Red Thread of Fate

The creative mind is a churning cauldron of fresh nightmares, and his was especially potent at giving shape to his worst fears. Ascher had always been given a clear, front-row viewing experience, unable to close his eyes to the turmoil in his head when he slept.

...there he was again, opening his eyes and finding lake all around him; no longer a tall, strong man but a chubby pre-teen with allergies.

The canoe paddle dragged him forward upon the glass-flat surface of the water, but even as he left a wake behind him he seemed to be moving nowhere in particular; the summer mist hung like the pall of exploded munitions he'd come to recognize later in life, the sun's westward descent illuminating no hint of land. He called again for a father who was never there, for a scatterbrained aunt or any number of cousins but his voice barely left his throat.

At the edges of the bellicose mist, candles danced upon the water, inching closer as if to whisper some flickering conspiracy; he knew to fear them, and he'd heard about what happened to kids who fell into this particular lake when the sun was low.

Weak, asthmatic, scared boy he'd been, plump arms irresistible to monsters with their sheen of sweat and water vapor, he whimpered wordlessly as the sky grew dim. An immense shape, something between a catfish and an alligator speckled with blinking lure-lights, drew upward from the depths, ever closer.

"Wake up, wake up please wake up," he'd prayed as his little rowboat capsized, the clammy cold seeping into his nostrils and eyes -

Ascher's chest had caved in upon itself as the blackness beneath the water gave way to the far-off expanse of his ceiling. He threw his sweat-soaked blankets off with a startled cry, gasping for air as if against the self-destructive tightening of his throat...he was long past his childhood asthma. As his heart reclaimed its normal cadence, cellphone alarm tinkled with crystalline tones, in concert with his ascending consciousness.

"Still alive," he breathed, fingers checking first the solidity of his chest, the symmetry of his face, the three-dimensionality of his neck; in his waking nightmares some physical feature was usually off-kilter, but he was securely in his 28-year old body. All was as he'd left it when he went to bed last night...there, the artifact log book on his computer desk; the Louisville Slugger standing sentinel by his bed (just in case); even Archie was still curled up asleep at his feet. The chubby black tom cat began to purr like a broken motor when their gazes met.

Ascher couldn't help but smile, enough of the real world he'd carefully around him acting as an anchor to drag him forth from the mind-scarring abyss of sleep. There was no relief to be had from his nightmares, they visited him whenever he slipped from consciousness.

Well, that was untrue. In the past week, he'd counted exactly four days in which he slept remarkably well and didn't dream at all, and those were nights when Isabel Aphelion was at his side...either with her slender arms holding him close from behind, or her head lain upon his chest.

They'd only started seeing each other twenty seven days ago (yes he'd kept count), and in addition to her many unforced and endearing quirks, her profound understanding of the human experience and German philosophy, and of course the

bombastically good

sex, he slept like a rock at her side. He hadn't informed her of this particular effect on his psyche, or that every night was a descent into a harrowing hosted by the specters of his own mind - she had enough on her plate without knowing her...well, not boyfriend, lover, maybe...was a headcase.

Nobody knew. Nobody needed to know. They just needed to see him smile, laugh, and have all the answers...and he could do that, assuming his brain didn't simply melt into a smooth, featureless plane from exhaustion or he lost track of the waking world against the backdrop of endless phantasm.

6 o'clock...time to get up and sweat in that dank, dark little warehouse; the Corps had passed him absolute shit work categorizing and packing away delicate artifacts. This was the kind of work that should have been done by a trained archaeologist but they couldn't afford the certification. Ascher, at least, was the likeliest of anyone to actually know what precisely was sitting in front of him, sent back from ancient but war torn nations. He could save the money while the school board paid for his summer vacation, and at this rate he'd be debt free in...seven years.

"Hungry?" He asked Archie; the stubby creature rose with a creaky meow, following Ascher. Isabel had brought a dozen souvlaki last night and he was still working his way through the last few skewers. He'd casually invited her to stay the night, but that girl was constantly on the move. At the least he'd seen her everyday that week, caught up in the whirlwind of what he hoped wasn't a one-sided romance. No doubt Isabel required a break from him, although...she seemed really, really happy in his presence; hooked by his stupid stories of far-off lands, unable to keep her hands off of his body.

Digesting, brushing his teeth and staring himself down in the mirror, Ascher considered what it was that she saw in him, because he'd asked - she'd asked him, after all, so he thought it only fair. Was it true?

"A kind, loving, gentle man..." he repeated the words through a mouthful of toothpaste to Archie, who was sitting and watching with his bright, silly yellow eyes on the toilet seat.

"Incredibly knowledgeable and brilliant." He spat into the sink, rinsing.

"Amazing in bed. Ripped, mouth-watering body. Mind blowing cock, Archie!" His cat uttered a dismayed sound and left him to his shower, which was probably for the best as he was starting to feel hot beneath the cascading water. He'd encountered such praise before in his small circle of casual partners - Ascher derided the term "harem" as terribly trayfa, but it was...different hearing it from Isabel.

The way she smiled at him, running her fingers over her lower belly to let him know she desired him, just where he felt best inside of her...

The scent of her arousal, rising under his nose when he kissed her naked body and made her writhe, her soft, alabaster-white skin dappled with gooseflesh...

The soaked, warm embrace of her silken grasp, the creamy pearlescence of her desire every time they met; she was the only woman he'd known who was lustful enough to dispense with foreplay and take his cock...hungrily, lewdly swallowing down his glans, his shaft, taking him to the hilt on the first thrust...

He

loved

sex with Isabel Aphelion.

If Ascher Nathanael Ryazansky was being honest with himself - a risky prospect - he'd admit that he loved her too, but that was a far too terrifying prospect after only one month, for Ascher dreaded rejection as surely as death.

No...he'd bide his time, and tomorrow night when they were down at the Riviera, just the two of them, he'd blow her mind. He had it all written out in the little books they'd bought for each other when they visited the Chaplain Museum of Art...in just a few weeks, the way they'd bonded over so many things dear to him had triggered something of an outpouring of his heart upon the paper.

Drawings of temples he'd seen...poetry inspired by her allure...maps of places few had seen...tickets from shows they'd gone to, flowers they'd picked, the wrapper from the condom he'd offered to use - the moment she'd plucked it from his fingers, tossed it over her shoulders and asked him to give himself to her without any barriers...that had been magical. Yes, Ascher was well and smitten with Isabel Aphelion, and if the way she'd gazed into his eyes last night before kissing him goodnight was any indicator, he could tell she really liked him - gracefully blunt, she'd told him so.

Flicking the morning news on, he listened to the doom, gloom, and propaganda with the detachment of an educator and initiated a twenty minute fitness ritual he'd learned from a gym-buddy. Ascher didn't think of himself as 'huge', but his presence was certainly felt in a room; cresting 187cm, the banded, pauldron-hard firmness of his deltoids and the shape of his pectorals made for wide, powerful shoulders. They slid beneath his skin like serpents as he pumped a pair of 40lb dumbbells, and even after doing this for a year it was

agony

after the second set.

He could see his face reflected in the TV screen, dark, sharp eyebrows furrowed with effort; Isabel had identified colors in his deep-set, large eyes he'd never noticed (since he'd never really taken the time to look), as verdant green smoke mixed with sylvan browns. Where he'd been cleanly shaven a week ago, stubble was growing soft, dark brown and metallic-tinged in places; his beard had the potential to become truly thick and dark but when his aunt told him he looked like their rabbi he'd always kept it short.

The muscled chassis of his torso was already shining with a light sheen of sweat in the morning light.

"Okay...okay Ascher, let us think about something else, you have obsessed enough about this girl," he encouraged himself as he replaced the weights in their resting place beneath his TV. Assured that nobody was watching him (and still glancing at his windows to make sure nobody could see inside) he amused himself by flexing, watching the shape of his biceps and teres, pectorals and ligaments stand out against his melanin-deprived skin. "Heh...it pays off yet," Ascher noted with satisfaction.

Beneath the shower water, sluicing off perspiration, he fondly remembered the last semester's Field Day - characteristic of his teaching style, he'd made a big show in front of the other students and staff, stumping along the school track with a fourth grader on his back, a third grader clinging to his right arm and a chunky kindergartner hanging on his left...and immediately his mind shot to how he wished Isabel had been there to watch.

"Lord almighty man, you are single-minded...you need a distraction." Ascher often held conversations with himself, a practice that same Rabbi had taught him to encourage mindfulness from an early age. Ascher climbed out with a tut of self-critique, water cascading down his body and over the floor.

No doubt Isabel had her own world to occupy her, and her mind wasn't stuck on him in the same way; this was a new problem for Ascher, who'd long prided himself on his self-control and iron-fisted rule over his own emotions. People didn't need to see the bad side like the frustration over broken dreams...the fraught relationship with his family...his own powerful sexual drive that he seemingly had trouble quelling, although again - Isabel had been, of late, a panacea for his ills.

Among his many Isabel-related musings was the nature of their relationship, and whether she was seeing other men (or women) the same way as he; they'd never really established anything official, and monogamy had been kind of a zero-sum game for Ascher anyway.

Still, as the days went by and the passion between them burnished like bronze left to brighten in the sun, the unfamiliar specter of jealousy and possessiveness had uncoiled in his mind like some newly discovered species of snake.

In the process of belting the light, desert-print fatigues he favored for the unpleasant (though important) work awaiting him, his gaze crawled over the black cardigan she'd left here last night, forgotten in the haze of their mutual adoration. With some measure he guilt he wandered over to it and lifted it to his nose, closing his eyes to take in her lingering scent.

A wide smile spread easily across his stubbled face, the sharp hairs catching against the fabric as he slid the soft material against his cheek...Isabel Aphelion smelled of summertime and that nearly unscented lotion she favored to protect her fair skin from the Gulf sun; it made him think of lemon trees on a grassy hill, overlooking a rocky beach against the Mediterranean.

"If I could wake up to this smell every morning," he sighed to Archie, his sole confidante, "I would be happy for the rest of my days, little man." He fixed his cat with a particularly foolish grin, pulling a clean white muscle shirt over his head in preparation for today's broiling work.

He paused, glancing at the silver, filigreed candy plate his mother had inherited him which he ended up using as a key tray...Isabel had gifted him a particularly beautiful, braided leather bracelet a week ago, an unexpected surprise. She'd homed in on his style with ease, clasped as it was with shiny steel. He'd worn it everyday since, and today was no different as he snapped it shut over his wrist, smiling and twisting it affectionately.

Out the door, into the heat.

The subway ride out to the docks was little reprieve from the humidity since the State of Louisiana did not see fit to 'waste good taxpayer money' on climate control in a decidedly non-red city...and so he sweltered quietly in the hotpot stink of humanity. He'd long grown inured to these sorts of discomfort - years spent with the Peace Corps in places like war-and-earthquake torn Kham-Do, or storm-wracked Samothrace, meant simple acceptance of things like...lack of consistent access to sanitation, potable water, or electricity.

Roughly forty five minutes of uncomfortable transit later and he was unlocking the shuttered entrance to warehouse #28J, an unremarkable, squat concrete structure draped upon the edge of The City's expansive waterline.

Ascher was unsurprised to find the place illuminated in sickly yellow, familiar lo-fi thudding on chunky stereo speakers transfixed upon the wall. The furious

hrrrrm

of fans, circulating air to make this place tolerable for humans, was a constant accompaniment to whatever soundtrack Mala had chosen for the day - he'd always left the music to people he worked with. It was a token of respect that was gladly received.

His colleague had a tendency to show up early; in the quiet tumult of her existence, she never seemed to sleep, and her dedication to meticulousness demanded the extra, if unpaid, time...then again nobody worked for the Corps to satisfy a lust for gold. She was focused intently on sketching in a leather-bound pad, copying the likeness of an ivory statue he recognized as a Chauhan-era representation of Manjushri.

"Good morning Mala. Did you have fun last night?" Ascher had a tendency to speak to most people like they were skittish kids - given the nail-edge nature of life in The City, most folks didn't notice and in fact appreciated it.

Mala's dark, almond shaped eyes flitted up from the paper, and they smiled at him, even as her scarlet lips remained quirked to the side, a sign of her laser focus. "Sure did, but I kinda wish someone told me mosh pits were a thing." She set her instruments down with exceeding care on a wooden bench, illuminated by the sodium-bright, sickly light bulbs and rose to close the distance between them.

"I was up at the front of the stage, watching the bassist...think you know the one, leggy girl with the dreadlocks and no underwear." Her smile, her gaze reminded him of a Ladakh Fox, her round, dark cheeks flushing slightly in the heat. "Suddenly, all around, these men twice my size..." she balled her fists and began to whale lightly against him.

Ascher's expression was placid as he took her small hands thudding against his chest a few times. "First time at the Void?" The venue was a well known blooding ground for the Parish's punk and metal scene; not exactly his jam.

"Yep." She drummed his shoulders once more as the two of them fell into a familiar opening routine. "Another notch. See?" Mala's tendency was to take metaphors to a literal level and, sure enough, a broad, leather belt held up her dark green shorts. It'd been notched several times. Her alluring, smooth legs had the color of mahogany, shapely from a youth spent scaling the mountains and crags of her homeland. Mala Seng was about thirty centimeters shorter than Ascher. Her hair was pitch black, almost as short as his, and her big, dark eyes were penetrating crescents.

In the merciless heat of the Louisiana morning, she preserved her modesty with a purple Nike sports bra, supporting the pleasant curve of her bosom. A stud was pierced through her navel, glinting enticingly and drawing attention to the light flare of her hips...she was, in his eyes, quite beautiful. Her small hands settled on his belly, drifting down to his belt, her expression carefully neutral.

They'd done time in the Peace Corps together and initially she'd been the only one of their number who could speak Kham; the exact nature of their relationship was...difficult to pin down at times. More than mere colleagues, they'd survived difficult conditions together.

Slept in the same bed, more than once as well, and found comfort in each other's arms.

Mala graced him with a hint of her mysterious smile. Berent of any real definition, it seemed like this friendly camaraderie with flares of sexual relief worked out fine for the both of them. He got the feeling that to try and do more might make things...awkward, and besides the Ancient Greeks maintained these sorts of relationships (between the same sex admittedly) and if they did it, well, it was probably a good idea.

He knew her signals well, the relief she desired at the end of their workday to be found in his prowess.

It was easy to fall into friendly banter after that, with the understanding of the comfort that waited afterwards. In Ascher's mind there was some...unsureness about this, admittedly; monogamy had never been for him, a mistake when he tried. To have someone like Isabel, though, he'd gladly give up any and all others.

They'd never gone in depth about the other people they were seeing, and she'd mentioned it offhandedly but those other people had always seemed so far away - particularly in the heat of their lovemaking. Maybe it was because he had been so utterly caught up in the whirlwind of getting to know her that he hadn't given it a lot of thought, or maybe...in his arrogance, he had assumed that the kind of happiness and fun she had with him was totally unique.

What if it wasn't? What if there was someone who made her happier? Or someone who sexually satisfied her better? The traitorous thought wormed into his frontal lobe with a lamprey's devious wriggle, feasting on his stability the whole time that he worked. Mala would be able to tell. The thought became a doom-loop of anxiety, quietly spinning in the back of his mind:

What if Isabel is fucking someone else right now and he's doing an amazing job? What if he's better looking than me, or has a bigger or better penis, or what if he makes her smile more than I do? Quick don't let Mala see - but she can tell I'm hiding my concern that someone is better than me...oh god I wonder how much better looking than me he is...

..but she didn't say a thing, or even hint at noticing as they dragged pallet jacks out to the dockyard (since the Corps couldn't be fucked to give them forklifts, even if they knew how to drive them). At the least, conversation came easily as they'd developed multiple shared interests - superstitions and myths...weird old architecture...trashy romance novels they'd read during days-long layovers in places with no internet; interestingly it was these raunchy stories that she seemed to get the most incensed about, and in addition to her many other notable talents she was something of a gourmand in the field of airport smut.

They argued passionately:

"That is simply

not

how people operate Mala, they remember having their trust broken and do not get over that sort of thing easily," he lectured, confident as Socrates; Ascher spoke with the sort of calm assurance he affected when he wasn't actually 100% sure of what he was talking about. "Selma stole Bartok's whole idea - his whole business

empire

, usurped, because he fell into the pillow-talk trap." Their captain had provided them with a Canon EOS, a surprisingly expensive little piece of equipment for an organization operating on a shoestring budget. Pressed flat against the table, he zoomed closer to the Mon'Sya manuscript, etched into panels that folded into one another like a fan.