Ascension

[Bailey Raptis]

May 21, 2019
Citadel of the Stars

I sat at my desk in the Celestial Tower’s study, rubbing witch hazel lotion into my hands. As I massaged the slightly floral, slightly herbal smelling liquid into my palms, I glanced down at the clear crystal ashtray I had brought up from the Isle’s bar. Instead of my usual pack of Red Apples, a marijuana cigarette rested in one of the cigarette grooves, a pink lighter casually leaning against the tray’s opposite side. An extra gift from Mallory and the Lyceum, when I went to pick up my latest dose of witch hazel. Once I had finished applying the ointment and let it settle into my skin, I pinched the joint between my fingers and lit it, sucking in the pungent smoke and exhaling it with a bit of a cough. A few more puffs later, and I was feeling pretty mellow. Not enough that the itching went away entirely, but enough that I could almost forget about it.

My thoughts drifted like the gray smoke swirling around my head. Am I doing this for fun? No. Yes. A little of both? I went to shake my head, but it felt heavy, and besides, no one was there to see me. Slouching in my chair, I let my memory slip back to a conversation from a few days ago.

***
“Do you think it has to do with the drugs too?”

“What drugs?”

"The drugs you take sometimes? For fun....I've been worried about you. Cause you keep seeming like not yourself when I see you.”

"How do you mean, not like myself?...You mean the drugs."

***

I danced around Eden’s questions about the drugs, because what else could I do? It had never felt wrong to me, especially not after all I had done to keep my friends safe earlier this year. I did that because I love my friends, but I would be lying if I did not also say a part of me felt like I deserved a chance to cut loose. And I tried to stay safe. Just alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana, and ecstasy, and always procuring the latter from sources I trusted as well as testing pills when kits were available and prudent. Sure, I had overindulged a couple of times at the Underground Rave and at Beltane, but those were safe places, or safer than a club or out where the Stolen Ones might get to me. I stayed away from harder drugs and addictive substances like cocaine or heroin, or anything terribly hallucinogenic. All I wanted -- all I needed -- was something to loosen me up on those days when I felt like a stranger inside my own skin. When the face in my mirror looked like a total stranger’s.

I tried to turn the conversation towards transformation, hers and mine. And I think that worked. I did not have to answer the hard questions that I feared might arise, and I think I managed to relieve her worries. We ate tacos at Hugo’s later, and I left feeling like we were back on the right foot.

And then the PathFinder challenge happened. After Runt's behavior during Andrea’s challenge to Mallory for Battlefield Park -- making moves to enter the ring after Andrea used magic during the duel -- I did not trust him not to behave similarly during Eden’s challenge. Apparently, several of her friends felt the same as well. So while it did not surprise me that Runt fought ferociously (with all the strength that a massive giant brought into the rings) or that Eden wound up concussed after their fight, it did surprise me when Runt did not further attempt to injure her once the match was over. Unsure of how to process this unforeseen turn of events, and with Eden’s friends and special someone rendering aid to her, I decided to slip out of the Outback with little fanfare.

When I thought on it the next day, it did not feel right, to not acknowledge the serious injuries she had likely suffered at Runt’s hands, and so I went to the Marketplace after picking up my medicine from the Lyceum and bought a “Get Well Soon” card from a greeting card store. I took it with me back to the Tower, but now, staring at the bunny on the front of the card, wearing a nightcap while sleeping in a bed, I could not think of the right words to write. My thoughts were questions: You are lucky to have the friends you have? I wish I was as good of a person as you think I am -- as you think everybody is? Someday you will find out what I really did in those months I was away from RhyDin, what really happened to my “brother,” and the drugs will not seem that bad? How can anyone think I am good, how can anyone forgive me after that?

So I left the card blank, save for my signature, sent it on its way with a goblin messenger, and hoped that just the card would be enough.



((Dialogue between Bailey and Eden edited and adapted from live RP, with Eden’s player’s permission and thanks!))

[Bailey Raptis]

As they drag me to my feet
I was filled with incoherence
Theories of conspiracy
The whole world wants my disappearance

I'll go fighting nail and teeth
You've never seen such perseverance
Gonna make you scared of me
'Cause haemoglobin is the key

(Placebo, “Haemoglobin”)

June 18, 2019
Citadel of the Stars

My compass sat on my marble-topped writing desk, the needle swaying a lazy waltz between north and south, pointing out the path to my Keeper. A nubbin of pure iron (an idea of Mallory’s) sat on the opposite end from the arrow, as globules of blood -- my blood -- sizzled, then stretched and spread like mercury until the needle swallowed them up. I watched the droplets dance and die, and I pondered.

I might be insane. At least, if you believe the common saying/definition of insanity is true: doing the same thing over and over again, but expecting different results. Hell, you could scrape the last part off of that sentence, and it would be even more true. I do the same things repetitively, despite the annoying part of my brain that tells me I should stop. I throw myself recklessly towards death, because…? A therapist (if I actually bothered to see one) probably would tell me that I have a death wish. They are probably right.

RhyDin is dangerous, yes, but you can dodge the danger if you really want to. I could have refused to duel in magic, all those years ago when Mason’s wand blew up in his face and I fought my first duel in that sport. Better yet, I could have refused to join that Hydra team, or if we want to go further back still, I could have just stayed in São Amador and never went to work for Locke. I can trace back a lifetime of decisions and imagine the opposite choices I never made. Maybe I would have made a life with Andressa at Heliconia, expanded the store out like Locke did with L.D. 50. Or perhaps I might never have met her, if I stayed with Kass. The Raptis motley might still be alive. All the possibilities swirled in my brain, mocking me with “what ifs” and “might have beens”. There was only one event in my past, though, that clung stubbornly to me, a singular time when I had not been given a choice: the day my Keeper stole me from RhyDin. The sum of my life stems from one act, one immutable moment that altered me forever. He signed His death warrant the instant he kidnapped me. He made me, and I will be the one to unmake Him, or I will die trying.

There it is again. Death. One-way tickets and suicide missions that I keep coming back from. I am trying as hard as I can to remember I keep surviving these seemingly fatal scenarios, and use positive thinking to ensure nothing changes when I do this incredibly stupid thing yet again. Everything has been planned out. I know how I will get into the Hedge, into the Veil, into Faerie, and I know how to find my way to the Sculptor’s slice of Arcadia. Anything that gets in my way, I will fight, killing it if necessary. Then, when I finally come face to face with the bastard who ruined my life and ruined me, I will run him through with cold iron, or be killed in the process. If -- when I get through this -- I will find His Key and use it to open my path back to the city.

Still, I needed to hedge. That was why I went to Little Elfhame and tracked down a Fae lawyer to help draw up my will. I figured who better to write a contract for me than someone well known for tricky usage of language? Fortunately for me, the attorney I hired, Lamont, did not notice or did not care that I was a Stolen One. Perhaps he could make more money off of me as a client than he would if he sold me back to the Gentry, even if my worldly possessions were meager at the moment. That having been said, I decided to split my estate four ways, evenly: a quarter each to the Kabukicho Community School Renovation Project, the Kids of Summer Foundation, Eden Parker, and Eva Luna and Mason Harrigan. Like many of my fellow Stolen Ones, I also set up a “dead man’s switch” with him. Every three months, I needed to provide him with irrefutable proof that I was alive -- a brief face-to-face meeting, typically. Upon failure to provide said evidence of my continuing existence in RhyDin, my lawyer would declare me legally dead, instantly putting my will into effect. He did not blink at what I asked of him; as I said previously, RhyDin is dangerous, and he knew that as well as I did.

That left me where I am now, staring at my compass and counting down the days until the summer solstice. When the Veil is at its thinnest, I will cross into the Lands one last time and confront my destiny. The Sculptor must die.

((Lamont is the property of Jewell Ravenlock’s player, used with her permission and thanks!))

[Bailey Raptis]

June 21, 2019
The Wilds

I waited until the summer solstice fell, when the barrier between RhyDin and the Veil was thinner than usual. I did not wait because I feared I would not be able to open a portal to the Hedge without that weakness. In fact, I had honed my skills to the point where a mere spin of my hand could pierce the Veil -- a far cry from my early days dealing with the Hedge, where I more or less bashed against the barrier until it broke beneath my focus and persistence. No, the delay came from prudence. The less energy I spent opening that portal, the more I could save to face what waited for me on the other side. Thorny brambles. Unfamiliar trods. Hobgoblins sharp of tooth and claw. And, of course, my final destination and goal: Faerie, and the Keeper who had stolen me away so many years before.

“The Sculptor.” I spit His name -- his title like it was poison in my mouth, ignoring the way the five marble statues and Proxinho shifted behind me while waiting for me to pull aside the threads that kept RhyDin and the Veil apart. We stood in the Wilds north of Battlefield Park in a glade ringed by overhanging branches. I could smell the petrichor and mud mingling with sodden leaves and grass, further mixing with the leather of my jacket and the rust of my scabbard. A few birds chirruped above us, while tree limbs rustled and danced with each gust of wind. All my clothes were black: that jacket, my jeans, my boots, my gloves, even my socks and t-shirt that were hidden from view. This was no stealth mission (as evidenced by the sculptures accompanying me), but I saw no reason to make it any easier to find me by dressing in flashy clothes.

Besides the clothes on my back and the half-dozen golems following me, I took just five other things with me. The key to the Citadel of the Stars and Jewell’s old teleportation charm hung around my neck. I had no guarantees the former would work in Arcadia, and the latter’s magic had long been depleted beaming me across the galaxy to RhyDin, but at the very least, they could function as good luck charms. On either hip sat sheaths for my sword, Δηλητήριο, and a cold iron dagger I had yet to name, and likely never would. Most importantly, I held in my left gloved hand a brass compass. Its needle, anchored with a bit of pure iron on the opposite side of the arrow, currently swung back and forth between east and west. A few stray drops of blood -- my blood, I thought with a shudder -- stuck to the glass protecting the compass’ inner workings.

I ignored the part of my brain that screamed at me to abandon my plan. It reminded me of the Rule of Three. My third trip to Faerie. The first had been involuntary, and the second had been an attempted rescue mission, but this third impending journey bore nothing in common with its predecessors. You are tempting fate, Bailey, if you think you can just stroll through the Hedge, through the lands, to our old Keeper’s manse and… The fear center of my brain did not let me finish the thought. Nor would I allow it the chance -- either to complete it, or to dissuade me from doing what needed to be done.

Without looking back, I sent a thought to my statues, who formed up behind me in a tight bunch. They watched impassively as I spun a clockwise circle in front of me, waiting for that familiar purple-black shimmer of energy to form. After it did, I snapped my fingers, turning the gateway translucent. On the other side, I saw the distorted image of a boreal forest, the snow melting but not yet entirely gone. A shiver crawled up my spine briefly, before I beat it back down with a swift shake of my head. Do my best.

I stepped through the portal with no further hesitation.

[Bailey Raptis]

June 21, 2019
The Hedge

I did not need to look behind me to know my statues succeeded in crossing through the portal behind me. I could feel them -- the five unmarked golems as extensions of my flesh and bone, Proxinho as an expansion of my will. I thought a quick series of orders to my followers. Proxinho, follow me. Statues, follow Proxinho. With a chain of command in place, we began our trek through the Hedge, guided only by the compass in my hand.

Part of me anticipated being met by Them as soon as we set foot on the other side of the Veil, and a mixture of surprise and relief washed over me when we found ourselves alone. Years ago, both Fletcher and Boris shared stories with me of past sorties into the Hedge and Faerie to rescue other Lost. Each and every one of those missions involved stealth: dampening their magic and glamour as much as they could, bringing a minimal number of liberators along, and carrying cold iron daggers instead of larger weapons, lest the Fae more easily detect the anathematic metal. And here I was, violating each of those rules. My glamour and magic probably glowed like the proverbial Christmas tree, were one scanning for auras of that sort. Instead of nimble and fast fighters, my proxies fell firmly in the slow, steady, and strong camp. There would be little sneaking up done with them. Most significantly, I carried my cold iron knife and Δηλητήριο with me, another easy tip-off for the Fair Folk if they had eyes out for that. Was it foolhardy, coming at my Keeper with straight-up blunt force instead of skullduggery and surreptitiousness? Perhaps. But I hoped a head-on attack would be the last thing He’d expect.

We started in the taiga, and the chill in the air even with summer’s arrival left me glad to have my leather jacket on my back. The others did not notice the brisk air or melting snow, and I envied them in that moment. My thoughts drifted towards São Amador, the warm sand beaches and cooling breezes off the ocean. I shook my head, stifling a laugh. Yes, I needed to pay attention to my surroundings, as dreary as they were, but also, São Amador sat on the opposite hemisphere of RhyDin. As RhyDin City prepared for the summer solstice, São Amador (as mild as the weather may be down there) was preparing for winter. And I needed to be prepared too.

I wanted to attack with force, but I also wanted to preserve some semblance of surprise, so instead of marching up the trods the compass wanted me to, I went down what Boris would have called “the back roads.” The boreal forest, cold and stinking slightly of swamp, gave way out of nowhere to a rocky peninsula. The winds picked up, carrying with them salt and the stench of sea creatures. White foamy breakers crashed against jagged rocks far below us, and I could not help but think, Dangerous surfing conditions. I tried to look out across the water, but I saw nothing but cleanly peeling waves, breaking in perfect increments, before a fine haze hid the rest of the horizon. A marine layer shrouded the sun in gray, leaving it fighting, burning against the curtain that would hide its orange-white glory. We walked along the edge of the cliffs, and yet I waited for something -- someone -- to come. Still, as we curved along the cape, finally finding a safe path down to the rocky beach below, we remained alone. No seagulls squawked, no sea lions barked, no dolphins chattered, and no whales sung in their rich, deep voices. All I could hear was the metronome of the waves, bashing themselves apart again and again and again into the boulders, a precise pattern found nowhere in nature. Artificial, I thought. Mimicry of that which They do not understand. Faerie. Fae. We are getting closer.

Finally, the sun cut through the clouds and haze, burned off the fog, and let me see across the ocean. While daylight shone on us, warming my back and diminishing the breeze blowing in my face, the horizon held only night. Somewhere on that water, time split, dawn and dusk on opposite sides of an invisible line. Another impossibility. Out in the darkness, way over in the distance, lights strobed in even, pulsing intervals. White. Red. White. Red. A lighthouse.

I gestured for Proxinho and my statues to go into the water first, and watched as they sunk to the bottom and kept walking on the seabed, unbothered by the need to breath. With a quick sigh, I shut my eyes and toed the surf lapping up at the edge.

I clapped my hands and melted into water, allowing the ocean to swallow me whole. Engulfed by the waves, I became them, lapping against the dirt a few times before regaining my bearings. Eventually, I forced myself against the tide’s ebb and flow, willing myself to fight the surge that wanted me to stay there. No life lived in these waters -- no orcas, no fish, no plankton, not even algae. It was nothing but a salty wave pool.

I kept pushing against the surge until the flow flipped, and then I found myself battling the tides to not move forward so fast. At last I gave in, washing up on a black sand beach, shifting back to solid flesh. My proxies stood waiting for me at the base of the lighthouse, expressionless as red and white light washed over them at regular periods. I looked past them, past the battered white spire of the lighthouse, and saw the shoals dividing this small volcanic island from the mainland. If I craned my neck enough, I could catch a glimpse of my final goal, though only its shape stayed visible in the gloaming.

Just a short walk away, over a sandbar and up a hill, sat my Keeper’s mansion. I had arrived in Arcadia, for the third and (God willing) final time.

[Bailey Raptis]

The Sculptor’s Mansion
Faerie

We huddled at the base of the lighthouse, and I waited for something -- anything -- to happen. This trip had been too easy. Granted, most of my travels through the Hedge were lonely affairs, but I rarely spent much time there as I journeyed through the Veil. For as long and as far as we had walked (and “swam”) through the Hedge into Faerie, we should have seen someone: one of the Knights of the Wild Hunt astride a coal-black horse breathing gouts of fire, a pair of princelings from opposing Courts trysting in the shadows of fir trees, or even some other Stolen One desperately fleeing their Keeper on that gloomy promontory behind us. This was not luck; I could not possibly be this lucky. A trap, I thought to myself. This has to be a trap. I am going to climb over that sandbar, up that hill, and right when I set foot in my Keeper’s old sculpture garden, there will be two dozen Knights waiting to cut us all down. I shook my head, banishing my musings and replacing them with the Shakespeare the ghost who blessed me at Beltane spoke to me. If it be now, ’tis not to come. If it be not to come, it will be now. If it be not now, yet it will come—the readiness is all. I knew what I had gotten myself into. The odds I escaped this with my life were very slim, but if I died, I did so knowing I died as me. More human than Fae. Not as the monster I feared I might become -- or might already be.

Normally, I would have lit a cigarette and smoked it to kill time before I had to act. Unfortunately, I left my Red Apples and lighter back at my apartment with Max. I allowed my thoughts to drift to them in lieu of that cigarette, shook my head quickly, and began walking towards the shoals. Proxinho and my golems followed suit, as we ascended into the backyard of the mansion.

Everything felt dead. The air was still and stale, doing nothing to disrupt the leafless weeping willows and the branches of gnarled oaks. No stars or moon or planets shone in the sky. In fact, the only illumination present leaked out of the lighthouse in pulsing swaths of red and white, steady like a heartbeat. I stooped down to brush my fingers against the grass, and I could have sworn it was made of plastic and not plant material. There were no smells or sounds, save for my quiet inhalations and exhalations. Then, a low moan broke the semblance of abandonment covering this realm. I first heard it as I approached a sculpture garden I knew all too well, and thought maybe it might have been me, involuntarily whimpering at the painful memories this place held. But when I forced my mouth shut, I could still hear the groans. I sent a series of mental messages to my proxies, telling them to hold back as I stepped into the garden.

Years ago (or perhaps it had been decades?) this place only looked like a graveyard, with its array of angels carved from stone and weeping marble women. Now, though, an aura of decay hung over it, and I wished more of those figures were there, and not the abstract bronze and copper statues that almost appeared human -- almost. My body shook with an involuntary shudder, and then --

“H-huh-help me.” One of those statues whispered. My eyes widened into saucers as, despite myself, I turned to face the brassy voice. The woman who addressed me looked cast from bronze, her arms and legs stretched out to be pipe-cleaner thin. Spindly fingers twice the length of mine clung to a baby carriage, though nothing rested in the seat except for a distorted lump of metal. Something -- someone -- had melted and elongated her face, and it took every drop of willpower I owned not to look away from her.

“Merda. Who did this - the Sculptor.” I asked and answered my own question in one quick burst of realization. I tore my eyes off of her to examine the other statues. Their condition was even worse. They possessed just a bare minimum of features to identify them as human: two of them were heads attached to molten piles of copper, one of them had their head pried off and melted onto their midsection, and the fourth was just a screaming face emerging from a metallic puddle. None of them showed signs they could speak, so I turned back to the woman who first addressed me. “Are they still alive?”

“Help me!” She grew louder and more insistent with my question. I half-shut my eyes. Proxinho?

Yes? It took me a while to realize it had responded, since its mind voice so eerily resembled my own.

Watch the mansion. If anything even remotely unfriendly comes out, kill them.

Yes.

I started with her first, since she would be the easiest to transmute. I said a silent prayer to Malleus and Mallory’s library for teaching me some of the basics of transmutation, and another to the Isle for its role in developing my magical prowess. I would need all of it to pull this miracle off.

I sensed the woman squirming away at first, then relaxing when my fingers carefully wrapped around her pencil-thin wrist. The metal felt cold, but not the way stone did. It fought against me, swirling around my grasp, and I could not tell if this was a defense mechanism created by the Sculptor, or merely the limits of my skills transmuting anything but rock. My fingertips and my mind dug slowly through layers of copper and tin to find her true form. I sighed internally. Too late. He had changed her beyond flesh and blood. Her skin would always be partially made of metal, just like the marble resting deep within my body. I focused -- what choice did I have? She needed me -- they all needed me -- concentrating and not crying.

Something gave way, and she slumped against me, so fast I narrowly opened my eyes and arms in time to catch her. I gestured for Proxinho to pick her up and head back to the lighthouse to open a portal back to RhyDin. Then I knelt to examine the rest of the misshapen statues. I bit my lip until I could taste iron; none of the four remaining figures lived. The Sculptor must have twisted and torn them apart until He finally snuffed their sparks of life.

Proxinho.

Yes?

Is the portal open?

Almost. I am having problems keeping it-

“YOU!” A voice boomed like thunder from the back porch, and a second or two later, I could taste the ozone in the air. Language. Glamour. “YOU WOULD STEAL FROM ME? YOU WILL NEVER LEAVE THIS REALM!” A man strode out onto the porch, dressed in a brown leather apron with a blue denim workshirt and unriveted jeans underneath. He looked tanned -- Bronzed, I realized with a start. His bald head gleamed even in the dim light. He stepped off the porch, strolling slowly towards the sculpture garden, me, and my golems.

I looked to one of the unmarked statues near me. I drew my sword quickly, but I also pulled Jewell’s charm from my neck and pressed it into the hands of a nearby proxy. I sent it running towards Proxinho.

I doubt there is magic left in this to power a spell, but Jewell made it, so perhaps you can use it to focus on wherever she is in RhyDin and transport there. I hope she is not in Faerie as well…

I will do my best.

Of course you will, Proxinho. Bring the woman there, and then bring her to Sandman. Jewell will know how to reach him. Now hurry!

The Sculptor stopped at the entrance to the garden, at the opposite end from me. As he had crossed the grounds, a half dozen minions of his own emerged. A trio of concrete lifelike human sculptures walked out from the back door as well, “dressed” in eerily modern sweatshirts and jeans while slapping saps into the palms of their hands. Two gargoyles broke free of their granite prisons on the roof to fly down and perch upon the garden’s stone walls. And finally, a gigantic terracotta soldier burst from the earth just behind the Sculptor, wielding a massive claymore that might have been as long as I am tall.

“Keeper?” I watched him shift to face me, his eyes narrowed at first with confusion. Then I saw the recognition dawn on his face. Before he had a chance to speak, I continued. “Keeper, I am here to kill you.” The moment the words left my mouth, I charged forward, and the battle began.

[Bailey Raptis]

June 22, 2019
Endless Summer Seaside Party

The Endless Summer Seaside Party raged on, heedless of the events the night before. Very few people on the beach knew or cared that The Empress Jewell Ravenlock, current Baroness of Seaside, had also been crowned Queen of the Wayward Court last night as part of the summer solstice celebrations. She wore no crown to mark herself as different or changed. In fact, she wore little other than a bikini and a breezy dress to cover it as she sat on a thrust of large rocks with Ishmerai, discussing what had taken place the evening before, what was happening now in her budding kingdom, and what was to come.

“...but you are Queen now.”

“I am still just me.”

“Your people will look to you even more than before.” The faerie shrugged. “You must take a firm stance and declare yourself to the High Court.”

“I hate the High Court,” Jewell replied with a sigh, reaching for her daiquiri. “You couldn’t pay me to appear before those tight-collared fools with their heads so far up their asses that they haven’t seen the sun since—”

The breeze shifted, reversed direction so that instead of blowing salty air out from the water it now carried in exhaust fumes from the city, accompanied by a whiff of chalk. Soon, that breeze became a gust of wind, blowing away beach balls and any umbrellas that hadn’t been secured in the sand. If that wasn’t enough to send the beach-goers scurrying, the slowly expanding portal that followed on the heels of that gale surely did the trick. At first, it appeared much like any other portal Bailey had summoned before: purplish-black, smelling faintly of the miasma of the Hedge. Only this time, just before it fully solidified, jagged streaks of silver could be seen accentuating the darker hues of the gateway. And when it finally clicked into place, and a figure stepped through, shimmering into view --

-- It wasn’t Bailey. Instead, a marble statue that shared his height and build but none of his features came out, carrying what appeared to be a bronze-skinned woman, pietà-style. It turned in every direction with as puzzled an expression as it could muster upon its stone face. A quiet but insistent high-pitched whine accompanied the words it spoke in nearly perfect imitation of Bailey’s own voice. “Where is Jewell Ravenlock?”

The fae knight had leapt to his feet at the first sign of trouble, placing himself between Jewell and the coalescing portal. Some of the less determined party-goers took off running, while those too drunk cowered behind their overturned lounge chairs. For her part, Jewell stood up on the rocks behind Ishmerai, observing quietly.

The knight, his dark hair rippling in the gusty wind, may not have noted the flavor of her own magic in the formation of the portal, but she certainly did. When the statue stepped out and asked for her, she put her hand on Ishmerai’s shoulder to reassure him before stepping down and around the knight. “I am here. Where is your master?” Her brow rippled in concern. She had heard that Bailey had gone beyond the veil, and now… “Is all well?”

Proxinho was a curious mish-mash of magicks. The silver that helped fuel its teleportation lay dormant, sitting in a circular stainless steel necklace around its neck. Proxinho itself reflected both white marble and black star sapphire quintessence, a pairing of Bailey’s magical prowess and the power provided by the Circle of Genesis within the Citadel of the Stars. The woman Proxinho held almost seemed to echo Bailey’s own aura, but where he had been carved from stone, she was cast from metal. Even as it talked, it kept moving to try to hand her off to Ishmerai or Jewell.

“As we speak, Bailey fights his Keeper, the Sculptor.” An almost-electrical hum came and went whenever Proxinho spoke and then went silent. “Or perhaps it is already finished. What will be will be.” The strangely philosophical thought from the golem came with a very stiff shake of its head. “Bailey sent me here to bring this woman to you, so that you might bring him to Sandman. He said that you would know how to reach him.”

Jewell made no move to take the girl, but Ishmerai did not wait long before stepping around his lady to retrieve her from Proxinho’s arms. “Just drop her off with Sandman? What am I, some Stolen One trafficking stop now?” She sent an amused look to Ishmerai at the question. He just frowned, shifting the girl in his arms and shaking his head. “Right,” she sighed as the joke fell flat. “So Bailey is fighting the Sculptor. I hope he will be victorious. When do you expect to know? You should have left that necklace with him,” she nodded to the charm she had created.

The whine dropped into a low pitch drone as the proxy...thought? Hard to tell, since all it really did was stand still. Eventually, that drone smeared back up to a high-pitch whine as it talked. “As long as I am here speaking with you, Bailey yet lives.” The statue tilted its head side-to-side in a poor imitation of a human. “He thought maybe the magicks of Faerie might reinfuse the necklace, at least enough to bring me to you. But he was not sure if it would work; it has already been used once before, correct?” Without waiting for an answer, Proxinho continued, “I suppose it does not matter. I am here, just as he directed, and you will take her to Sandman, just as he directed?”

“Ishmerai will.” The knight made a noise as he was indirectly commanded. Then he gave one look between the pair--the faerie had one eyebrow raised in anticipation of an objection--sighed, and walked off with the girl in his arms. Jewell settled back down on a rock, “Will you stay? You can have a drink? Or um… just chill a while. While we wait. You know, for Bailey?” She tried to play it casual, but she wanted the golem to stay. As long as it was there speaking with her, Bailey was alive. She’d like to know if his breathing and heartbeat status changed suddenly. There was likely nothing she could do if and when it did, but maybe, just maybe, she could help.

Or at least retrieve his body. What else were friends for?

((Written with Jewell and Ishmerai's player, with many thanks!))

[Bailey Raptis]

Domain of the Sculptor
Faerie

I slapped my chest, feeling the familiar tug and shift in my skin and bones as I shifted into stone. Like my duel with Jonn, I chose to grow a pair of marble spikes out of my shoulders, as much for intimidation as for any tactical advantage it might provide. In this war, I could use any edge available to me.

I started by peppering the opposition with quick blasts of water, more in an attempt to keep them honest than to actually harm them. It soon became clear our battle was shaping up to be a stalemate. This alone did not worry me -- an even fight seemed the likeliest scenario for this skirmish going in. The fact He had sent sculptures -- Other Stolen Ones? -- in his stead actually bode better for me than if He confronted me alone. While it might have been nice if He had just come out and begged for His life, it would not have been as satisfying. A far more likely occurrence would have seen Him emerge from the mansion by Himself and wipe us all out without a sweat. No, I could work with this.

Still, this slugfest presented me with two problems. One, the Sculptor and His fighters outnumbered me seven to six, since I had sent Proxinho back to RhyDin. Three of my proxies were slugging it out with the concrete mannequins, while the other two tried to pin down the dive-bombing gargoyles. That left me trying to get past the massive terracotta soldier to my Keeper. As they say, easier said than done. Its height and weapon gave it a pronounced reach advantage, such that I could do little more than throw chunks of rock and bubbles of water to keep it at bay. This brought up my second problem. Fighting this way was unsustainable for me, even if the Sculptor seemed to be doing little more than cowering behind His creations. I could not draw upon this land’s magic the way He did, and eventually, even I would run out of energy. I needed to break the deadlock.

“Keeper!” I shouted over the thump and scrape of stone on stone. “Give up, and I will make your death quick and painless!”

“GIVE UP? TO YOU?” His voice rumbled over the clatter of conflict, filling the air with the taste of His glamour: metallic, like I had stuck several coppers in my mouth. “AFTER WHAT YOU COST ME? DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE COURT DID TO ME AFTER YOU ESCAPED?”

I tried to rush forward as he shouted, but that massive broadsword slammed into the lawn, and the shock waves sent me stumbling back to the far end of the sculpture garden. I took a deep breath and sent a message to my fighters. If you can, avoid killing the ones made of concrete, or the clay warrior. The gargoyles, though? Those are likely not Stolen Ones. Do with them what you will. Seemingly inspired by this pep talk, the two golems of mine scrapping with the granite creatures found a second wind, as well as some patience. Instead of swatting ineffectually at them as they swooped in, they waited and timed their attacks. When their foes flew within their grasp, the golems shifted just slightly, grabbed the gargoyles by the wings, and swung them into each other. And swung again. And again. Their wings stilled, their heads stopped moving, but my statues continued their ferocious attack until their opponents were nothing but gravel. That certainly got everyone’s attention. I pointed my sword at the concrete creatures.

“I extend a similar offer to you.” I followed by gesturing at the terracotta sculpture. “And you as well. Surrender, and I will spare you. Oppose me, and you will leave me no choice.”

“You think they’ll listen to you?” the Sculptor asked, finally dropping down to a more reasonable speaking voice. “I made them. I made YOU! You belong to ME! And when I destroy your pathetic imitations of my glory, I will MAKE you bend the knee, before me and everyone else in the Court. Destroy them!” He waved a hand at his tallest servant, who obliged by swinging its broadsword at the gargoyle slayers, obliterating them into misshapen lumps. The sudden shift of fortune led His mannequins to press the offensive, driving my proxies back into the garden with me. I threw out a quick stalling chunk of marble to slow their advance, desperately searching for an answer to that clay fighter’s formidable power. I tried to reach out to it, and the other mannequins, but either my control of statuary did not extend to non-marble constructs, or the Keeper’s hold on his subjects was too strong for me to break.

The oversized sword pulverized the boulder, and while my statues did not flinch at the flying debris, I had to shade my eyes. That lone moment was all it needed. It swung the claymore again, just as a golem tried to shove me out of the way. It only partially succeeded, as the blade sliced off one of my shoulder spikes and gouged out a chunk of my right shoulder, while also totally cleaving through that proxy. Dark red blood oozed from the wound as I dropped my weapon and fell to one knee, while my two remaining warriors rushed the terracotta giant to protect me. Unfortunately, I could see that as they ducked and dodged around their larger, slower enemy, the three remaining concrete sculptures were approaching from the opposite side, smelling blood in the water -- or on the ground. They continued to smack their saps into their hands in perfect rhythm while I tried and failed to retrieve my weapon with my right hand. Grunting, I grabbed it with my left hand, then impulsively decided to let it go. Instead, I fired three quick bursts of water at each of them. They made no attempt to dodge, and the liquid did not even slow them down, but that was not the goal. I followed up with a gust of arctic air, slowing them down, stopping them, and then pushing them backwards with my icy winds. With a flick of my wrist, I cut off the blast, and waited. The water turned to ice along their skin, then crazed. I watched them claw at their faces, their chests, their limbs as the ice expanded where it had seeped into their pores, then stop, right before they exploded into dust.

“One last chance,” I said, as I retrieved the sword at last with my left hand. My proxies kept dancing out of the way of the claymore, darting between their foe’s long legs but unable to do any real damage with their stone fists. “Surrender or die.” I pointed at the sculptor again. “Surrender, and die fast. This is your final chance.”

“What are you doing?” My Keeper hissed the question at his soldier. “Just DESTROY them!” He slapped it on the leg, scowling, and that stirred the beast into action. It feinted a swing of its claymore, drawing my golem right into its real attack before I could say anything. The giant kicked my helper, sending him flying straight at me. I only partially dodged the impromptu projectile, getting clipped on the right shoulder and spun around into the dirt, where I watched my statue slam back first into the garden’s stone wall and shatter into pieces. I turned my head back just in time to see the clay creature use that broadsword to cleave my last proxy in two.

Gasping in pain, I watched the colossus stalk across the grass. Between its legs, I spotted my Keeper gloating. “You’re going to WISH you had never left when I get done with you. You’re going to BEG me for death, and if I am feeling merciful, I may give it to you. Eventually. But right now? I don’t think you NEED that arm, do you?”

Shit! I pulled the remains of my golems into the path of the marauding giant, impeding its progress but not fully stopping it. As it bore down on me, I mouthed a silent prayer, then -- I guess I have no choice but to try this. I touched the Celestial Key hanging from my neck.

Blinding light -- light that should have blinded me -- burst from my focus. I glanced up, and the empty sky was now filled with stars, their pure white overwhelming even the illumination from the lighthouse. I watched as the blues and blacks in the sky were slowly replaced with white, like falling stars. Then, it encroached upon the land, bathing the garden, the grass, the mansion, the behemoth, everything in all its monochromatic splendor. For one glorious blink, the light was all that existed, and then --

The world blinked back -- ruined. No red or white from the lighthouse -- no light at all, save for the faint glow from my necklace. The garden’s walls had been decimated, and the copper corpses of the Stolen Ones my Keeper killed had disappeared. All that remained of His last champion were glazed orange shards. His mansion lay in ruins, little more than heaps of bricks, its walls caved in, its roof collapsed, its windows blown out with glittering glass all over the ground. And my Keeper? He lay on the turf, bleeding steadily from tiny cuts all over His body. I took another look at Him, and saw the swirling tendrils of His glamour, desperately trying to coalesce into their usual barrier. No. With a thought, I tore through His glamour -- his glamour -- and saw him as he truly was.

He had pale skin -- not bronze or tan -- like me, and actually did have hair, unlike his usual bald mien. It grew in twin white tufts, like devil’s horns, from his temples. Most significantly, he appeared old: wrinkled skin, crow’s feet around his black eyes, and liver spots dotting his arms. He must have realized what I had done, for he threw his arms up over his head in an attempt to hide his face. No matter. I transformed everything but my feet back to flesh and ran up to him. After gathering a good head of steam, I kicked through his hands and landed a solid blow on the side of his skull. He moaned, glanced down at his broken fingers splayed out at unnatural angles, and moaned again. I circled around him, watching his eyes follow me and try to figure when I’d strike next, but it did not matter. When I kicked him in the ribs, he had no defense for it, and I relished the wheeze, the grunt as the air rushed out of his lungs. I sheathed my sword and drew my dagger, straddling his chest. I pressed the knife up to his neck, watching as a new thin trail of blood joined the others --

And I hesitated. I watched the fear in his eyes give way to confusion, as a strange emotion washed over me. Pity? Mercy? I tried to shake it off, but it clung stubbornly to my soul. Even after I pulled the blade back briefly, only to punch him in the face and return it to his throat, the feeling remained.

“...Swear an Oath to me,” I said, scarcely believing my own ears.

“What?”

“I will not kill you if you swear an Oath to me.”

The Sculptor laughed. He must have thought things had changed in his favor. “You think YOU can kill me? You think THAT can kill me? You better run, but the Wild Hunt will likely find you before you even get back to the promontory.”

“I think...you are full of shit, right now. They have taken your power, have they not? A punishment for letting me escape. A punishment for letting us all rebel, all those years ago. They do not care about you.” His silence spoke volumes, and I went on. “Even if you are not vulnerable to cold iron, I am willing to bet you would prefer not to be cut into pieces. I suspect even you would have a hard time returning from that, and certainly in even worse shape than your already miserable form.”

“What do you WANT?” he seethed.

“Here are my terms. I will not harm you or kill you, under two conditions. The first is that you freely give me your Key, and allow me safe passage from your realm back to RhyDin.”

“And the second?”

“You swear, upon your True Name and your utter fucking annihilation, that you will not Steal another person from RhyDin again. You will stay away from the Stolen Ones there, you will stay away from the children there, you will stay away from anyone there. Do you accept, or shall I send you to hell?”

His eyes shut, and I thought I might have miscalculated. He could easily be stalling, and I would not know until I heard the tell-tale clip-clop of the Wild Hunt’s horses signalling my doom. My eyes danced around, and I thought I saw a figure in a damson suit, silver-haired and holding a pocket watch, but when I tried to blink them back into focus, they were gone. I turned back to the Sculptor, and waited for his answer.

“...Yes,” he croaked. I resisted the urge to punch him again, though I kept the knife pressed tight against him.

“Swear it.”

“I swear, upon my True Name and my Final Death, that I will grant you my Key, safe passage from here to RhyDin, and that I will do as you say. I will no longer Steal from RhyDin.” Satisfied by his words, I stood up, sheathed my dagger, and held my hand out expectantly. It took him much longer to stand, but eventually he did, rooting gingerly with his none-broken hand through a pocket on his leather apron until he retrieved a chisel. The handle was made of hickory, while the blade itself appeared to be jade, honed to a fine edge.

“How does this work?”

“Ah, ah, ah! That wasn’t part of our oath!” He smirked at me, and it took every ounce of willpower not to draw my sword and run him through. “I promised safe passage -- not timely passage. But you’re a smart boy. I bet you’ll figure it out, and if you don’t? Well, you’re safe, at least, right? At least until you starve to death.”

I flipped the tool in my left hand, peering down at it, seeking an answer in every last angle, every nook and cranny, the rounded grip and the sharp edge. My eyes wandered to my right hand, back to the left, and with a nod of recognition, I knew what needed to be done.

I plunged the chisel into the palm of my right hand, worrying my lip until I was certain my teeth were red. I twisted through layers of skin, muscle, fat, and tendons, ducking my head into the crook of my shoulder and biting into the leather sleeve of my jacket. I muffled a scream as I felt it reach bone, tightening like a screw near my wrist. Nothing happened yet. I looked to the sculptor, grinning evilly as he spun a finger in a circle. Go on, go on. All my senses focused on the blood and pain: the numbing sting of damaged nerves, the strangely sweet scent of my blood, the way it felt dripping through my fingers onto the lifeless dirt, even the barely audible drip-drip-drip as it fell like a leaking faucet. No! I banished my misery from my thoughts, remembering Mallory had told me: “..the mortal realm they imagine…” I thought of the Celestial Tower, and wrenched the chisel one more time.

Something clicked, then cracked, as I broke through the bone and the chisel settled into stone. I screamed at last, my vision swimming with that fucker’s simpering expression, until darkness swallowed me…

...And I slumped into the arms of Proxinho.

[Bailey Raptis]

June 27, 2019
Immediately Following the Archmage Challenge
The Hedge

For the second time that night, and the third time in less than a week, I stabbed myself in the hand with my Keeper’s Key to escape. The first time I did it, effecting my escape from Faerie back to Twilight Isle and RhyDin, I did so on faith that Mallory’s directions were true, that it was, in fact, “a trinket that can take them through the Veil to the mortal realm they imagine in an instant.” Fortunately for me, it landed me in the Celestial Tower, supported by Proxinho and, eventually, the Isle’s goblins while I recovered from my wounds. The second time, concluding my first match of the challenge with Michelle, I had only an inkling the chisel might still possess power -- or that I could channel my own into it. I flickered into the Veil for a brief moment, a blink of an eye before the spell snapped back and returned me to the Isle with a bleeding hand. The third time, though, was different.

Three. The rule of three. I tempted fate by puncturing my palm with that jade blade and yet, paradoxically, I knew precisely what would happen. Well, maybe not the exact details, but two contradictory impulses -- scientific evidence and destiny’s inexorable pull on the fae-touched -- left me wholly unsurprised when I found myself in the Hedge, staring at B-BO1 as he put the final touches on a mural on the sandstone exterior of a three-story warehouse building. Sunshine beat down on us, unhindered by clouds, yet B-BO1 wore the same attire from the last time we met: a respirator mask, thick shaded goggles, a gray hooded sweatshirt (hood up) flecked with various neon hues of paint, and black-and-white striped track pants. All I could hear was the rattle of the ball inside his can of spray paint, followed by a hiss as he pressed down on the valve. The acrid chemical fumes filled my nostrils, forcing me to shrink away from him and look instead at the other portraits flanking his current piece. I immediately noticed a theme. A dark-skinned man with fleshy cheeks, wearing a gold necklace and crown perched at an angle on his head. Titania in a white gossamer gown, barefoot, with a simple wreath of ivy adorning her head as she cavorted with her attendants. Finvarra, seated on a high throne with plush purple cushions, wearing a green silk surcoat with his wild brown hair untamed by the silver circlet he donned. And B-BO1 himself, sans crown, as enigmatic in portraiture as he was in the flesh. He must have heard me arrive, for when I finished examining his other works, he stepped aside, allowing me to see what he had just concluded.

“You like what I’ve done?” he asked, as I stared at my own likeness standing on a red velvet carpeted staircase, wearing a tuxedo gown with a billowing skirt and oversized bowtie. I wore the Archmage’s key of platinum and black star sapphire, along with a diadem of gilded brass, adorned with bloodstones. Even with spray paint (how did he create that with spray paint?), he managed to make my blue-green eyes glow with glamour, as I threw a haughty look out at anyone who might be viewing the image. Me. I turned to face him, seeing he had thrown his arms wide as if in celebration.

“It is...very nice, but...I am confused.”

“You’ve taken the next step! Your journey, your transformation, your metamorphosis, your…ascension, it continues.”

I leaned forward, trying to peer through the black of his goggles, attempting to pierce his glamour, but finding myself unable. “I think you are mistaken. I did not kill my Keeper.”

“No, and more’s the pity. You could’ve made this a lot easier on yourself if you had.” Through the mask, I heard him clicking his tongue.

“Then you should not be happy.” I scratched my head as I shifted backwards to give him more space. “I did not kill him, ergo, I will not become Fae.”

“Oh, Bailey,” he sighed, approaching me with a gloved finger out. “Think. Think, think, think!” With each repetition of the word, that finger jabbed at my forehead. “Did I say killing a Kindly One was the only way to become one?”

“...No.” I folded my good arm across my chest, glancing down at my bloody right hand and the sling that held that arm up. My lips pursed as I regarded B-BO1’s finger.

“Like I said, killing him would’ve made it much easier, but that’s not the only way to become Fae.”

“I...do not understand?” My left hand reached up to my hair, twisting a few strands between my index and middle fingers.

“Think.” He reached out to poke me once again, but I pulled away. With his entire face hidden, I could not gauge his reaction. “You’ve done your research. The stories, the songs, the poems, the art.” Here, he gestured at the mural. “You’ve talked to your friends?” Without waiting for me to nod or otherwise say yes, he continued, “They must have told you the nature of sidhe.”

“I’ll stop using magic,” I said, unconvincing even to myself as I slipped into contractions.

“You won’t, but that’s not what I’m getting at. You - you’ve forged two oaths. Two! Both with Fae!”

“I don’t see-”

“Please, let me finish,” B-BO1 interrupted. “There’s power in contracts, especially for the Gentry. Your oath of loyalty to Jewell, and the oath that the Sculptor made with you. You have but one more step to take.”

“And what might that be?”

“I’m going to tell you,” he said, circling around me like he had when we first met. “And you’re going to think because I’m telling you that you can avoid this, but you can’t. It’s fate, destiny, kismet -- a fait accompli. You’re going to fall in love -- someone you’ve known for ages, someone you’ve only just met, someone you’ve yet to meet. Your heart will ache at the thought of being parted from them. You’ll marry them -- you’ll live forever -- as one of the Fair Folk. One last contract. One last oath.”

I paused, letting him think the words struck a nerve with me. Then I laughed. “That is...that’s bullshit. For someone who knows so much about me, you clearly have not been following my love life. Stable relationships and I do not go hand-in-hand.”

“Perhaps.” B-BO1 stopped pacing around me, then clapped his hands together. The sound reverberated through the courtyard near the warehouse.

“Perhaps? You just told me three contradictory things about this person I am destined to marry -- they might as well be three different people. And besides, those contracts are with two Fae. Who is to say I would marry one?”

“Would that be so strange?” The man in the mask folded his hands behind his back, not attempting to clarify what his question referred to.

“What-”

“Bailey, we may be creatures of magic, but we are also creatures of stories, myths, legends. We are the fairy in fairy tales. How much better is the fable when you struggle to avoid what is preordained, only to find in the end, your efforts to avoid your fate are those that set you on that path irreversibly? Oh my beautiful, brilliant Bailey -- I can’t wait to see you again.” B-BO1 breached the gap between us, brushing the knuckles of his gloved hand against my cheek. “After all, this is only our second meeting. Destiny demands one more of us.”

I jerked away from his touch, then reared back with my left fist cocked to throw a hard jab --

[Bailey Raptis]

-- And found myself stumbling into Proxinho’s arms for the second time in a week. I pressed my face against its shoulder, sucking in deep breaths to try and calm myself before I faced my friends on the Isle once again. My statue lowered me to the ground while a goblin fetched a bottle of water. Blood dripped down my fingertips, staining the sand, falling in consistent time like a metronome. I unscrewed the cap on the water and poured it over my head, barely registering that Mallory had patted my chest. I might have sat there all night, through Claire’s challenge of Matt for the Tower of Air, had Proxinho not picked me up and tossed me into a makeshift hot spring that Mallory created in the aftermath of Michelle and I’s challenge.

Somehow, I made it through the rest of the night without breaking further. Perhaps keeping my title, maintaining a modicum of my status quo even as everything else around me changed so dramatically, pushed the demons aside for the moment. Perhaps that small gesture of affection from Mallory, or Eden’s obvious concern and care throughout the night, grounded me temporarily. Or maybe the levity that Proxinho injected into the evening by dunking me in the water kept my mind from straying too far away from the moment, Claire’s challenge and Matt’s defense. It could also have been the good soak I got. Or a combination of some or all of those things. I suppose it does not matter in the end. I held it together long enough that no one could see what I was -- what I had become.

This may sound counterintuitive, but I am an introvert who needs to be around people. I need to see them laughing, eating, dancing, drinking, the invisible threads of their connections curling through the air and tying each other together. In addition, I am lucky to have good friends who draw me out when I need to be drawn out, and who leave me be when companionable silence is the best course of action. So when the crowd began thinning out in the aftermath of Claire’s victory, I did not want the night to end. I did not want them to leave, even if they were not all talking to me. They were a subtle reminder to myself that we are all alive, we are all connected, in ways that are big and small, profound and mundane. Yet instead of asking my friends to extend the evening, I merely made plans for the future. Lunch with Eden. Drinks with Fen. They were events to look forward to, but that did not help me in the moment.

I felt alone, in every possible sense of the word. In a few days, I was officially moving out of the apartment I shared with Max, and Dany would be moving in, taking my place. It stung, even though the logical part of my brain knew enough time should have passed for me to get over it. Even if I had de facto been living by myself anyways for the past few months, the formal finish to our roommate agreement hurt -- a splintering that meant things would never be the same between us.

And yes, I know, life is change -- there are a million platitudes like that, and I have heard many if not all of them, in a multitude of languages to boot. Normally, something as minor as this would be a speed bump, a blip in my life, but after everything I went through over the solstice, everything I suffered and remembered suffering at the hands of my Keeper, this served as the cherry on a sundae heaped high with bad news.

I returned to the Celestial Tower alone, patting Proxinho on the shoulder as I passed him on my way to the bathroom. The mage light sconce near the door threw flickering shadows across the sandstone tiled bathroom, and I had to snap my fingers a few times to strengthen the light in there. I pressed my fingertips against the porcelain sink for support, looking up at the large oval mirror hanging above it, edged in seashells. I stared at my face, blinking slowly, wishing I had thought to ask Mist or Mallory or one of my old dealer friends for something to occupy my mind. With each blink, I tapped into my glamour, a thing I once hid with all my might, then struggled furiously to tame and control. Now, it came nearly as naturally as breathing. I started with my eyes, shifted orange to go along with my green hair and dragon-inspired scale makeup. I blinked. Bloodstone jade and red. Again. Black as olives. One more time. At last, my irises regained their usual blue-green hue, albeit with a glow that screamed of magic. With a sigh, I pushed off of the sink and stepped back so that I could see my full body.

It took a year of exercise, hard work, and a touch more temperance to build back the muscle I lost from the prior year’s apathy and alcohol abuse. No longer isolated and depressed, I resumed my old self-care habits: moisturizing, regular hair cuts and trims, eating enough fruits and vegetables and fewer sugary and fatty foods. I did all those things to optimize myself and still -- still -- That face, that body reflected back at me felt alien. This was another pattern, another cycle I could not break, staring in the mirror and trying to find myself. Only now, I could make that face look significantly different -- the glamoured green hair drifting over my eyes proof of that fact.

I let that magic take over, as the color in my irises overwhelmed the black of my pupils, glowing and glowing and glowing until it seemed my eyes might explode in a shower of blue-green. Instead, just as the hue threatened to overwhelm all of my senses, it fell away, letting me see the mask I had built for myself.

Only even now, it wasn’t the same. The shield I previously built around myself looked different now. It was still warped and bashed together, like melted glass or the surface of a bubble, but something new had been introduced to the mask. I saw streaks of silver, gold, and brass, jagged and spreading slow throughout my aura. Beneath the exterior, the marble of my skin seemed even more pronounced, and the dark-blue veins that used to sit beneath my skin now bore shades of black, gold, and red. I remembered how sweet my blood had smelled when it spilled out in my Keeper’s domain, and wondered how deep the change went. My flesh, my blood, perhaps my bones and other organs? I knew I could no longer safely wield cold iron. What other strengths and weakness would I now bear? And what about my mind and soul? What was I now?

I could feel the magic enveloping me, creeping across my body and heart, leaving goosebumps that extended to the core of my existence. Was this an invasion, a virus or bacteria that should never have been introduced to me, threatening to overwhelm my immune system? Or was this something locked away from me improperly, a series of chains and deadbolts and latches that needed to be stripped and smashed and subverted until the real me emerged, a butterfly from a chrysalis? Put differently and maybe more simply, the question could be phrased like this: was magic a drug, a wellspring, a curse like Mallory mused, or was I actually magic too, or becoming it at least, the way Jewell suggested?

The mirror held no answers for me, just a reflection that might not even have been true. With one last blink, my eyes and hair returned to their normal colors. I immediately followed by doing something I had seen Fletcher do sometimes after dealing with difficult situations or conversations. He would press the index and middle fingers against his thumb, and his ring and pinky fingers against his palm. Then, he would touch his forehead, his chest, his right shoulder, and finally his left, letting his hand come to rest over his heart. When I asked him what it meant, he told me it was called “the sign of the cross,” and it served as a way of blessing one’s self, as well as a personal prayer to God. Many things had tested my faith in the divine over the years, and yet, in that moment, I crossed myself. I whispered my prayer to my likeness in the seashell-lined glass, watching its lips move in silence.

“God...protect me from what I want.”