I fell through the cracks I dreamed of anathema The winter will become spring My will, fiery, spiteful Unyielding and unbroken
I dreamed of a quiet end. When I knew it was over I sought it. A forested meadow of flowers all covered in mist, like Avalon in my innocence. That place could not be found. It was taken from me. Something deep within me has snapped, shattered to all to pieces. But it hasn't left me broken, no, no. I have found myself remade; reforged and unbroken. It was what has held me back which has broken. I loathed myself for my weakness. I could not protect my unborn son, nor my sweet innocent brother, both of whom I loved more than life. But what has come to pass, what words and treacheries which left my mouth are air, all dust in the unquiet wind. I'm laughing now. I'm furious, but laughing. What other response can one give?
Once, I would've sacrificed all Shadow to be with Iain. If the Eagle then had offered me what Garrick, a defeated man, more broken than I, had, I would have taken it, gladly, hungrily, greedily. I would have gladly seen Shadow fall to ruin and dust just to look upon my beloved's face. He would not have loved such a woman, not even as a sister or milk mother, let alone as a lover or wife, but, blinded by my pain, I would have taken it. But that offer was never made. Whether I was considered too dangerous, too impulsive and unreliable, or too powerless to matter is not important now.
Just moments before the finality I had finally given up hope. But you had to call us forth, to gloat, to bask in your coming victory. To play the role of teacher, and dare to play a benefactor. If you had left well enough alone, I would have embraced the end of my long, long suffering.
I am not the woman that I was, and yet, my response is the same. Spiteful, angry, revolting, defiance. You call it sound and fury, and that it certainly is. Anger can be power if you know how to wield it. Pain can be power too, and I have both in spades. But I will call on every speck of me, every mote and every memory, not just the pain and the anger which I used to rely on but all of it, everything I am... from the flowering fields of Avalon, to the butterfly sorceress of quick smiles and soft innocence, to the passionate longings which I lost myself to in the dusky sweet spring air on the desert oasis where I accepted that I loved him as more than just a brother. I will call on all of it. And now, the weak, the faithless, and the used have fled, and all that remain will do the same as I. There is no question. We have stood in our own way more so than you ever did, but now you've fucked up. You've left only those with the resolve to not only survive, but thrive. I may not reunite with Iain, but, I will treasure my memories of him, and I will be a woman worthy of his love. You will not have them to cast into oblivion. I will love again. And live. To spite you, yes, but for all my treasured memories as well.
Watch as we succumb Idleness, idolatry Fifteen seeds, one sin Can twenty two do better? And one, a sad broken husk?
Thread affixed to my phantom limb, pulling me through the eye of the needle. Across that threshold, a new world, unknown to me. Yet as all shadow crumbles to dust, even in my current state I feel it, all I can think about is the Knight of Flowers. His seed planted deep in the furrows of my womb. He took root, and I, as ravaged as I was, took solace in the babe. Some beauty, some life might come of all my pain. But that dream withered. He did not have a chance to live, to breath this air, to discover loss. My son, the sweet fruit of a bitter tree, in all his innocence and infinite possibility was not given a chance. The world might end and my greatest regret will remain the son I never bore. The failures I have lived since, several centuries of failures, pale in comparison. And ending his killer did nothing to bring hi m back.
In the deepest copse of all Shadow lies The darkest desires t'which they gave rise The prideful child, foolish in folly the self-indulgent lost to melancholy
With a heavy heart, and a heaving sigh Shadow is left to us, the few, the wise But the dark leaves rustle for those who listen Our time runs short, our egos threaten sedition
Tis' shame and fear which makes them dance heedless to prudence or the changing winds Tis' fear which sets their rhythm restless I fear as well, for life is left to chance "Tis' a die cast," he says, "who dares wins" Ambition errs not to sense, but to senselessness
Loss begets losses Misery, forged from fire Born from deep within A broken womb still gives birth To hatred all consuming
I recall the chill of the morning. Avalonian winds carried the sweet smells of late spring as it faded into the excitement of summer. It was after conception, but before the breaking. My heart soared, nearly beat it's way out of my chest, like a caged hummingbird when my hand maiden spoke his name. Cain. She said it with apprehension, fear, a terror which was far beyond my comprehension at the time, and as such, I did not notice it on her. I went with him with out hesitation. I was reshaped, made stronger, forged in the fires of Blackmarch, but dead within. Childish innocence replaced with the fear, the pain, the fury, and the sorrow of such strengthening. My heart still reacts to him, quickening and beating strongly, though now it sinks instead of soaring. Some day, it will end, one way or the other. One must die and one must live. One will die and one will live.
Brittle creation Infinite horizons bloom And bend and roil But once pushed, strained, and broken It is irreparable
Every move is countered, accounted, and turned against us. Solitary we are weak. Together we are vulnerable. How can we fight when our opponent knows us better than we do? Oberon has returned, and his answer will be wrong. Oberon is blind, blinded by his raw power, by pride as vast as shadow. We carry his pride and arrogance as well, but are we inseparable from it, as he is? If we can not break away from the sins and shortfalls of our fathers, mothers, and grandfather, we are doomed to oblivion. It is time to walk the path untraveled by Amberites; humility. It is the one thing our enemy will never expect of us.
A lifetime condensed To failures atop failures Words hit close to home I too know failure and naught Why must we fall to rise up?
My fears were realized. I knew it would come to him at that moment. That sublime moment of sheer weakness. There was an attack, here, within Amber, yet it was of a subtle form, true to our enemy's most divine ingenuity. Why march armies to take ground which has no meaning? I waited in vigil, and the attack took place in the form of one sad and sorry broken man. Willing to do whatever it took to be returned. I did my best, but in the end, I was not enough to turn him away. I found his words of failures upon failures and of having nothing, literally nothing left, pulling upon my heartstrings. Could I deny him salvation? Whether he lived or died, he could still cleanse himself of all that baggage. At the price of possible oblivion I believed I could, but, in him, I saw myself, and I let him walk. In the end the battle for Amber was short. One man versus his basest desires. One man against the alluring and insidious whisperings of a Primordial. Today, that man won. He has well-earned this second chance, this possibility of redemption. More so than any of the rest of us, we true failures, who fall and fall and fall again.
This equality A simple unchanging truth Death, immutable Paupers, lords, and gods obey With these signs, I alter it
The life of a good man is precious. I know that he will slip beneath the waves again, but it will have been worthwhile. In all of existence few were more deserving of a second chance. When harnessed correctly, the Powers Gestalt can do incredible and dangerous things. It is no wonder the three must be pitted against one another, for with these tools all aspects of destiny, not only what is coming, but what is here and what has come, can be molded with sufficient will and sufficient soul. I fear now for what may lie afterwards should we be successful against the Primordials who name us as enemies. All it would take to unravel the fabric we have fought for would be three powerful mad men or idiots with strength and will and a lack of wisdom or empathy. Amber alone does not lack for individuals who fit that description. So what is more precious, a good man's life, or the life of all Shadow? An easy question to answer until one's heart involves itself.
Horrid whispering Taunting words and blackened teeth Father's grinning maw
I awoke with a start this morning. I dreamt of Cain. When I was a child I would dream of him, dreams of my dark and mysterious father, eyes always to the horizon, but with warm embers deep inside his heart that he would one day reveal to me and me alone. When I was young and broken I would dream of him as well, though these dreams were grey and sad and filled with pain. When I'd grown older I would still dream of him, though now they were violent fantasies of revenge, bloody and brutal, but never winnable. It has been years and years since I dreamt of Cain, but last night, in a bitter and sick frenzy, I dreamt of him. I was paralyzed and broken in two, but my hands took up a pen and wrote at a fevered pitch. When I awoke I read the strange words I had wrote in his hands. Below I will transcribe the passage, and then I will throw the original into the flames.
--- Cain's Reckoning, pt. 1
What is normal to the spider is chaos for the fly. Knowing it is caught, the fly will struggle, but, the spider knows. It makes it so as that the fly must struggle to truly become caught. I have waited, patiently, for this tumult. Long have I been denied, all the while watching my insectoid siblings fly about filled with whimsy. Bitterness has made me stronger. And now, my time is coming. As they are wrapped up in silken promises, lies, and deceptions, I walk deftly from web to web. My eyes and ears are spread into every corner, where even their enemies do not think to listen and to look. I see them struggling now. I look upon this sweet tableau with eager eyes, knowing that as they struggle they only trap themselves further. And the spiders grow hungry. And when they see me I can hear them... "Oh brother, you are free, save us from our selves." And I'll look down on them with glee, my grin from ear to ear and whisper, "No."
They call us their gods Old immortal harbingers Of both weal and woe We believe, abandon faith How cruel to learn what we are
I placed trust in my blood, in spite of all my reservations, all my lessons, and was freed, both physically, mentally, and metaphorically. Fuck you, Cain.
--- Letters to Iain, pt. 4 Virgil... Gerard and then Talwyn... Bridgette and James... Myself, Garrick, and a sorcerer who stalked Renee. Others whom I have no knowledge of... Each has played a part in the grand design, in the plan, in the ruination of everything which we can conceive. Some were taken, others twisted or manipulated, some may even have been raised into the madness. Who can be forgiven? Virgil captured others, took them into the awful fold and enslaved them to the madness. Bridgette took a dagger to her beloved sister. Hopeless and in servitude. James plays who knows what kind of gambit with Razgriz at the behest of our enemies. Fortunately, he loses. I consort with Chaos, ensuring the battle tips for the Stormfury. I take up obliteration made manifest against my grandfather, unknowingly tipping the balance into the worst sort of draw. All the while their plans advance. When is someone responsible for their part in the plan? Is it when you do so knowingly? Is it service, willful understanding, or is it subversion? What of the Aquilans? How much do they know? Surely they love, and hate, and understand existence much in the same way we, or the Chaosians, do. Why then would they serve the cessation of all things willingly. They are subverted, yes, but, as with all such indoctrination, a mind slave loses cunning, loses will, and becomes progressively useless. Aquilans do not show these signs of complete slavery. Annalee says they are lied to, faithfully serving the Eagle all without a true understanding of the Eagle's plan and purpose. If true, can they be forgiven? I wrestle with such questions in my idle time, all the while wanting to ask you what insights you could provide me. I am in desperate need of insight right about now.
The winds of motion I pirouette, free from cares Loathing and lonely The weight of worlds arabesque Centuries coming to cadence
The pounding rhythms of Brecconary still ring in my ear, like a spectre of the past. I dreamt of the lush spring of Avalon, and my youthful longings. I remember weaving spells within the mists, still an amateur, but wide eyed with wonderment and naivete, ensorcelling flowers and rainbows and learning who I was, who I wanted to be. I was a different girl. If I had not been lured by the Knight of Flowers would I still be that girl, wide eyed and naive, careless and carefree?
Effect follows cause Lies withing lies within lies Shadows of Feathers Floating on the Autumn breeze These lies seed our unmaking
Is this paranoia? I wait by Renee's side... watching her sister's blood trickle down from the ceiling. Drip drip drip. The machines tell of her breathing... beep fucking beep. My breast and insides ache, past wounds reopened and never allowed to close... wondering idly what he would have become. Here in the heart of the Kaleidoscope, while hope personified waits to to be awoken, I feel hope enough to swallow up all that pain and suffering, and catalog it away. I cried. I sobbed for a time, and found no comfort from it. I regained what passes for composure these years, cleaned myself up, and readied myself for the masked man to return, so that this work can finally be done.
--- Letters to Iain, pt. 3 Today I write to you my regrets. I can not be sure of what the family may say of me once I am gone. One way or the other, I will be gone. I was stupid. I let them manipulate my love for you. Turn me into their instrument. They have done it to many others, though you likely know all that. I never wanted to destroy Amber, to wreck our home. The plan fell apart though. Renee was supposed to be fixed. She was supposed to end him, end the war, and take her rightful place. But that didn't happen. So I improvised. I paid for my hubris and my stupidity. I broke away from their manipulations, I believe, but others are not yet so fortunate. I hope you look upon them generously, because the agents of our enemy are cunning, more so then ourselves. My thoughts are ever with you.
Ire, distrust, hate Had consumed the Prodigal Wallowing within But the noose pulls gently, so None notice It killing us
Another Feast, I say again, I'll not return. But I always do. Like a battered wife widowed and looking to pay handsome men to beat her. But this time... I am glad I suffered through it. "He's not down there. I'm sorry you haven't found him. If I die down there... please help her." Stephen. I wonder if they will burn out his eyes and leave him to rot in the dungeons; the same punishment he had asked for his mother. I had wished for it. Fuck him. But, he has the face of a man changed. And... Stephen has never been known to apologize... and never with such conviction. Stephen is a blunt object, a bludgeon, but... could something have been awoken within him? Something vague that is missing, not just from him, but from us all. I am at a loss to describe this feeling crawling in my stomach: shame, regret, vindication, hatred, pity. All are false. Marching off to what very well may be his death, but a moment to speak his peace, and he chose to spend that moment to tell me... that. Thank you Stephen. I never thought I'd write that, but, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. With all my heart, and blood, thank you. If you go, I will take her and bring her to where she belongs: the throne of Amber. And no matter what happens to you, or between us, I will hold your moment dear until the day of my death.
--- Letters to Iain, pt. 2 Two centuries, three decades, one year, seven months, two weeks, and three days have passed in Amber, as of my writing this, since our last meeting. Eighty four thousand, five hundred and seventy two Amber days. I am only three centuries, three decades, seven years, nine days old. One hundred nineteen thousand, nine hundred and eighty one Amber days. Seventy point four nine three one one five zero six zero one eight zero seven one percent of my total lifespan has been spent pursuing you. Your absence is a fresh wound, still, and I can not help but itch the scab. It has bleed me dry, time and time again, but, so long as these lungs breathe and you remain in harm's way, they breathe to see you to safety. My blood is your blood, tainted as it is by our progenitor, and it pumps for you. I will never surrender you. I will let you slip from my gaze, from my heart, but, never from existence. You are all I have left. Foolishness, which I can only blame on myself, and lessons learned with pain, the worst of pains, which I, mercifully, can blame on another, have guided me here; to this point of helpless, mewling, vitriolic absolution. I love you, brother. Never give up hope.
Following my heart Yielded nothing tangible I undid myself This comedy of errors I am compelled to repeat
It came true. Many of his ghostly words came to pass. Castle Amber disintegrated, not into feathers, but into nothing at all. No time to mourn it. My arm... taken from me. A good lesson, but one not well-learned. Icarus builds his next flying machine... The path before me is so beyond me. Yet, I must walk it, because, we need it. It may swallow me whole, but, then, the next to take it up can learn from my many, innumerable missteps and grasp the raw power that we will need to defend it. And talking to that oily fuck... how stupid I am. I will hurt him someday, scar him badly, knock him down a peg or two. But yet, despite being used, abused, and played like a fiddle, albeit a broken one, I have learned nothing. Here I am, yet again, rushing towards exactly what they must want me to go to. Aquila taunts me, as well it should, and behind its hollow teasing words rings the laughter of that damn bird. No more on that now... I have to prepare for Tenebrae. Prepare for the answers that may come my way. Finally a glimpse of hope among many glimpses of the unthinkable, and I find myself afraid of it. How can I ever hope to see the light again when I have been in darkness for so long. Your eyes are sunrises, golden and blinding, and beautiful.
--- Letters to Iain, pt. I Pattern above, Logrus below, Trump defines what lies in between. But try as it might, it can not define us. From the moments we are birthed we carry the sign of the Unicorn within our veins. All of existence acknowledges it. Princes, kings, traditions; all are transitory. Amber is transitory. Pattern is constant, and Pattern is within us. We must work tirelessly to improve ourselves; to become worthy of this frightening weight. All these things I am certain you know already. I am an idiot child compared to you. I write them for the messenger. In spite of my brush with annihilation, I am pressing on into, perhaps, even more dangerous territory. I am changing my path. I don't know if it is because of something the girl from Aquila (the one who masquerades as one of us) spoke to me, or if I reached this decision on my own in the roiling turmoil which was my comatose state. It doesn't matter, either way. I have learned that pain can be power. If this holds true, I should be alright. But, if I am destroyed in this process, know that I loved you; a pure selfless love that I never expected to be returned. If you still hold dear any memory of me, before I ruined them... before I metaphorically soiled myself before you... before I fucked it all up with my delusions and greedy hopes of more more more; if you still hold some memories dear I beg of you: Live a full life, dance and scream and love, because when its over, its done.
Oh what irony, With your pen you criticize Meanwhile you are blind You make the same damn mistake Flying too close to the sun.
The EKG goes beep... beep... beep, that incessant noise haunts this comatose nightmare almost as much as your own guilt and shame. Beep, beep, mother fucking beep.
I had never known That one tiny little girl Could hold so much blood
The creation is brilliant, but it's creator flies too close to the sun. The wax of his wings begins to melt. He has forgotten that when you kiss the sun that kiss is returned. I wrestle with myself. Should I tell him... One of them rides within his, patient? subject? It must be that one. It is the only one which makes any sense. The One Spoken In Whispers... the Winged One, the Truthsayer, the Elusive, the Illusive. What could happen if his creation brought us back into It's mind? No. It is too brilliant. The good that could be done with it outweighs the danger. I will serve those better ends for as long as I can manage and weep for what I could not accomplish when I must take my leave.
How vividly it showed my... No. I can not focus on the Past, there is too much Present, and... I hope, too much Future. I must leave Cain's Reckoning behind me. I must leave the tears of Blackmarch well in my wake. There is too much to do right now.
Great talons of fear Gripping tight around my heart The beating of wings The stark white snow shroud consumes Leaving nothing but silence
Jubei was waiting for me. He watched, not at all surprised, as the steps disappeared behind me. "Blowing off steam?" He joked easily, as he always has. His slight but telling smile came easily, as I always remembered it had. The view of Amber far below, all darkness and torchlight. I'll miss it, when I'm gone again. I might miss the view from Kolvir, but I will never long for the Feast of the Unicorn. How many years, 80? I've lost count. Yet still, this gathering is nothing but an excuse to piss on each other. The blood runs strong. I guess. And Stephen... always the conversationalist. He would be furious to know I've already forgiven him his trespasses. Hollow words, hollow man. I've heard. Shadow speaks of his years on the Rock. Every name is like a scar on a tree; a dishonor which time, rather than effacing, grows and grows to the point of bursting. I will pay my respects at the Rock before I'm gone again.
Wed May 08, 2013 3:35 am
