Ashes to Ashes

It hurts. I say that to myself like I am not feeling the pain. This is not something new. This is something known firsthand. And even if I didn't know that I'm fairly sure that I could infer as much from the various facts that I know of the world. So really, this is all meaningless. All the thoughts that come to my mind are meaningless. I know it hurts. I know that it should hurt. The world and my interpretation of causality is correct. I was stabbed and it hurt. I think I bled out for a bit, but my blood is back in me and the chill is strong and I am fine. I am hurt, but I am fine.

I am tied up and that could be good or bad. The ropes scratch and bite, so it is bad. Shame. I like a good rope. They can tie things together and hold things down. They can also help in climbing things and getting off of things. Ropes are good, in theory. Not quite as much when I am tied to things through them and everything hurts. They are good when they work with me, not against me. These are bad ropes. Very bad ropes.

Another point to my hatred of these being bad ropes comes to mind. I am vertical and tied. I am more amendable to a horizontal tying, but I am vertical. And the sun, there is the sun beaming through my eye lids and it hurts. There is really terrible. Absolutely terrible. This might be one of the worst single days of my life. And it started off rather well. There is still the weight in my core seeping out. I am wearing pants, though, so my shame is hidden. Although, I am not sure if I care one way or the other. I am strung up. There's not a lot that can be done to regain what might be considered a form of honor. No matter what goes down, I am fairly certain I will need new pants.

I finally decide to open my eyes and I regret doing so immediately. There is a bright sun, which again, I could infer. But there are high walls of red rock and a pillar of stone with a lone tree in the vague shape of a skeletal hand. Fingertree Fort, I am at Fingertree Fort.

I laugh and once again, regret the actions I have taken. It hurts my chest to laugh. I should not have done that, but I did and will continue to do so. I tied up with sun hitting me and the ropes biting me and I am laughing. I am laughing at the world that thinks it can hold me like this.

My eyes grow used to the pain and I gaze into the blinding light. I see everything clear once more. The rock and the tree are still there. But there is something new, a sea of dark skin faces poking from holes in the rock. There are glimpses of scarred skin as well. Burns, there are burns latticed and interlocked in constellation shapes. I smile and I try to wave. But the rope does not let me. That's terrible. Bad rope, it's all bad rope.

They are all silent as I try to pull against the knots.

"Jill," a hoarse whisper says to my left, "Stop."

The voice is thirsty and parched. I imagine that I would sound much the same. I am rather thirsty as well. Cold water pouring from the sky, flooding the canyon until we all drown. But that's not happening. There is an Ike next to me, slumped and defeated and slack.

"Hi Ike," I say, "How are you holding up?"

"Not great. Kind of tied up at the moment."

"You get used to it. You're getting a good start, though. This is really bad rope. It will get easier. Down by Diamond Lake, they have good rope. Very good rope. "

"I shouldn't have come back. We shouldn't have come back. This was all a mistake. But it's alright now."

"I'm not dying here, Ike. Not for you. Not for this town. If a knife to the ribs couldn't stop me, the sun sure isn't. I would kill for a drink though."

"You and me both."

We both go back to the rasping silence of our predicament. The ropes bind us to a rock wall, looking down the widest canyon. Not the one we came from. This one goes to the mountains. There is no gate there. The world lays beyond the curve of the rock.

The silent faces continue to watch us with a mix of hatred and fear. Really, the same thing in context. I'm just surprised they haven't taken to throwing rocks. They could do that. I would not mind. I mean I would, but I wouldn't blame them. That's what people do to things that are tied up and apparently waiting some sort of tribunal. But they're all so well behaved and polite. Sometimes, people manage to surprise me. My knife wound aches, even though the chill seared it shut.

It also might ache because the cause of such a terrible thing is walking forward from the rock wall with a face set from the same. I smile wider. I still want to wave, but no one is letting me. I should be able to wave at them, and actually be polite, but I am not. It's not my fault I am being rude. It's the world that's wrong.

Nia comes to stand before me and I am astonished at how much she and her son look alike. They are almost the exact same shade. The patterns of burns are a little different, but the overarching picture is there. They are both whip razor thin, sharp bones and joint cutting the world and making it bleed. But there is the cord of muscle, denser than the center of a star, winding over each and every inch of their frames. She is a little fuller than him, but she looks like she's had more meals in the past while. Most of all, they have the same lips. Hers just happens to be pressed into a hard thin line that might have some very harsh things to say to me.

"You shouldn't have come back Ike," Nia says to just him. I happen to be in the way enough to catch.

"I'm sorry, mother. I had to know you all were ok," he says.

"We were fine, Ike. That was the plan. You were supposed to go away."

"But I brought help. Jill can help."

"I don't know about that," I say, "Hands are tied."

I hoped someone out there would do something for that. I get nothing. Rock, silent rock and a wind taking stage to howl. I almost want someone to toss a stone. That would at least be something happening.

"Ike," she says, "I didn't want to do this. I didn't want it all to end up like this. But I don't have a choice. It breaks my heart. It really does. But it has to be this way."

The sorrow peaks through her voice. The beast is immense, but the forest and the shrubs hide it well. It's in the eyes. They glitter with the faintest sign of tears. But they won't bleed through. They can't bleed through. She has to face the rock with an equal stern gaze. Otherwise, it would all come crumbling down and bury her.

"Mother..."

"Stop. Ike, I don't know what he is going to do to you, but I can't give up the town. That is my duty. One life, even one I hold so dear, cannot compare to all. I'm sorry. I hope your hate brings you solace."

"Mother, I don't hate you."

"And that just makes it worse."

She turns away from us. The tears almost make good on their word. But they are still liars. They are all still inside.

"Bryce," she yells to the wind, "Bryce. We have recovered your prize."

The wind does not respond. The howl in the distance goes silent and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. Fear, final raw naked fear pours from Ike and I see the wave hit Nia. She weathers it well. There is no falter in the call. There is no staggered step as she moves to stand at our side.

"I don't think he heard you," I say.

"Quiet, monster," she hisses, "He heard me. He hears everything."

"I'm pretty sure he heard your son scream my name. That's a fun thought. Do you think he liked it?"

"I said quiet."

"You stabbed me and I lived. I don't have to listen to a damn thing you have to say. I'm unkillable. So, Bryce is going to get his ass kicked. Ike, you're helping me kill some guy."

"Mother, she can do this."

"The problem is if I want to or not. And again, stabbed, so I'm kind of leaning not."

"You cannot go against the gale," Nia sighs, "He is coming for you, Ike. I tried to give something better. The endless sand should have welcomed you."

"Now you have me somewhat interested," I say, "The sand's pretty bad."

"Bryce is worse."

The wind comes back with the threatened howl. I keep tugging on the ropes. They are giving way. They have to be giving way. The chill is ebbing away from the sealed wound, pooling back to my hands. Cold, so cold and sharp. It snaps in my breath, my pulse, and I love it. I keep working at the knots. The threads will rot. The rock will turn to dust. The very sky shall grow stagnant and cold, but I will endure and be free. The chill commands it so the world will be that and nothing more.

It's howling so loud in my ears. Even here, so far from the sun and the scorching sand, it is picking up dust and grit once more. It gets in my eyes, my nose, my throat and all I taste is bitter ash. I keep moving my hands. The knot against them is loose, so loose. It will all give away. It has to give way.

The knot comes untangled and the wind is roaring as the dust and the sand collects in a red vortex before us. Deep red, crimson red, bleeding sky red, it swirls. Or the world turns around it as it stays still. I feel the gaps, the waves from just beyond reality pulsing from the eye. I grin. He has weight, glorious weight to him. It towers and crushes and looks like it will engulf the world.

The chill responds in kind, snapping at the bindings. Something catches and I smell smoke. It's the threads turning black. Ike has turned his head down next to me. He does not care to witness the end of the world. He struggles with his own bindings, just the last bit of his fear collecting within him and making the body wish to survive.

The wind goes still as the eye descends upon us all. I am free. The rope has failed and I am free. I feel the skin part around the wound and the chill goes to the cut. The arcs and the needles sew the skin back together. Unfortunately, it leaves my hands. Nia has decided to make herself scarce. The rock walls will keep her safe. As the chill sees to my wounds, I find my way to standing. I wish I had my coat, but that is discarded and forgotten. Probably still laying in crumpled heap on Nia's floor.

I almost laugh when I see the fabled Bryce. He is tall, but then again, so is everyone compared to me. Pale, although not quite as pale as me. Hair midnight pitch coal black, that circles his face in a smooth beard, it's all pulled back in a ponytail down his neck. He gazes at me with fierce green eyes, but none of that is what makes me laugh.

It's the golden cape that does it. And the golden necklace. And the golden rings. And the golden belt. He has evolved beyond the embarrassment of riches to a straight embarrassment. The chill snaps as much as it can within me. Thunderbolts and hurricane winds. A storm, there is a storm coming and it will break.

He looks to me with haughty eyes and I roll mine in response. Bryce doesn't like that. But that's his problem.

"Chief Nia," he says, "You seem to have given me too much."

I have to admit he does have a rather pleasant voice. Melodic and deep, the wind running through the mountains before an avalanche.

"And you have not wrapped the gifts properly."

The sheer contempt drips from his voice like oil. It pools at his feet and floods the canyon. The cold snaps and barks and it wants to rend. It will rend. It will tear him apart.

He raises his hand. The wind comes back down the canyon. A train and a fist slam into me and I am aloft. It takes me high. I do not like it. It does not like the weight and the strength made to lift me. I do not like the way it slams into the rocks.

I see the stars come out, the twinkling lights dancing behind my mind. I see the shapes and they are sharp. The claw and the cold and the chill hit me in my mind and the side aches again. For a moment, I think that this might not go the way I want it to. But that's impossible. I have the chill and the cold within me and it will devour the world.

The problem comes with the wind. It won't let me move. I try to move but the world won't let me, so it is wrong. The chill comes and it sparks but it won't spill from my body. The weight from outside has cut off the veins it uses. It sears the rock and finds soft things to pour into. But the wind, the wind keeps pushing me back.

Bryce is not concerned with the lightning and the spark from the space that does not exist. The wind keeps the source far enough away. It rattles his metal on his body till he sings like a bell choir. Bored, he is bored as he walks forward and inspects the infantile rebellion to his will.

"You are impressive," he sighs, "But you have failed to hold my attention."

The lightning bites at him, but he is too far. It cannot break through the skin and weight and the need of the wound.

He turns from me and my rage against the gale continues as he turns his attention to Ike. The energy does not like that. I do not like that. I do not like that at all. I do not like the odd empty hollow pulsing from Ike. It hurts me. It makes the arms heavy and still and ache. I wish to move and I wish to stay still. I want to rend and break and tear, but then there is the urge to just lie there on the ground and never do anything ever again. Even the chill gets dampened, pulsing into the rock weaker and weaker with every passing moment.

It hurts. It hurts to think and let the wound fester and let the thoughts hang heavy down my brain stem.

Hand to chin, Bryce tilts him back and forth, inspecting him like a piece of game. Ike lets it. He lets the hand touch his chin and tile his head.

"Nia," he says to the wind, "You should feel so blessed to have him with you. It was a shame he ran, right? I came calling and he ran. But he came back. Because he knew, you all knew, that he belonged with me."

He smiles and he has golden teeth beyond pale lips. Golden bones too probably. I want to see them stained red against the canyon wall. But the weight is crushing me and the wind is pinning me. The wind carries his words to the heavens and back and I can still hear them ringing in my ears, mixing with the weight.

With deft hands, Bryce undoes the knots and Ike slumps to lay across his shoulder. Bryce smiles wider.

"I feel your despair," he whispers to creation, "And I understand. Do not be afraid. There is changed coming and it will be glorious. Mourn the old, for that is a grand loss, but celebrate what is to come. For it will be grander.

He goes back to his scorched stage at the center of town. The wind picks up again, howling and screaming and scouring. His tornado of red sand comes from the sky again. I am free from the rock wall, but I am not able to move. The gale keeps me from moving, all of my strength collecting to keep me still. I do not want to go against the rock again. I do not wish to see the stars. I wish to beat this man to death and have Ike hold me in his arms. That seems so much better than what I wanted.

With another wayward glance, the wind picks me up again and slams me down. I do see the stars again. Not for long. The black comes and takes them away.

---

I am alive. I am surprised, but delightfully so. I am weak, to be sure, but I am not dead. I am fully immersed in something soft and cotton and tweed, but it is not rock and sand and heat. I am warm though, very warm, delightfully warm. Wonderfully warm. I turn and find a body next to mine and I do not mind at all. It does not hug me back and that's terrible. I want its cored arms of thin muscle holding me down and keeping me warm. Something to press the bones against and make them align to straight.

The body pulls away and that's even worse. The slow bite of current snaps and bites, trying to get the body to spasm and still so I can finally touch it again. It does not. It pulls away and I am left alone on the bed. Beds are meant to be shared. The other body denies the bed's purpose. I can respect that, in an odd way. Rebelling against the way things is always admirable, even if it is kind of stupid sometimes.

"Get up," says the body's voice. Not Ike's voice. Unfortunately, I obey. I do not want to obey, but the cold bed and the snapping static make it seem like that's the only real course of action left to me.

I see a ceiling of red rock. I see walls of the same, with a little hole carved out to the center of town. And I am looking at Nia. I yawn and stretch. Something deep in my back pops, and I give a little hum of pleasure. More things should pop and snap within me. There are tight knots that need worked out.

"Good morning," I say, "Am I making breakfast? Or are you?"

"Get off my bed," she says. She's still in her night clothes, soft threads that hug her body. Very similar build to Ike, just the faintest suggestion of curve and swell. I can't help but be somewhat interested. But the glare and the grimace make that somewhat of a long shot at the moment.

"You should get back in," I say, "Unless you have something to do today. In that case, carry on without me. I'll be here. I've had an eventful couple of days."

"Get out. We need to talk."

She tries to be serious and she gets most of the way there. It's me that's the problem. She looks so much like him and all I can think of is his call for another round. There is a little bit of shame left in me for thinking of that right now. He's gone. Some bastard named Bryce took him away from me and it is something I kind of want it back. That is the thought that gets me out of bed. I'm still missing my coat of ragged leather threads. I want that back too.

Nia turns and leads me out of the bedroom. The chill still pools at my side. A finger grazes it and finds the skin fused shut. Still tender and soft and bruised, but the energy is working towards that as well. It burns and thrums and rattles inside me, like a legion of legions taking formation. The drum beat march hammers against my skin. I wince as I poke and prod and hold. It will be fine. I've been through worse.

And she is the one to make the breakfast, it seems. But I do not get any. I get a chair and a place at the table and I would like a little more than that. More would require the act of taking and I don't quite feel up to the challenge at the moment. So, a chair and a table and a place at said table where I collapse and let the weight sag over the wood and bones.

"Why are you not dead?" she asks. She looks to me with peering red eyes. Despite the rage, despite the anger, there is curiosity, almost childlike in nature. There is a law of the world that everyone must follow and I just broke it on a whim.

"Because I lived," I say.

"How, then? I stabbed you and watched you bleed out on my floor. I saw Bryce crack your neck on the rocks. And then I saw you stagger to your feet before collapsing again."

I hold up my hand and the chill decides to obey for the moment. It's a show. It likes to put on a show. The veins shine with the white-blue light, almost imperceptible with the filtered sun and the pale of my skin. It jumps to my outstretched hand, dancing between the fingers before breaking in the open hair. The hairs on her arm stand on end. The rage falters with awe and fear.

"I don't know," I say, "This doesn't like it when I die. So, it doesn't let me. And I don't like it when I die, so I allow it to run wild."

"You're a monster," she whispers.

"Yes. I am. It's amazing. You should be a monster too."

"I think I already am."

She goes silent and the rage finally slips down to sheer exhaustion. The strength of her body leaves and the chair has to keep her from the indignity of the floor.

"He took my baby boy," she says, voice cracking, "And I couldn't stop him. You couldn't stop him."

"In my defense, I was stabbed. I want that as a handicap in his favor."

I sigh and sit back. My stomach growls and lets the animal know that I can have the world with just a touch of will. What is this woman before me, really? A sad broken thing regretting its choices. It is to blame for it all. It could have been stronger. It could have forsaken the whole. All regrets are meaningless thoughts that impede action after action. All of this is its fault and it has food. I am right because I am strong. A wayward hand would send her sprawling and I would have it all. The knife did not stop me. The gale did not stop me. A tear and a long face will not stop me.