", and my brain would take those harsh syllables and switch them into the melodic language I was more familiar with. That part of the charm worked almost instantly. What took me a little more time to learn was navigating the second half of that dictionary. Someone would ask me a question in Common, like "Are you hungry?", and I would answer them back in Fae. And, as I was beginning to learn, my saviors were not fans of hearing or speaking in the Fair Folk’s tongue. After a couple of weeks of trial and error, with the incantation’s assistance, I was able to respond in kind when they spoke to me in Common.

One thing the spell did not allow me to understand were the nuances of the language: contractions, sarcasm, double meanings, puns, wordplay, idioms, humor. Another thing it missed was cultural references, like current events, celebrities, or literature. So when I was told that my name meant "no one" or "no man" in some language I had never even heard of before, I could not even begin to process what was so funny about that. I wound up asking Lyeorn later what it meant, and he gave me a dry explanation of a novel called Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, in which one of the main characters was also named Nemo. Knowing that did not help me much. The concept of reading anything, let alone books with no purpose except to entertain, was utterly foreign to the Stolen Ones of Arcadia. So once Lyeorn finished describing the novel’s plot, I just nodded my head and pretended like I understood. I never really figured out what was so funny about it, not even after I read it a couple of years later, when the lingering effects of the spell and prolonged exposure to Common allowed me to have a more complex understanding of and grasp on the language (also, those lingering effects are a story for later).

I wish I could tell you there was a dramatic story of how I shed the first name "Nemo" in favor of "Bailey," the name I most frequently use in my public affairs. There was no friend or family memory, long deceased, whose memory was honored by it. There was no deeper meaner to it that spoke to me when I took it on (Bailey apparently means "bailiff" or "steward", two occupations that few would say fit me). In fact, I took the name on more or less at random, because I liked the way it sounded. I had traveled to the public library local to the WestEnd neighborhood we lived in, both out of personal boredom and out of educational encouragement from my rescuers. I somehow gathered up the nerve to ask the tall, bearded man at the front desk if he knew where the books on names were, and he guided me to the area of the library where those books were located. The stacks smelled like old leather and must, with faint hints of vanilla and glue. He stood on his tip-toes, reaching up higher than even I could reach standing on a stool, and pulled down a thick paperback. He handed it to me with a grunt, and wandered back over to his desk. I walked to a nearby study carrel, sat down, and cracked the book open.

Without any guidance from the librarian, and with only a bare minimum of literacy granted by magic, I had no idea how I was supposed to read this book. I did not realize you were supposed to flit around from page to page, use the table of contents to search for specific names and letters, or turn to the back and search with the index. Instead, I started on the first page of actual content, in the "A's", and read. After about 30 minutes, I had finished the first of 26 letters, gotten started with the second, and was bored out of my mind. I set the book down, rubbed my eyes, and then picked it back up again, jabbing my finger at the page at random. It fell on "Bailey". I peered at the word until my eyes crossed, and then stood up from the desk, heading over to where the librarian was located.

"...sir?" It took me a moment to remember the correct word in Common.

"Yes?" He rolled his dark brown eyes, and ran his fingers through his beard.

"How do you...say this?" I pointed out the name on the page.

"Bail-ee." He lifted a thick, bushy eyebrow.

"Thank you," I said, placing the book on the desktop, since I was finished with it. I took two steps back, bowed, and thanked him again. He waved off the bow with an annoyed expression on his face, as I headed for the exit.

And that is how I came to be known as Bailey Raptis.

[Bailey Raptis]

While I was writing down that last part of this story I have been telling, I realized that I have not really given much of an introduction to the group -- my family -- that rescued me (I did mention when I started that I was not much of a storyteller). You will have to forgive me as I continue to prove that true with what I am writing next. I want everyone to know about my rescuers -- my saviors -- because I think that now I might be the only person left in RhyDin who remembers them. They do not deserve that obscurity.

First, I will tell of the man that rescued me. The older gentleman, the man with the hooked nose, the Hawk. I mentioned his last name -- Raptis -- before, but not his first name. I forget to when I am talking about him often, because I almost never called him by it. I called him "father." But when the situation necessitated calling him by his actual first name, I called him Fletcher. Fletcher Raptis. I do not think his first name held any more significance than his last name, as I never saw him do any work with arrows, let alone fletching, but he was much older than I. Perhaps in another lifetime, before he was Stolen, he had made a living that way.

Anyways, he was the leader of our little group of survivors. I have heard several names used for the small groups of Stolen Ones that frequently gather in our city, for protection, education, and camaraderie. Krewes, motleys, and cliques are just a few of the ones I have frequently heard bandied about. Fletcher called us his "family", and it always felt right to me, even if none of us were related to him, by blood or by adoption.

He owned the house we all lived in most of the time, a rustic WestEnd cottage filled with his stylistic touches: a buck's head hanging over the fireplace (even though he said he never hunted), a cross-stitched three-story farmhouse accompanied with the words "Bless this home" hung in a circular wooden frame, a tall grandfather's clock made out of cherry wood that stood taller than me even after I had fully grown. He would never admit it out loud, but he had an eye for interior design that made the cottage feel like home within weeks of my arrival.

Fletcher was also the first person who taught me how to fight. Even in his old age, he was no slouch with the sword, and could brawl unarmed with the best of them. Years of fighting had taught him the footwork and technique necessary to make up for the diminishment of his physical skills, though he was still strong and quick for his age. In all my years training under him, I never managed to beat him in a spar, and not for lack of trying. There always seemed to be one more move left up his sleeve, one last trick that he had saved for himself to ensure he always had an advantage over me. That was not to say that he did not train me well, but rather, he always seemed to be hedging his bets. I found out later there was a good reason for this.

But even if he did not teach me all of his fighting tricks, even if his screeching laugh grated on my ears at times, even if he told jokes and made references that I did not always understand -- no matter. He was kind, he was gentle, he was fair, he was loving. He was everything that a father should be -- biological, adoptive, or de facto. If I had to be Stolen from my parents, well, Fletcher was the best father figure I could have had. I miss him terribly, and I probably always will.

[Bailey Raptis]

If Fletcher was like a father to me, then Lyeorn would probably best be described as like an uncle. Much like "father", though, there are many things that the word "uncle" can signify, and the first thing that comes to many people's mind when I say that word is not true. He was not, to quote my friend Micah, the "cool uncle." He did not sneak me beer or wine when I was far too young to consume it, nor did he let me sit on his lap and "drive" his automobile, as some friends have said their uncles did. In many ways, he was stricter than Fletcher was. Some of that was probably due to the nature of what he taught me. Fletcher focused on armed and unarmed combat, skills that one could easily hide until the moment was right. Lyeorn was my magical teacher, and he always loved to point out that it was far easier for the Fae to sniff out who possessed arcane talent than it was for Them to pinpoint who was good with a blade or his fists.

In fact, most of Lyeorn's training focused on hiding my skills. There were shields and wards that one could use to stifle his or her innate magical talents, and to prevent others from detecting they might even have magical talent in the first place. Lyeorn absolutely refused to let me use the other magical abilities I possessed until I had mastered those dampening techniques, and it took me several long, frustrating years of education before he finally deemed me ready for it.

One of the first things Lyeorn taught me, when he was not berating me for letting my magic "leak", was that we Stolen Ones are changed irrevocably by our time in Arcadia. Our Keepers molded and twisted us to fit Their dark and warped desires, and even after we returned, many of the changes stuck with us. As someone who had been used as a living statue, I possessed the potential (which was not unlocked until much later) to shift my flesh from organic material into marble. Lyeorn had been physically stretched out, his limbs and fingers longer than most humans, and his skin kept a sickly gray pallor no matter how healthy or ill he was actually feeling. All he would say about his time in the Lands was that he had been a chirurgeon. Any attempts to further press him on the matter earned a tight-lipped glare, and a clipped "Get back to work." I did know, from personal experience, that he possessed healing abilities both natural and magical. That, and a scan through a dictionary to define "chirurgeon", allowed me to hazard a guess as to what he had done while in Arcadia.

It was always only a guess, though. Did he minister to the medical needs of Them? Did he treat us when our Keepers injured us, through their actions or inactions? Or was it more sinister than that? He warned us, on occasion, that just because someone wasn't Fae didn't mean that they didn't want to take advantage of our skills. He spoke of researchers who would experiment on those with any sort of special abilities. I realize now that he could have been talking about other Stolen Ones in the employ of the Fae -- or himself.

I will never get the chance to ask those questions of him, though, but that might be for the best. "Ignorance is bliss" are words I have heard spoken many, many times, and I think in this case, they might be true. There is no proof he did anything wrong, just a murky past he had been unwilling to clarify for even those he was closest to. We all have experiences with that, with histories that dog our footsteps, histories that escape our memories, histories that we desperately want back and know we cannot grasp. For my sake, and for my memories' sake, I will choose to believe one of the latter two things is true. For as strange and as difficult as he could be, I do believe he had my best interests in heart. I do not believe he was evil.

I loved Lyeorn too -- not the same fatherly way I cared for Fletcher, but a familial love nonetheless -- and, of course I miss him. Even if I did not always like him.

[Bailey Raptis]

((Author's note: Linked to this Playable event.))

February 29, 2016
Marketplace

The whole damn thing started with a tail.

I was walking through the Marketplace, on my way from New Haven to the L.D. 50 store located west of the main shopping plaza. The usual hustle and bustle of the shopping crowd seemed a touch more upscale than usual, thanks to the start of fashion week. I saw more men dressed in suits and shined shoes, tugging at the ties around their necks as they rushed off to meetings. I saw more women wearing shimmery dresses, dripping in flashy jewelry, and clinging to expensive clutches and bags as they tried to navigate cobblestone streets, leftover snow, and large puddles in high heels. They added pops of color to the usual drab collection of citizens that shopped in the marketplace. The blue jeans and brown breeches and white tunics all seemed to blend together in my eye when I walked down the street.

Kate likes to tease me about "checking people out," but the truth is, I very rarely engage in such behavior. When I look at people now, I see them with a designers' eye. It is less to critique the clothing that they wear, but to try and understand why they wear what they wear. What is it about those brown boots that made that dock worker pick them over a pair in a black hue? Why did that business woman select a gray pencil skirt, as opposed to an A-line, a circle, or a pleated one? Are those jeans meant to be distressed, or is that man just too poor to buy new denim? I am not yet brave enough to ask the people I see these questions directly, but I take them with me when I head to my drawing board at L.D. 50.

Still, certain things will draw my attention, even when I am not actively seeking it out. Dressing well, in clothes that fit. Lean bodies -- neither the bodybuilder look nor the emaciated model look that used to be en vogue ages ago really appeal to me. I prefer people that stay in shape, without making exercise their sole reason to exist. Really, though, I will set all of those things aside though if I notice one thing on a person -- a tail.

I am well aware that this sounds...peculiar, even for RhyDin, a city that counts among its denizens dragons, elves, dwarves, and sundry other fantastic species. Why, of all the beautiful and unique features that so many citizens possess, does this one stand out in my mind? I am sure it has something to do with the story I am about to tell you, but I do not think it is quite so obvious, so psychological, as you would probably say it is once you have heard me through to the end. I truly think part of the attraction is primal, unknowable, unsourced in my psyche. We do not ask heterosexuals why they are attracted to the opposite gender; we generally just assume (for better or for worse) that this is rooted in the survival of most humanoid species. But I also think people have progressed enough, in most of the circles that I am involved in, that nobody asks gay men why they are attracted to other men, or lesbians why they are attracted to other women. I am sometimes asked why I am attracted to men and women, and I have to point out that it is not just men and women I am attracted to. I am truly gender-blind when it comes to my heart, it is a natural part of who I am, and most people seem to understand that, or accept it, at least. It is the same, I think, with the self-professed "ass men", the men who prefer blondes, or the women who prefer someone taller than they are. The heart is more complex than to say these desires stem solely from what Lyeorn would call "Freudian claptrap." Sometimes, a tail is just a tail.

All of that was a roundabout way of saying that when I see a person who has a tail, I immediately take notice. And I did, that afternoon in the marketplace. This tail belonged to a short, solidly built young woman wandering rather aimlessly through the plaza. Her eyes were lifted upwards, staring at the buildings that surrounded the shopping center, instantly marking her as a tourist. She wore baggy blue jeans, a partially tucked-in red and black checked flannel, and black low-top sneakers - not something that would have typically caught my eye. But the tail! It was big and bushy and mostly red, with several stripes of white running parallel to the red. It swept from side to side slowly, tucking closer to her body when someone passed by too close to her. Her short hair, too, resembled that tail, although with more red and less white. In fact --

I felt the air rush out of my lungs, and I stumbled towards the nearest bench, nearly falling over as I took a seat. There were murmurs of concern, briefly, from nearby passers-by, but I waved them off as I rested my head on my knees and began breathing deeply. It is not her. It cannot be her. No, you are seeing things, Bailey. Bailey...

"Bailey?" A sweet and slightly deep voice said my name like a question. I could not help but look up, and I saw the girl with the tail looking right at me. I recognized those eyes -- reddish-brown, almost like chestnuts -- and her face. Freckles sprayed out across her snub nose and rounded cheeks, and a small slash of a scar ran through her upper right lip.

"K-k-k-" Before I could stammer out her name, she had flung her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. I could smell cinnamon and cedarwood on her skin, peppermint on her breath, and something canine underneath it all. She mumbled something into the fabric of my peacoat, then lifted her head to whisper in my ear as I stared straight ahead.

"It is you. But…" She pulled away from me, took a couple of steps back, and gave me a once-over. She shook her head once, then her eyes widened. "You're...older?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat, nodded my head a couple of times to try and compose myself, and eventually found my voice. "Kass...?" It looked like her, but how could she be so young? She appeared to be the same age she was the last time I saw her, roughly eight years ago.

"Yeah, it's me." She giggled nervously, and her smile did not quite reach her eyes. I looked past her, scanning the crowd for Them. This had to be one of Their tricks. They had found me, and They were going to use her against me. I should have stood up, pushed her out of the way, and ran, back to the Inn, back to the portal to Twilight Isle, back to the Tower of Water and safety, but I could not. Instead, I turned my gaze back on my jeans. It probably would have stayed there for the rest of the afternoon, or at least until she had left. If only she had left.

She did not. Instead, she knelt near me and placed her fingers under my chin, forcing me to look up. Her tail beat rapidly against the sides of my knees, whipping from left to right. "Mo chuisle...What's going on?"

I pushed her hand off of my chin and watched as her eyes drifted off to the side. I tried to be as neutral as possible, but shock and suspicion must have colored my tone as I asked the question weighing like a millstone on my mind. "That is what I would like to know. How did you escape Them again?"

"Again?" I no longer felt fur brushing against my legs, as I watched her itch the side of her nose. "What do you mean, again?"

[Bailey Raptis]

I should have just sent her away. There was no way she was real. She had to be a trick, a trap, a pitfall for me to step in and plummet all the way to hell. It is easy for me to say those things now, with hindsight, knowing everything that happened following that moment in the Marketplace. At the time, though, a bevy of emotions overwhelmed me: hope, fear, yearning, guilt, shame, happiness, melancholy. Above all else, though, the mystery of her appearance weighed on my mind. It had been just over eight years since the last time I had seen her. Since the last time any of us had said they had seen her. Yet now here she was, the same young woman she had been before, yet all this time had passed for the rest of us. What in the worlds was going on?

Instead of abandoning her, we went to a nearby cafe and bookstore. I found a table mostly hidden by bookshelves that still had a clear line of sight on the front door and a path of egress to the back. I wanted privacy for our discussion, but I also wanted an escape route if They came for me. For us, I thought in the back of my mind, indulging that hopeful side of me.

I did not engage her in small talk. I bought coffees for both of us (since she said she did not have her purse or wallet), put them down on the heavily scarred pine, and before she could even take a sip, began interrogating her.

"Who are you?"

"Kass. You know that. You said it earlier." In response, I began waving my hand in a circle, rotating towards and away from her. She arched one of her thick eyebrows. "What?"

"What is your full name?"

She rolled her eyes and sighed loudly. "Fine. Kaskia Vulpin. Look, why are you giving me the runaround? I'm me, and you're you."

"Am I?" I tried out a serious expression on her, but she just giggled.

"Of course you are. You stutter the same way when you're nervous. You only use contractions when you're feeling particularly emotional. I bet I can even guess what you put in your coffee."

"Is that so?" I took a sip and set the cup down with a quiet *clink*.

"You drink dark roast, but you put at least two cream packets and two sugar packets in. More, if nobody's watching. It tastes more like a milkshake than coffee when you're done." She reached across the table to playfully shove my arm, but quickly pulled her hand back when I did not react to it.

"...What am I supposed to say to that?"

"I'm right?" She smirked, and I had to look away. I remembered that smile of hers all too well. If it is her, I had to remind myself.

"A spy could have told you that. You could be that spy."

Kass huffed a sigh, then sipped some of her coffee. "What do I have say to make you believe it's me?"

"Tell me something no one but us would know. A secret not even They could drag out of you."

"Fine." The playful grin disappeared, as did her teasing tone. Even the volume of her voice dropped, as if we had been transplanted to a library where quiet was of the essence. "Do you remember how you almost broke up with me, a few months after we began dating?"

I could not meet her eyes as she asked me that question, but after a beat, I nodded. An unfamiliar syllable scraped against the back of my throat, raw and raspy. "Yeah."

"You remember why you said you wanted to break up with me?"

I stole a glance at her eyes, warm and brown, and I had to look away again. "Yes. But if I tell you, it defeats the purpose of this exercise. You tell me."

I could feel her gaze penetrating me, even as I studied the spine of some antiquarian cookbook on a nearby shelf. She paused, sucking in a deep breath, before continuing. "You told me we needed to talk. I wanted you to sit by me on the couch in Fletcher's place, but you insisted on sitting in the recliner instead. You told me you couldn't be with me, that there was something wrong with you. You were acting like you were now -- you couldn't even look me in the eye." I glanced up and then away again, but if she noticed, she said nothing about it. "I sat there, and I racked my brains, and I couldn't figure it out. You're good at listening to me, you've got a good heart, you're..." She trailed off, and I sneaked a peek at her face. Her cheeks were bright red, and I quickly turned away as if burned. "Well, you know. I liked you." She seemed ready to say something else, but she bit it back, washed it away with coffee instead. "But you just looked so guilty and miserable, curled up on yourself on that chair, so I asked you what was wrong. And then you asked me a question. 'Have you ever been attracted to someone else?' And I said, 'Yes, but that doesn't mean I don't want to be with you.' And then you asked another question. 'Have you ever been attracted to another girl?' I shook my head, and you wrapped your arms tightly around a throw pillow, hid your face against it. I waited and waited and waited for you to say something else, and when you did, I could barely hear it. 'I-I...I have been. The opposite of what I asked you. Been attracted to men. Been attracted to...whoever. I-I-I know it is strange and weird and gross, but-' 'Have you ever cheated on me?' I interrupted you, and by the way your eyes widened, I knew what your answer would be even before you spoke. 'No, never. Never. But-' 'Then it doesn't matter. Me thinking other boys are cute, and you thinking other boys and girls are cute? It's the same thing. It's not strange, or weird, or gross. It's normal, and we shouldn't break up over that.' I was confused, because you didn't say anything right away, and then I took a closer look. You were shaking, holding onto that pillow, trying not to cry and then failing, and so I walked over, leaned over the arm of the chair, and hugged you. And I held you for a half hour or so, telling you it was okay. It was all okay."

I could feel my vision beginning to blur, the way it had on that day so many years ago, and I began rubbing fiercely at my eyes in a futile attempt to keep the tears away again. I thought of that younger me, only a few years removed from my rescue, and how badly he wanted to fit in as a human, in order to hide from Them. How he saw any deviation from societal norms as a threat to his existence. And here I was now, so much more open about myself than before. I wanted to go back in time and give that teenage version of myself a hug, but I could not. Instead, I reached across the table, and so did Kass. I brushed my hand across the tops of her knuckles, letting it settle there briefly to squeeze her fingers, before pulling away.

"I believe you. I do not know what you are, but I believe that you are not Fae." I allowed myself a wan smile.

"Great! Now, where are Fletcher, Lyeorn, and Boris? I woke up this morning in our house, but none of them were there. In fact..." She began scratching her head as she became lost in her thoughts. "...I was kind of chased out of the house by some people I'd never seen before. They wanted to know what I was doing in their guest room."

Her words wiped the smile right off of my face.

[Bailey Raptis]

February 29-March 2, 2016

I lied. I told her that Fletcher, Lyeorn, and Boris were on a mission, out of the city, out of contact for the next few days. She actually believed me, and I felt another twist of guilt at how easily she trusted me. How paranoid had I become since I had last seen her?

I suppose not paranoid enough to not trust her with access to the Tower of Water. If the Fae were still looking for her, they would be unlikely to be looking on Twilight Isle, and I would at least have some warning from the goblins and elementals if they found her and tried to force their way into the tower. She would be safer there than at the Red Dragon Inn or my WestEnd apartment.

I, however, was not brave enough to also stay in the tower. I told her yet another falsehood, that I had to be up for work early in the morning and that my place in the city was much closer to where I had to be then the tower. Again, she bought it.

Truth be told, I had no idea what to make of her. At least, not until the morning came and I read the day's newspaper.

"Residents of RhyDin are reporting strange fluctuations in time throughout the city beginning at 12:01am this morning."


I slapped at the headline. "Aha!" Armed with this information, I went back to the tower, armed with the news, two cups of coffee, sesame bagels with cream cheese, and more questions.

***

Over breakfast, we managed to puzzle out what must have happened. Kass had been spirited forward in time by whatever time fluctuations had beset RhyDin on Leap Day. More specifically, she had come from February 28, 2007. I nibbled at my bagel and sipped coffee while she described her life circa 2007: we had been dating for over two years, the family still worked with the courts to plan rescue missions in Arcadia, and life was generally good. Peaceful. Quiet. I did not have the heart to reveal what the future had in store for her. She tried to ask about it, of course, but I put Lyeorn's lessons about temporal anomalies and paradoxes to use. She could not know her future, because she might cease to exist in her current incarnation. She pouted, wheedled, and sulked in an attempt to break me down, but I held firm, and she finally accepted that I would not be her oracle. When we finished breakfast, I gave her some pocket money to do with what she wanted, telling her that I had to go to work but that I would return to the tower later.

***

I could not have possibly picked a worse time for a time-displaced teenaged girlfriend to come back into my life. Fashion Week sucked up even more of my time and mental energy than usual. Add Kass' return into the mix, and an already long evening became even longer and more stressful, the wandering of my thoughts threatening to stretch my work into the early morning hours of the next day. Finally, though, I completed my remaining tasks for the presentation and left our office.

I considered making the long walk back to WestEnd to my little used apartment, but decided the shorter trip to the Red Dragon Inn and the portal within to Twilight Isle would allow me to get home and get to bed sooner. I made the trip without incident, and by the time I made it back to the tower, Sargasso informed me that Kass had fallen asleep in the guest room. I thanked him, started walking toward my room, and then turned around. I padded over to the guest room, pushed the door open just a bit, and looked in. She was sleeping on top of the blankets and sheets, still dressed in the clothes she had arrived here in, with her tail wrapped around her body. At random intervals, the tail rose and fell, twitched, swished around her body. I pressed my hand against the door frame and nearly pushed the door open further, but stopped myself. Instead, I returned to my room, climbed under my sheets, and fitfully half-slept until morning.

***

I woke up early the next morning, and as soon as Sargasso saw me rubbing at my eyes as I walked down the hall, he rushed into the kitchen and had one of the tower's elementals brew me a cup of coffee. I took the beige, sandblasted coffee mug from the pirate with a mumbled "thank you."

"Ye be welcome."

"How is Kass doing?"

"She be asleep still."

"Still?" I laughed. She had been in bed even before I had made it home, and yet here she was, still slumbering. The benefits of being an adolescent. "Sargasso?"

"Aye?"

I handed him some silvers out of my pocket and gave them to him. "I have a busy day of work today, but...give these to Kass, please? Or take her into the city. I am sure she will appreciate having some fresh clothes. I will do my best to make it back this evening, but no guarantees."

"Roger, sir."

I began walking toward the door, hesitated, and spun back around. I reached out and patted him on his shoulder, ignoring how damp he felt. "Thank you, Sargasso."

"No need '’ thank me. All par' o' th' job."

***

I had some things to pick up at my apartment in advance of the pool party later in the day, so I hailed a carriage and gave them my address in the WestEnd. As we traveled south and west through Old Market, Old Temple, and into Dockside. Soon, the usual clopping of hooves and rattling of the carriage body was drowned out by another common sound in RhyDin: emergency sirens. Typically, their volume waxed and waned when moving through the city, as the ambulances and fire pumps streamed down the streets on to their final destinations. This time, though, the noise grew louder and louder the closer we drew to my place. Then, the carriage stopped. I furrowed my brow and leaned my head out the window to see what impeded our progress. Several wooden barricades blocked the road, and up ahead, smoke poured out of an apartment building. My apartment building, I thought, with slowly growing horror.

"End of the line, buddy," the driver said as I dashed out of the back of the vehicle and practically tossed the coins toward him. I hopped over the barrier and ran towards the burning building. A pair of tall, burly ogres in mustard yellow gear blocked my path about half a block shy of my destination.

"Sir, you can't go any further while we're working on extinguishing the fire," the taller and thinner of the two ogres said.

"That-that's where I live!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't let you in."

"Is-is it the whole building?"

The shorter, more muscular ogre chimed in, shaking his head. "No. The fire's localized in unit D."

"My unit. Great." I swore in every language I knew how to swear in -- Common, Portuguese, Fae, Greek, Czech, and Elvish. When I tired of profanity, I slumped into a seat on the curb and retrieved my cigarettes and lighter from my pockets. It took my shaking hands three attempts before I managed to light one.

[Bailey Raptis]

March 4, 2016
Evening

I am a terrible detective. I have probably mentioned that before, but it bears repeating. I am not comfortable asking people tough questions, I am not particularly talented at subterfuge or skulduggery, and I am not familiar with using computers to search for information. About the only skill detectives and I have in common is the ability to sit absolutely still in one place for several hours at a time. Needless to say, when I have had need of information that was not immediately obvious, I have had to resort to less..noble methods of acquiring it. Sex and violence, I have found, are strong motivators for nearly everyone when wielded cleverly. However, neither was an option here.

Granted, I had a few more tools in my toolbox for physical harm than I had before. In addition to my cold iron sword and dagger, I now also possessed a sentient rapier as befitting my position as the squire of New Haven and the key to the Tower of Water. They were not the "weapons of mass destruction" I have heard mentioned offhand in many news articles, but I now had more options at my fingertips than "sneak attack" and "slip them a Mickey Finn and cut their throat while they are insensate." As Cadentia proved, I could hold my own fighting two or three people at a time, so long as I had a blade in hand and the key at the ready. Still, one man with a sword and dagger and magic could not hope to stand up against the might that the Courts could bring to bear on me, if they knew my location. As for sex, well...I do not need or want to debase myself anymore in order to track down my foes. I am less interested in the revenge I sought years ago in the aftermath of the Raptis incident, and more focused on getting the courts to leave me alone. Playing the role of the black widow does me no favors here.

Unfortunately, that left me at a loss. I was not surprised when the firefighters and city guard informed me that the fire that torched my apartment was arson. They asked me if I had any enemies who wished to harm me, and I decided not to tell them about the Courts. They had no reason to believe me if I told them that whole sordid story, and besides, I did not want to involve law enforcement in business that could potentially put them up against the Fae. Better to deny having enemies, and keep this feud in the "family", then to needlessly risk their lives on my behalf. I am not worth that level of sacrifice.

I returned to the tower in the evening, after co-hosting a makeup and face painting event with Sabine and checking out the Make-Up Artist Expo. I tried my best to stay focused, but by the end of the expo, I could feel my attention flagging. I need to find somebody in a position of power at the courts, and either convince them I am no threat to their existence, or show them that they would rather have the Fae as an enemy than me. Two contradictory impulses, to be sure, but if I could make either one stick with their leaders, perhaps I could return to a normal life. Perhaps then I could focus on what to do with Kass.

She waited near the foyer, flipping through a skateboarding magazine she had picked up at some point -- hard to say when, since I had busy with my work and not really tracking her whenever she left the tower. I could tell she was not really reading it, but using it as a prop to occupy her hands while waiting for me. She looked up as soon as she heard me enter, set the magazine down, and padded over to the coat hanger where I had just hung my jacket.

"Have you found what you've been looking for?" she asked, standing on the tips of her toes to try and meet my gaze more fully.

I should have lied to her and told her I was not looking for anything, but fatigue had left me too tired to try and slip one past her. Besides, she had the best "bull-*** detector" of anyone I have ever met. I sighed, began walking towards my room, and gestured for her to follow.

"I have not. It is like searching for a needle in a haystack, or for one individual grain of sand on the beach."

Kass puffed out her cheeks and blew a raspberry at that. "Really, Bailey? Whatever you are looking for can't be that hard to find. This's RhyDin! There's scryers and werewolves and detectives all over the place here."

"Ones that are good at seeking out our kind?" I watched her nose wriggle at my answer. Then, she snapped her fingers.

"We could go to Cooke's Diner!"

"...I think that place is closed, Kass."

"How do you know?"

"I...do not."

"Well, then let's go! Worst case scenario is it's closed and we go somewhere else."

"I will go." I put more force in my voice, as I tried to double back towards the door and slip past Kass. However, she managed to block my path with her body. I rolled my eyes at her and sighed again. "This is going to be dangerous, and I do not want you to get hurt."

"So dangerous that you would not be better protected by having someone else with you? Besides-" She smirked as she continued, "- I bet you don't even remember the special order."

***

I did not remember the special order. So it was that Kass sat beside me in a carriage, bouncing her legs, as we rode south and west through the city away from the Red Dragon Inn and towards the docks. The last I remembered, Cooke's Diner had been located on a frontage road by one of the main thoroughfares in Dockside, a pathway that had not been paved but instead covered with gravel. Only half of the street’s lots appeared to be in use currently; vacant lots, crowded with weeds sprouting through cracked concrete, took up the remaining space. Still, a 50% occupancy rate was good for this neighborhood, and I saw signs that the old businesses that used to be located here -- a bait shop, carriage and auto body repair garages, used tire sales -- were still alive and thriving here. Not mention, to my surprise, Cooke's Diner.

Years ago, Cooke had purchased an old Quonset hut that previously housed a plumber's office, and converted it into a restaurant. His obsession with French culture meant that the walls were covered with moody pictures of Edith Piaf, Serge Gainsbourg, Francois Truffaut, and Jean-Luc Godard, as well as black-and-white photographs of the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Elysees, and the Arc de Triomphe. The only spots of color on the wall came from vibrant old cabaret posters, dominated by reds and yellows along with blacks, filled with images of women dressed in elaborate dresses, skirts, and coats. The French inspiration did not carry over to the rest of the restaurant. The white Formica tables and green vinyl chairs had been salvaged from some other long-closed greasy spoon, and many of them looked like they had not been re-upholstered or fixed up since then. More than one table had several napkins stuffed underneath a leg to balance it out, and yellow foam peaked out of rips in some of the chairs' cushions. The menu, written in a barely legible font that Kass informed me was called "Comic Sans", contained standard hash house fare: omelets, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, waffles, burgers, fries, gyros, chicken tenders, club sandwiches, and the ilk.

We arrived during a lull in their service -- late enough that those who had come for dinner had already finished their meals, but too early for the crowds that poured in after the bars had closed. A man sat at the counter near the grills, dressed in nearly the same red-and-black flannel that Kass preferred, talking to the bearded dwarvish waitress as she poured him another cup of coffee. An orc/human couple and their half-orc children were settling up their bill at the mechanical cash register, while a foursome of dock workers slowly picked away at the remains of hash browns and huevos rancheros. The hostess, a young woman with gray bunny ears and a rounded face, greeted us at the stand.

"How many?"

"Two-"

"And we'd like to sit by the kitchen, please," Kass said, interrupting me.

"Certainly. Follow me." The hostess turned around, and I could see that her apron did not hide the puffy white cottontail nestled at the base of her spine. I could not help but stare at it for a few moments, before I felt a swat on my shoulder. I turned around, and Kass was glaring at me. I shrugged my shoulders, even as I felt my face grow warmer and warmer.

We sat down, took our menus, and Kass immediately began searching for the items that made up the "special order" -- the code that let Cooke know we were more than just the diner's usual customers. I watched as the very tip of her tongue slipped out of her mouth, her brows furrowed in intense concentration.

"Okay, so it's...two coffees, black. Two Gruyere omelets. Pumpernickel toast. Strawberry jam. Canadian bacon." Kass placed this order with the waitress, who arched an eyebrow slightly at the pair of us, but dutifully wrote it down and passed it on to the kitchen.

It did not take them long to react to the coded message. Two minutes after ordering, I watched as a tall pair of short order cooks with antler nubs coming out of their foreheads marched out of the kitchen toward us. As they came closer, they drew chef knives from beneath their aprons, pointing them at us as they arrived at our table. Shortly after their appearance, I heard a door open in the hallway between the restrooms and kitchen. My eyes followed the figure with the long and curved nose, until he stepped fully into the light. Even with less hair on his head, dressed in a ultra-slim gray suit instead of his usual white chef's jacket, I recognized him.

"Cooke." I locked eyes on him for a second, then glanced past him. No customers remained in view, only the bunny-tailed hostess, the waitress, and the three men right in front of me.

He responded by pulling a revolver from his shoulder holster and leveling it at my head. He spoke with an even more exaggerated French accent than before.

"That hasn't been the special order for years...you might know that if you had gone to the Courts...Bailey."

[Bailey Raptis]

March 4, 2016
Cooke's Diner

"I do not know why everyone is so hell-bent on me going to the courts. At the very least, they could certainly ask nicer." My eyes bounced back and forth between the gun barrel and Kass' face. She seemed to focus on the antlered cooks with long knives. I bumped my knee against the table, rattling the salt and pepper shakers, napkin dispenser, coffee cups and saucers.

"I think we've moved past being nice. The Sandman's not happy with how you handled the situation with Vince, Cyclops, and Copper. You've got quite the bounty on your head." Kass' eyes widened, and she mouthed something along the lines of What did you do? to me. I shook my head. "I don't know why you even came back here," Cooke continued, with a laugh. Still, he kept the revolver pointed squarely at me.

"Well, I would like to meet with the Sandman, or one of his representatives, and make him an offer." I jostled the table once more with my knee, then cast my eyes over in Kass' direction yet again. I glanced down at the table, up at her, and lifted my eyebrows. She nodded slowly in response.

"Oh? And what might that be?"

"The courts can either leave me alone, where I will continue to be no threat to their existence, separate as I have been for quite some time now. Or, they can continue to come after me, and I will continue to show them that they would much rather have all of Arcadia howling for their heads than have me as an enemy."

Cooke took a moment to let the words sink in, then burst into laughter. He glanced over at his subordinates, who were snorting. "Bailey, you're just lucky the Sandman doesn't want you dead right away. Oh no, he's got some fun things planned for you. Only the best for traitors. Right, boys?" He looked over at his underlings again, and I made my move.

"Now," I said to Kass in a quiet and calm voice, as I tucked my legs underneath my body on the chair. The single word I spoke got Cooke's attention right back on me.

"Now, wh-" The second half of the word cut off as Kass kicked the round, cylindrical support in the center of the flimsy table, sending it careening in their direction. The table's contents crashed to the ground, while the edge of the table slammed into Cooke's midsection, sending him stumbling backwards. The two men with him rushed to get closer to us, but Kass had bought me the split-second I needed. I slapped the Water Tower key dangling around my neck and felt myself turn insubstantial.

The knives slashed through my liquid frame harmlessly as I slithered onto the floor, even as I heard the deadened report of Cooke's gun, followed a split-second later by the muffled shatter of glass. I reformed myself well behind them, and wasted no time taking advantage of my newfound position. I touched the key again, and a bitter cold wind enveloped me, freezing my body. I could now hear the struggle between Kass and Cooke, punctuated by the clatter of a dropped pistol, but I did not dare look in their direction. I had my own problems, at the moment.

My two assailants shared a look, then screamed and charged at me, blades forward. I channeled the Arctic Blast that had frozen me into a screaming gale. It stunted their momentum at first, stopped them, and then blew them backwards across the diner. Given a reprieve, I turned my attention to Cooke and Kass, only to see her straddling his chest and pummeling him with haymakers. Blood poured out of his nose, staining the lapels of his gray suit. His eyes had rolled back in his head.

"Kass!" I felt my voice resonate through the ice encasing me. She halted her punch halfway to its target.

"I think he is unconscious. Help me with those two." I pointed in the direction of Cooke's helpers, who were slowly clambering to their feet, teeth chattering all the while.

"Okay." She did throw one last jab, snapping his head back against the floor, and reached out for the revolver. She aimed it at the recovering henchmen, who immediately raised their hands, dropping their weapons. One of them (I think his antlers were shorter, but I cannot remember) opened his mouth to speak, but the other one put his arm in front of his companion and spoke for the pair.

"What do you want?"

"Were you not listening when I talked to him-" I nudged their boss' prone form on the floor with my foot for emphasis, then continued. "-earlier? I want to be left alone."

"You really think that's gonna happen?"

"You should be thankful I used to know Cooke - that he used to be a friend of my family - or he would be dead right now. He would be dead like Vince, Copper, and Cyclops. I want you -- or him --" I paused to gesture at Cooke. "- to pass a message on to the courts." I then punctuated each of my next words with sharp kicks aimed at Cooke's ribs. "Leave. Me. And. My. Friends. Alone. Kass?" I cocked my head toward the door, and then started ambling that way. She followed on my heels, walking backwards so that she could keep the gun pointed on them until we had made it out the front door.

Once I was outside, I took off running.

[Bailey Raptis]

March 4, 2016

"Wait, Bailey!" I felt Kass' warm fingertips brush against my icy shoulder, and remembered I had not shifted back to skin yet. I tapped the Tower key on my chest and felt the frigidity melt away. I could hear Kass' stumbling footsteps and heavy breathing as she tried to match my pace, but still I ran. When I could not hear her following me anymore, I slowed down and stopped, leaning against a construction fence. She was a block away, bent over with her hands on her knees. I retrieved a cigarette and lighter from my pockets, and began smoking as I waited for her to come over.

"What the hell's going on?" she asked, between huffing breaths. "Cooke said-said you were a traitor! But- the family's friends with him!"

I heaved a sigh as I dragged my body down to a seated position. The chains on the fence clinked together as she leaned against it, then slid down to the ground to follow me. "I...cannot answer that."

"The future?" I turned my head slightly, enough to catch the corner of her eye, and nodded. "@#$%! the future!" I felt her tail thwap against my leg several times in rapid succession. She grabbed my shoulder and shook it hard. "What the hell happens to us all? Why can't you tell me?"

I should have thought of a lie. I should have used Lyeorn's explanation about temporal paradoxes and the dangers of knowing one's future, of splitting timelines and all those scientific explanations I never quite fully explained. But I made the mistake of looking in Kass' eyes instead. I could see the hurt, the threat of tears clouding over chestnut-colored eyes. And I could see them shift, once our gazes met. The pain softened, and she shot me a look I had seen countless times, when I was closer to her age. When were were together. I looked away, taking an especially long drag off my cigarette and exhaling in the opposite direction.

"The Gentry happened. Fletcher sent me away to run some errand one morning. I do not know why he sent just me alone -- I am fairly certain it was not because he knew what was coming and was trying to spare me, but I cannot say that it was not that with one hundred percent certainty. I returned from my errand, and--" A knot lodged in my throat, choking the words, and I felt a familiar arm wrap around my shoulder. "-You, Lyeorn, and Boris were already dead. Fletcher was dying. He gave me his sword and told me that the Master of Foxhounds had come for revenge on you for escaping. I went to the courts, but they wanted nothing to do with a Stolen One whose closest associates had all been murdered by the Fae. I am sure you know why."

It took Kass a long time to answer, most likely because she was processing the unwelcome information about her future. When she did respond, she sounded meeker than I could ever remember. "They thought you were in the Fae's crosshairs. Helping you would make them a target to be killed or captured."

"They left me to twist in the wind. Oh, but I did not die, nor was I captured. I escaped the life of the courts, became a model and then a fashion designer. I left this city and opened a clothing store, and was then recruited back to RhyDin to work for a store here."

"Wait," I felt Kass lift her arm off of me, as suspicion seeped into her tone. "That doesn't seem like it'd be enough for the courts to turn on you."

"The courts have changed since the days of the Raptis family."

"That they would hold it against you that you left when you staying could've brought more harm to them? That they'd be mad that you moved out of the city?" She scratched the side of her nose.

"Who knows? They definitely were not happy to find out I had returned to the city and not immediately sought them out again." I crushed the remnants of my cigarette against the concrete, and retrieved another one to smoke.

"Because-?"

"They most likely assumed that, since I used a nom de guerre as a model and designer, that I had been killed or captured by the Fair Folk. Models and designers and Stolen Ones do not, generally speaking, run in the same circles, and besides, I wore...some interesting clothing in those days." I smirked, but Kass did not quite seem to see where the humor in that statement resided. "So when I came back, under the Raptis name, that eliminated those assumptions. Leaving them with two new ones. One, I had returned and still wanted nothing to do with those who would understand me best. Two, I had actually been spared in that initial attack because I was collaborating with Them."

Kass nodded, appeared ready to say something, but instead just waved a hand in an elaborate circle, which I took as a sign I should continue.

"They sent some thugs to bring me back into the fold, but I was less than...ah, what is the word? Receptive to their entreaties? They beat me up and then told me I had to kill one of the most powerful fae living here in the city."

"And did you?" Kass' question earned her a flat look from me.

"Yes, I am the first Stolen One to have ever killed a fae," I said, rolling my eyes. "No-"

"You don't have to be an asshole about it," she interrupted me with a glare. I ignored it.

"May I continue?" I took her silence as assent, and went on. "I brought a weapon to kill her with, but I could not go through with it, and she beat the ever-loving s@# out of me. She probably could have even if I had actually attacked."

"But she didn't kill you? Or send you to Arcadia?"

"No," I said with a shake of my head.

"Why?" Her eyes narrowed, as I put out my second cigarette. Instead of retrieving a third one, I folded my arms behind my head, resting against the fence.

"A friend of ours walked in on her breaking my nose, although I have no doubt she could have easily killed me well before that if she had really wanted to. Perhaps it she spared me because I had attended a couple of her dueling events prior. Or perhaps she took pity on me-" I would have said more, but she surprised me by placing her hands on my shoulders and shaking me, rattling the chain links.

"The Fae do not show pity!" she snarled, inches from my mouth. "What the hell happened to you? We all die and you just turn your back on everything we ever stood for?" She gave me one last rough shake.

"In my defense, I had not realized one of those events was being hosted by her."

"And the other?" I answered her question with a laugh, which did not seem to amuse her.

"You sound just like the Sandman's thugs."

"You aren't answering my question."

"I do not have to." I stood up, linked my hands together, and stretched my arms behind my back. I then walked over to Kass, and patted her on the head. One, twice, and then she pushed me aside. "Since you have already learned of your untimely demise, I suppose it does not matter if you know this. We break up, before that. The younger version of myself, I mean." I watch her carefully, expecting a certain reaction. A stagger backwards. A gasp. Tears, hands clutching at my shirt. Instead, she just sighs and nods.

"That explains why you've -- past you -- you've been so distant, I guess." She rubbed her eyes, sniffed a bit, and continued. "You or me?"

"Me."

"Why?"

"I wanted to sleep with someone else." I looked up, and I could not tell if that look in her eyes was anger or sadness. I explained further, "I wanted to know what it felt like, sleeping with a man, but I did not want it to come at the expense of cheating on you. So I broke up with you to spare you that pain."

"Because that'll be so much better." She smiled, wanly, but it did not reach her eyes.

"I thought so. I still think so."

Silence hung thick in the air between us, as neither one of us dared to keep pushing forward with the truth.

"...Forget it," she finally said. "Nevermind. I'm going home."

"I suppose it is getting rather late."

"No, Bailey. I'm going home home. Back to my own time."

My eyes widened. "What? Wait. Do you even know how to get back to your time? And...why would you want to? I just told you that you are going to die once you return."

"I think I would rather die than become what you've become. I will figure something out, one way or another. This is still RhyDin, right?" She asked the question, but did not wait for me to reply. "Goodbye, Bailey." She began walking away from me, in the opposite direction of the Red Dragon Inn. And I just let her go, without saying another word to her. I just watched until she faded into the dark and distance.

***

I did not tell her that I lied -- that the true story of what happened to her was even worse than the fiction I told. Instead, I spent most of the next 48 hours inebriated at Cesky Domov.

[Bailey Raptis]

((Author's Note: Every post from here on out in this thread will be new content, even if it happened in the past. Thanks for your patience.))

Late March, 2016

It does not matter the precise method I found to return to Arcadia. I doubt there is much interest in hearing how I tracked down arcane artifacts, studied ancient magical tomes in the Tower of Water, or steeled myself for the task at hand. What matters is the fact that I even decided to return to Faerie. Why does it matter? Three simple reasons:

1. Virtually every Stolen One swears that they never want to be brought back to the Lands, let alone go on their own volition.
   
2. The Gentry scare the hell out of me.
   
3. Going back to Arcadia, whether it is kicking and screaming in the Fair Folks' grasp, or somehow finding your own way back through the Hedge, is akin to signing your own death warrant and torture warrant at the same time.

So why was I so intent on going to the last place in the world that I wanted to be? Because Kass was still there.

I had no hard evidence to prove it. Just the bitter taste of our last parting, the disappointed words of a ghost from the past. I clung to the fact that her body had not been found among the rest of the Raptis family, and to the hope that I could see her, grown up, and apologize to her for how things ended.

I went to Battlefield Park with the necessary relics and equipment: a backpack with various dried fruits and nuts, a waterskin, a sleeping roll, a small cold iron knife, a dark green ultralight down jacket, and a fifth of whisky; a brass compass with a chain clipped inside my pocket, the needle wrapped with a few strands of reddish-white hair; a candle that stank of decaying leaves even before lit; the key to the Tower of Water; and a scabbard holding a cold iron sword. I found a clearing within the woods and sat down in the center of it. A quick glance at the compass -- and the crazed spinning beneath the glass -- confirmed that I was in the right spot.

I put the candle down in front of me and lit it with my cigarette lighter. The odor of rank decomposition gave way to something sweeter, yet still rotten in its own way. I let the candle burn halfway down before I whispered into the air. "Take me to her." Then, I blew the candle out, grabbed the key hanging over my chest, and stabbed into thin air. A watery door took shape in front of me, the key firmly held by the lock. The liquid blurred my vision of what was on the other side. I began to unlock the door, but the Kindly Ones' magic fought me with each twist of the wrist. Finally, the lock gave way, and the door swung open. I gathered up the remainder of the candle, let the key fall back over my breastbone, and stepped through the portal.

***

I emerged in a clearing very nearly the same as the one I had just exited, and for a moment, I worried that I had failed. It was just a moment, though, as very clearly, the true nature of the Lands revealed itself to me. The sun shined impossibly bright directly overhead, with fat puffy clouds that seemed carved out of marshmallow or shorn from the back of a sheep. Though a breeze rippled through the tree tops and brushed against my clothing, the clouds hung motionless in the sky. I could hear the chittering of squirrels, and birdsong surrounded me, but if I listened for a few minutes it became clear that the sound was looped. Unnatural. I shivered as I retrieved the compass from my pocket and stared at it for guidance. It see-sawed between north and west, finally settling on west.

As I walked, the sun did not drift with me, stubbornly refusing to move. Ribbons of sunlight cut through the leaves, narrowing and widening with the height and thickness of the branches above. I tried my best to tiptoe through, but I was no spy, no scout, no ranger. Each time I stepped on a branch or some dried-up leaves sounded like a gunshot to my ears. I cringed, certain one of Them would come out of the trees, or out of thin air, and whisk me away to a new cage. Each time, though, nothing happened.

It soon became evident that, for all the noise and warmth and vegetation that surrounded me, there was nothing truly living in this realm. I snuck a glance at my compass. It still pointed westward. I furrowed my brow and kept walking.

I am not sure how long I traveled, or how far. Time and distance here did not hew to the rules of the material world, and besides, it soon became apparent that I had been passing the same trees over and over again. After the third or fourth time I had passed an identical copse, I decided to take a break. I leaned against a pine tree, removed the whiskey bottle from my bag, and slugged down a good portion from it. It tasted impossibly, unnaturally sweet on my lips and tongue. As I was putting the liquor away, a new sound cut through the repetitive trills and chirps: a high-pitched whine, nearly bordering on a howl. I put the bottle away, scrambled to my feet, and hurried toward the animal cry.

"Meu deus..." I screeched to a halt, hand clapped over my mouth. Kass had been shackled with a wooden chain to a massive redwood tree, but it was quite clear that she had not made even the slightest effort at escaping in quite some time. From the waist up, she still possessed most of her human form -- save for her ears, more fox-like than human as they had always been. Below the waist, though, her legs had been transformed into an animal's, incapable of carrying her body weight bipedally. Her fur, her tail, her hair, all was matted and gnarled, filled with burrs and leaves. They had left her unclothed, and where there was visible flesh, open sores wept and oozed. The worst part, though, were her eyes. Once warm and bright, red mixed with brown like chestnuts, they were now glazed over, dull pits without warmth or life.

I took one step towards her and she scurried back closer to the trunk, growling and baring her fangs. I stopped, lowered my voice. "Kass...it is me. Bailey. You...do not recognize me?" She kept growling, and I took a step back. "Do you understand me?" Her tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth, her eyes blank and unknowing. I held a hand out, and kept it out until, after what felt like an eternity, she lumbered over. She sniffed my hand, then my boots, and then rested her head on my feet. It was with great care that I sat down, my feet folded beneath my knees, so that her head might rest in my lap. I stroked her ears carefully, picking the dirt and detritus from her fur. "What did They do to you?" She did not answer me -- and it was quickly becoming clear that she likely could not answer me. Instead, I looked around, just to make sure I was still alone. The same repeated noises echoed through the trees, the sun still hung at high noon, the clouds still remained stationary in spite of the breeze.

I let her nap there for what felt like an hour but could have just as easily been a minute or a day. When she stirred, slipping away from me and plodding back to her redwood, I kept looking for a spark, but...it just was not there. I yanked my backpack off, unzipped it, and turned it upside down, emptying its contents onto the ground. Kass sniffed at the trail mix, the waterskin, the knife, and my jacket, but did nothing else with the items. I slugged another shot of whiskey straight from the bottle to steady my hands. Now it puckered my mouth, the flavor reminiscent of citrus and chicory.

"Kass," I whispered, backing away from her. She dragged herself as far as she could before the chain caught her, whimpering and straining. I drew the cold iron sword from its scabbard and struck a wooden link. The line went slack, and I crooked my finger with one hand while the other sheathed the blade. She pulled herself across the dirt, kicking up clouds of dust with each jerky movement. I sat down in front of her and hugged her, pulling her head close to my chest.

"I wish you could understand me. I want you to know how sorry I am. You did not deserve this. Kass, I am so, so sorry."

With one arm, I tightened my grip around her body, keeping her close even as she yelped. My other hand found the knife on the ground and drove it into her heart. She looked at me and, for a second, I swore I saw recognition in her eyes, but it must have been a trick of the light. She gasped, then shuddered. Once. Twice. I felt her last thready breaths skim my neck, before finally failing. I loosened my grip and lowered her down without a sound.

My empty hand reached into my pockets, searching for coins. I found several silvers clinking around and removed two of them. I knelt down, shut her eyes, and placed one coin each on them, heads facing up. Only then did I allow myself a moment to cry.