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The Realms of the Endless
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[19 Aug 2006|04:37pm] |
Endless often meddle in the affairs of mortals.
.
It is what the do, in a way.
And just because they do not all play games does not mean they do nothing.
The neat script before him--a little more curl to it than it once contained--makes him stop, for a moment, and pause, studying the page thoughtfully, and walk to the portraits.
"Brother," he says without looking up from the book before him. "It is time we speak again."
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[28 Apr 2006|12:26am] |
(one for sorrow)
They're supposed to be something that aren't hooting things, she thinks and watches them fly in one by one (fly out fly in all the same). She thinks she thinks. She doesn't know.
She knows and won't admit it.
But sometimes things aren't as they're supposed to be, and she likes those times best. Supposed to means trapped and caged and this is different.
(two for joy)
Mr. Owl, how many licks to the center?
The world will never know. Because biting's more fun, even if it cracks your teeth and the shards of calcium fall out.
Hoot.
(three for a girl)
There was a girl. There was a girl and she was happy and alive and had her secrets, and now she isn't any more.
Maybe.
(four for a boy)
There's always a boy in one way or another.
Delirium thinks. Delight suspects. Del knows.
She thinks the dangly bits must get in the way. She thinks she needs to try that. She thinks she'd laugh. She thinks they taste like salt and tears and ice cream and oregano.
She thinks the bird is screeching for her attention in Cajun, and she blinks and looks through it.
(five for silver)
Water flows and turns the mill wheels. Or maybe there's machines that do that now. Maybe you don't need water at all. But she likes it, and the way it feels between her toes when she remembers to have toes, so she says there's water. She likes it. Silver for water and for the boy. She likes the boy in silver.
(six for gold)
She thinks gold's too hot. walk with me
(seven for a secret)
Del smiles at the seventh owl and watches it eat the other six up before landing on her arm and looking at her, eyes sharp.
Birds can't talk, and so it doesn't, and so it says, "Stop dawdling," and so it flies and so she follows and there he is and she smiles, head tilting sideways to look at him the wrong way. It's more fun than the right way. And the bird turns into an orchid and hoots again.
"Hi."
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[16 Apr 2006|11:41pm] |
His book was ashes.
His book cannot be truly destroyed.
It is the same book that it has always been, and it is the ashes on the floor, and the page is blank for only one line.
And the line starts again.
The Father steps aside and his granddaughter takes his place (in this place, because there are many places) and the Light Bringer gives the Light to another (female and more profane than he, in a way, and less, in a way) and the script is different, and the story is different, and it's the same story it's always been.
And it goes on.
And somewhere things that have been frozen begin again.
And somewhere part of what has been rumpled smoothes.
And it goes on.
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[28 Mar 2006|08:00pm] |
"Brother."
She's fiddling with a marble.
"You know. The deal. Thing. How it goes. Standing in the gallery, saying your name. We should just get telephones."
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[20 Jan 2006|11:35pm] |
There is still an extremely small child in the Threshold.
Derry is less than pleased with the arrangement: After all, Desire hasn't exactly been accommodating her. No playing in the lovely echo rooms, and no bouncing on the bed in the Threshold's heart, nor changing the channels on the screens. Don't run, don't shriek -- Desire may as well have said "be quiet, stand perfectly still and pretend to be statues."
Bo-oring.
Desire is less than thrilled with the arrangement: The Endless has taken to chewing on any small item that comes to hand, as Desire would much rather be smoking. Strange that Desire's never wanted a cigarette more than when hesheit's been told they're off limits -- but this makes for one extremely cranky Desire, which no one enjoys. Desire wants hisherits life back to normal, which means minus one niece.
Normal.
And that leaves Meg caught in the middle.
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[18 Jan 2006|10:03pm] |
... Something strange is in the Threshold.
Intermittently, there is a low, long wail that seems to cut the air like a knife, jerking Desire's attention out of the wall of screens in hisherits heart.
Desire frowns, trying to discern a source or a direction -- but there's nothing, just another of those silences between howls.
Another ear-splitting shriek, and Desire knows exactly where the disturbance is: In a flash the Endless is striding into the Threshold's ballroom-sized eardrum, and straight toward Meg and Derry.
Meg has decided the large room's purpose is clearly dancing.
Her cousin is cheering, and lets out another shriek of delight as Meg executes a perfect series of arabesques.
... Desire does not look pleased.
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[17 Jan 2006|09:52pm] |
Desire appears in hisherits Gallery, pacing.
Del's portrait is available, faintly luminous without the shadows.
Desire hates doing this.
Still.
Desire takes care while laying a pale hand on the frame.
"Del," Desire says, "I stand in my Gallery and I hold your Sigil. Will you speak with me?"
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[24 Dec 2005|02:39pm] |
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In the Threshold, Desire is nowhere to be found.
If anyone thought to look for the Endless in Desire's heart, they'd find a Christmas tree in a visual symphony of twinkling lights, gold and green and red. There seems to be an angel at the very top (although on closer inspection, the 'angel' is wearing a tutu of white tulle), but remember that like Dream, Desire is also of all faiths -- after a fashion. Unsurprisingly, there is tinsel -- lots of tinsel, no matter how tastefully arranged -- and all the ornaments are heart-shaped (and if you look toward the back, you'll see three brightly colored frogs hanging from the branches).
There is a present beneath the tree for anyone stopping by.
( Meg )
( Meg's friends )
( Regulus )
( Anthy )
( The Endless )
( Liz Bennet )
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[16 Dec 2005|01:37am] |
He is patient.
It's enough, to wait, and to watch.
The edges are frayed.
The center still yet holds.
(Anarchy has no place yet in all worlds.)
The ashes are pulled into the floorrealmhimselfthemself.
There is a book.
It is almost identical.
It is not the same--the difference is the same as that in the notman who holds it, if you know enough to look.
Clever fingers dance across a page and traces script, marvelling at how it changes.
And under a hood, a face smiles, faintly.
Things are held in place, for now.
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| [Destiny's Realm] |
[13 Dec 2005|07:39am] |
The book was not destroyed, per se--transformed to ashes, yes, but still the substance exists.
Destiny's realm is dark, and impossible for any to reach. Hedges grow tall and gates slam shut.
In a room, he sits, drinking something that looks like water.
He appears very thin, if you could see beyond the robes.
Thin, and tired, and like paper left too long near a fire but not yet consumed, and yet--patient.
He has not thrown the ashes away.
He drinks something that looks like water, and rests a thin hand over them, unseeing eyes looking straight-ahead, and waits.
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[08 Dec 2005|11:31am] |
"No. Now you look at the ashes," Destiny breathes, "and now your change your mind."
And the Morningstar does so.
And then he is gone.
and in the garden
things
lock off
because it's all now
up in
the air
the thing about destiny is that we all make our own
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| [Destiny's Garden] |
[07 Dec 2005|11:19pm] |
Normally, paths are winding in the garden of Destiny.
Normally.
But for Moiraine of the Aes Sedai, today, there is only one, and it is short and straight.
Time is the ultimate nonrenewable resource, bars and machines and magic aside, after all.
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| In Destiny's Garden |
[30 Nov 2005|11:29pm] |
He has known this would happen.
It is his function to know what the Creator plans.
Up to a point.
He is, perhaps, the only being to still be able to speak with Yahweh now.
In a way.
For it's all in the book. It all is him.
He rereads what has been.
A pool of thoughts of the Divine, and the two sons of Yahweh, the first, the light bringer and the sword holder.
Tragedy occuring, and what may be hope dying.
AH, THE PITY OF IT.
DO NOT THINK I AM UNMOVED, MY SONS.
I HAVE LIVED THESE LIVES AGAIN AND AGAIN. I HAVE ENDURED THESE FUTILE QUESTS AND ESCALATING SACRIFICES. THE TURMOIL THAT DROWNS OUT LOVE AND HOPE AND MEANING--UNTIL THE HEART STOPS AND THE LAST BREATH DIES IN THE LAST DRY THROAT. IT IS A TRAGEDY.
ALL OF IT.
BUT THE PATTERNS PERSIST, TOO...PERSIST AND REPEAT THEMSELVES. INFINITY ANSWERS INFINITY. LIKE MIRRORS FACING EACH OTHER ACROSS A NARROW HALLWAY.
I HAVE MADE WELL.
AND I MADE BEST WHEN I MADE YOU.
NOW COME INTO THE LIGHT...WHERE I CAN SEE YOU BOTH.
MICHAEL DEMIURGOS--SPARK THAT EXPANDS FOREVER--OCEAN OF POWER WITH NO SHORE--AND SAMAEL--MY SWEET, SAVAGE SAMAEL, WHO BRINGS THE LIGHT WHERE I HAVE TOLD IT TO SHINE--HOW I LOVE YOU, MY SONS. HOW I SWELL WITH PRIDE FOR YOU.
It is possible Destiny feels something like amusement at the look he reads appears on Lucifer's face.
Even now, he cannot escape his Father. His Destiny.
Not quite yet, anyway.
YOU MUST NOT TRY TO SPEAK, OR TO MOVE. SPEECH AND ACTION ARE ALIKE IMPOSSIBLE. AND THERE IS NOTHING TO SAY, OR DO, IN ANY CASE.
Crashed ship, a daughter of an angel.
The pages turn.
FIRST OF ALL, MY SONS, YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS. THAT I DID NOT NEED YOU. THE FIRST FLOWER COULD HAVE BEEN BORN WITHOUT A SEED. I HAD PLAYED IT THROUGH A THOUSAND TIMES. I KNEW ITS GROWTH AND DECAY TO A NICETY. AND THERE WAS NO NEED FOR A WEAVER TO SPIN THE LIGHT INTO SUNS. IT WAS PREGNANT ALREADY WITH THE FORMS WHICH IT WOULD BECOME.
BUT I HAD TO TEACH YOU YOUR SKILLS.
AND THERE WAS NO OTHER SCHOOL.
The pages turn. Ancient happenings. A silver city, choirs singing.
THEN CAME THE HOST, AND THE SILVER CITY. AND IF THEY WERE NEEDED, IT WAS ONLY BECAUSE I HAD CREATED YOU.
HOW WOULD YOU LOOK UPON YOURSELVES IF YOU HAD NO PEERS? NO CONTEXT FOR YOUR ACTIONS? NO MIRRORS INTO WHICH TO GAZE?
AND HOW COULD YOU HEAD--OR HEAD OFF--A REBELLION IF THERE WERE NONE TO FOLLOW YOUR BANNERS?
THERE IS A REASON FOR EVERYTHING I DO.
I ABHOR WASTE.
Shock. Pain. Loyalty that has never shaked suddenly shattering.
YES, MICHAEL. THE REBELLION WAS THE POINT. BUT YOU WERE SO SLOW TO ANGER--SO RELUCTANT TO QUESTION THAT I ALMOST DESPAIRED. WHILE SAMAEL HAS SQUANDERED ETERNITY IN TRYING TO ESCAPE FROM THE PLAN, WHICH OF COURSE FOREFAW EVERYTHING HE DID.
UNTIL NOW.
YOU SEE, MY CHILDREN? IT IS A BUBBLE OF GLASS THAT I BLEW, AND THE CLOSURE MAKES IT PERFECT. BUT THERE ARE TWO WAYS TO CLOSE THE CIRCLE OF ETERNITY. AND THE ONLY UNCERTAIN THING, IN ALL THE FROZEN COLONNADES OF CERTAINTY DOWN WHICH I HAVE STARED FOR SO LONG--THE ONLY MATTER ON WHICH THERE HAS EVER BEEN THE SMALLEST MOLECULE OF DOUBT--HAS BEEN WHICH OF THE TWO I WOULD FINALLY CHOOSE.
NOW YOU KNOW.
And Destiny reads, as Yahweh withdraws from His Creation, and closes the circle from outside it.
The Book is not ended.
But the story is changed, now.
The outcome is uncertain.
He reads, and after a moment sends a message to two beings. It will reach them when it will.
The third will come on his own. No invitation is necessary.
And a day before, one of his own will visit, and he will tell her what he may.
He knows this, as he closes the book, and walks throughout the garden.
It is not possible that he wish things otherwise.
But if he could, he might.
[events from Lucifer 38 and 39]
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[18 Nov 2005|12:34pm] |
It isn't Desire's realm.
No, it's something infinitely more familiar: There is a touch of something shifting and otherworldly, like a soft place
(and it feels like that dream, that dream, Come, Reap)
that Susan has never visited before.
At first, Susan is alone.
It is dark, the small world around her shifting and shadowy.
There is the feel of something real in her hands, the bridle that Desire had carried something solid and familiar, keeping her from believing that she'd fallen to drowsing on the couch in front of the fire.
On the corner of her awareness, there are two men walking: One in white and shining like a star, and there is something familiar
(Morpheus?)
and not about him: He is momentarily put into the shadow but never truly hidden, a man in black passing between them, like the moon in an eclipse.
They are both of the Seven.
Whatever Desire's request, it cannot be heard from here.
Very well, Desire. Dream's voice seems almost to sound from the dream country, surrounding them. Allow me to bring what you need.
The scene changes, dreamlike: She is standing on the Drop, the sprawl of land beneath the cliffside heart-wrenchingly familiar. The only sounds are the familiar wildlife, the hiss of the wind through the trees.
You are welcome, my Sibling. Be kind to our guest.
And then she is no longer alone; there is the sound of two horses being walked toward her. It is Desire, black hat tipped low on his brow, a grin of smug amusement visible beneath the brim.
"Thank you, Brother." Desire mutters just beneath his breath: There are still those that dream of Mejis, thankyee sai King. He puts out a hand for the bridle, the horses to either side whickering softly.
"Will here do for our ride, lady-sai?"
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[19 Oct 2005|10:01pm] |
[ After this. ]
Desire's realm is both like and unlike any depiction the newest guest has seen before: The Threshold stands, the only structure on a horizon of black and crimson and gold, and none of it emphatically obvious from the viewless room just north of the heart.
Whatever Andrew had been expecting (a wall of video screens, a room as red as a live heart, Desire lounging on a platform of fuzzy mohair) it appears that Desire has skipped over bringing the young man into the heart's chambers -- and instead brought him his heart's desire.
The room is large, which is not unexpected: Neither is the mirror along the wall, but then it registers that there is a barre and someone practicing at it.
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[12 Oct 2005|09:05pm] |
There's darkness.
(It may be cold, but those here are beyond feeling.)
It's said the Dead pass through the realm of Dreaming, sometimes, before they enter the Sunless lands.
The flutter of memory (of warm arms left behind, of the feel of dancing, sunlight on the face and lamps lighting the way) and all seems quiet.
But she doesn't belong.
Tch. Don't you have somewhere you want to be?
Perhaps the sunlessness recedes a little.
Perhaps it lets go.
The first sensation is that of touch: All is still darkness, but there are warm hands on a still-cold face, burning hot in their unexpected intensity.
They part, and the world is red and gold, and scented (subliminally faint) of peaches.
"Welcome home, petite."
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[07 Oct 2005|03:39am] |
It has been an indeterminate amount of time since Despair has communicated with her siblings, either through her gallery of mirrors or the nexus of Milliways. Days, weeks, months... the Endless neither knows nor cares. It is all relative to the observer, anyway, and all the same to her.
Sometimes, however, she wonders.
Her mirrors only reveal so much. A picture of distilled hopelessness, a vulnerability to her touch, a heart ripe for the kiss of her sharp and piercing hook. This is Despair's realm. Creeping fog, crawling rats, and cold, cold silvered glass. This is her home, her refuge. Once upon a time, it was all she needed.
Now, it barely feels like enough.
She knows her twin has toyed with her, as with all others, as she realizes that she desires more than this. She tells herself that it is simply a matter of context -- for after all, the Endless are defined just as much by the presence of each other as by the processes of life. Deep inside, however, she knows that things are changing. Her siblings have all become altered since they discovered Milliways. Thus far, she has resisted, remained constant. After such a change as she underwent before, to change further... she does not think she could handle it.
But now, for all her struggle, it is her turn. Slowly, insidiously, the change is beginning, whether she wants it or not.
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| Del's Realm |
[19 Sep 2005|11:40pm] |
You don't watch, not really, if you're an Endless. Not with your own.
There are mirrors, and books--it's never just one, and that's one of the things not in the Book, never only one--and windows to other worlds, that you can watch through.
But with your own, you are. You feel.
But language is kinda limiting, so it's fair to say Del's watching.
"We're. Not. Moving."
Stand and be true.
Sometimes you don't have a leg to stand on
(bad joke, Del, not good taste, but she giggles anyway)
though.
She gnaws on her thumbnail, thoughtfully, spitting out a piece of it, and then saying, finally,
"Well, they're mine, so I'm going to anyway. So there."
Maybe it's to someone.
Maybe it's to no one.
Doesn't much matter.
Del giggles.
And the landscape shifts, to a table, with four chairs and tea.
It's made of tadpoles, but tastes very good.
She's generally pale (though not like Death, not like Dream) but it's.
Mutable.
Changeable.
So it's four dark-skinned women, sitting at the table, though one has hair that shifts from blue to red to green and back again, like a rainbow.
"Hi."
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[10 Sep 2005|11:07pm] |
In a Garden
(all stories start in gardens, and that's because life lends itself to beginnings)
a being in a robe walks, and turns the pages of a book.
There is a section (for lack of a better word) that twists before him, from what should be to what was never meant.
(O, Discordia)
He (for that is the pronoun best assigned to him) walks, and reads.
(if you love me, Roland--ka like the wind--'Bert? Did'ee actually marry yer hat?)
He wears a hooded robe, and so no being, if one were present, could tell if he smiles, head bowed, as he walks and reads, but for a moment, as he passes by statues, a breeze blows through the Garden, bringing with it the scent of roses.
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[28 Aug 2005|09:46pm] |
Desire knows when the siblings are displeased.
It's a little like the calm before a storm, or the overwhelming scent of ozone before the lightning strikes: Usually, the storm blows over with time, patience, and an infuriating little smirk or a different distraction.
However, there are times when hesheit irritates the elder Endless.
Desire is drawn to the silver ankh again and again, neither daring to come closer than arm's reach or call her: It's the moth's dance with the flame.
The trouble is that eventually, the moth goes to her.
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