(Nov) Prompt 3 - Fade

[Naraness]

November's 3rd Prompt is the word “Fade”

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Happy writing!

[m139]

Fade

"Your move."

The voice came from the being across from me, from out of the mouth of the great intimidating being. True, she was the same size as any other member of the female race, and sitting nice and daintily, too, but somehow her mere presence seemed to fill every little available space in the room. Her aura spilled out into the hallway, and I, little me in the chair across from her, felt as if I was being pressed against the wall.

I was at the far back of my chair. I would have moved farther into it, but there was nowhere left to go. And I would have moved the chair back even farther, but it was actually bolted to the ground. And it was not as if I could leave the room either. You see, the office was designed in a very strange manner: the occupant sat with their back facing the door, with their desk in front of them. They faced the small open but barred window. Anyone who came into the office, then, had to walk around the desk. They were then facing the door, which was always open, but, with the desk (and more importantly, its owner) in the way, was never accessible.

She smiled at me from across the table, with a smile that seemed all at once somewhat sorry for my plight, but at the same time cruel and calculating. "Your move." she said again.

I looked down at the desk. It really was a beautiful desk. If it was in a furniture store and I happened to have money I probably would have bought it. It was a deep brown- possibly mahogany- and, although a simple bow in shape, was almost- but not quite- as beautifully imposing as the person sitting behind it. But, as it was. I could not admire it. For my eyes were focused on the top of the desk, where its surface was so reflective I could have seen my face, if not for the objects on top of its surface.
And, oh, the objects on its surface.

First was the glassy board. It was made of some kind of stone, I think. And that one big square of a board was divided into sixty-four smaller stones, alternating in color. Here was a black square, here a deep purple. And so it was all over the board. And on top of it were the shiny pieces. Hers were a deep purple, the same as the board. And mine, increasingly fewer in number, were white. Yet they were not quite white. They were just off-shade enough that you just began to notice, just enough so that you started to feel a bit uneasy...

And they were making me uneasy. Quite uneasy. My face, with small little wrinkle lines I never knew I had, stared back at me from every piece, from every square. And with all the little angles on the pieces, each face was slightly distorted, as if I myself was being twisted more than just internally, and my entire form was being changed. Yet the face reflected on the board- her face- was perfect in every way it could be: perfectly beautiful, lovely, and cruel. I could see her lips in the reflection as she mouthed the word "move".

But where to move? Where to go? I was never a good chess player to begin with. And playing now, when my mind was half here, half gone- well that changed it from bad to worse. Uhh... uh... what could I do? Wait, I needed to block the castle. I could move the knight over there- it would have to be sacrificed, but for the good of the board- and then, when she took it with her castle, I could get it with my queen...

I lifted my fingers, and touched the knight, hesitantly. A thin smile crept over her face. Did she know something I did not? Maybe this plan was completely stupid. Maybe it was a terrible move. Nevertheless, there was not anything I could do now... I moved the knight into position.

The grin on her face became a full smile, and with her thin little fingers, she picked up her pawn. For a moment, the piece hovered over the board. Then, it came down and, with a flick of her wrist, knocked my knight all the way across the room. She smiled as she put the pawn in its place, two spaces in front of where it had been. "You're knightless know," she purred, "No one to save you. And it's you move."

"I..." I began shakily, then stopped. I really did not know what to say. I had very few power pieces left on the board. And if she was going to just cheat like that- I mean, I'm pretty sure a pawn could not kill anything two spaces directly in front of it- how could I win?

"I what?" she looked at me curiously, amused, as if I were a mouse with my tail trapped under her paw. It was as if she was debating whether to devour me now, or keep on playing. "Go on..."

"I..." I paused, gathering my courage. "I've still got my queen! I still can do something!" I finally scampered out, all at once, in one quick breath.

For an instant, her look seemed to regard me with pity. And then, a malicious grin took its place. "My queen?" she said, "You can't own a queen. Nobody can own a queen. A queen owns herself. Look at the board." she demanded, pointing.

I looked, and to by horror, a swirling mist seemed to be surrounding the once white queen. Was it? No, it couldn't be. But it was! It was turning purple. I looked up at the woman across the table, who was just beginning to rise.

"You see," she said, "I am the queen. It's all my rules. And this my kingdom."

And with that, she picked up what once had once been my queen, and held it above the board.

I stood up, and backed against the wall. She was not even looking at me now, only at the board in front of her, maybe I could make it to the door?

"There's no escape, really" she said, not even looking up as she held the queen above the board.

Still, I had to try. I began to inch my way along the wall, towards the door...

I had just passed the desk when she placed the queen down in a winning position.

"Checkmate." she said, then turned to look straight at me. Her face was only a few feet from mine, but so was the door. I might be able to make it...

I ran, but somehow ended up tripping over something- her foot, the carpet, I don't know. I had fallen hard, and was barely on this side of reality.

All I remember was the sound of her skirt, as she walked towards me and the gentle clicking of the door as it was closed and locked.

Then, her voice.

"Now," she said, "let the real games begin."

And then my mind faded to black nothingness.

[~N~]

They may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one...

I am no elf, no, nor dwarf either, in blood or spirit. This would be easier to recognize within your systems of magic and lore if I were. Dwarves, after all, do not "dream"--or so they claim. Perhaps they've simply forgotten how, living underground for so long; though, the thought of dwarves originating above ground is almost as fantastic a notion as the one that they, in fact, can (and sometimes do) still dream.

That is wide of the point, however; for they can walk bodily into the Fade. They must (right?) for they do not dream, yes? And there have been, however rare, accounts of dwarves existing and wandering within the Fade who are not demons masquerading as such. Still, that is the point -- body and flesh, into the Fade, beyond the Veil, like the magisters of old.

And yet, it seems to me that they were doing it the hard way. I mean, all that blood to acquire the magic necessary to tear a rift into the Veil just so they could bodily reach the Golden City and turn it dread Black, as everyone sees now when they enter the gloomy, umbral dreamscape of the Fade while they sleep.

The bleak spired City on the shadowy horizon.

But I've long since forgotten how to separate dream from reality. Somewhere in the twilight realm between darkness and light, wandering the limbo of dawn or dusk (for they are indistinguishable in the unchanging Fade), I forgot where the reality of the Fade ended, and the material existence of the world beyond the Veil began. It's not that I couldn't tell the difference, for there are vast differences...

... but along the borders, the edges, the places where the Veil is thinnest--that is where I dwell. Like a spirit, waiting to cross over; lingering at the edge of one reality to transgress another.

But I'm not a spirit. Am I? Not completely.

Yes, the Fade heeds my wishes and reshapes itself to my will, but I am not driven by a defining purpose--no. My being has no such composition, no such definition, the edges of my vision and the outlines of my fingers blurring together in lucid moments of reflection when I look at myself in the mirror of a pond.

I touch the waters, pass my fingers through their shimmering surface and feel the ripples spreading outwards, like echoes of a reality I seem to recall in a dream.

Do not compare me to them; I am nothing like anything you are familiar. I am not changed, not transformed; I am in-transformation. A being between be-ings, stepping through the worlds, half-in, half-out.

The blood. It keeps me tethered to your realm--the one of unchanging (no, truly, slowly changing) rocks and sky. The one where spirits do not dwell and demons only if they can fall from a hole in the sky or wear clothes of skin like they do with abominations. Ones that stay where they are; and ones that want to leave, never to return.

I am neither, for they do not bleed. I take the shimmering blade in my hand and slice it across my palm, smiling at the exquisite pain that races through the nerves I still have, the blood that wells up from the crimson tear in my skin, like some rift in the sky.

And then the tendrils of blood rise up from my flesh, swirling around like tears falling up from the ground to spin together in a symphony of liquid petals, singing out the song of Gods Long Since Banished into the Torpor of the Void. For I hear their song of silence whispering inside the lattice of my thoughts, weaving their sinful desires into my waking nightmares... my walking dreams... the somnolent music of my phantasies...

I drink of lyrium springs with lips that may still the beating heart of mortal lips; suck forth the honeyed breath of longing from their shuddering bodies and slip into the bed of their spiritual lingerings, caressing their faces and interlacing my fingers into theirs, entwining ourselves into a drifting pair of souls within one form, merged together.

One breath, two fires, beating out a rhythmic crescendo of desires, sweating through skin upon a misty breeze that rises above the scented tremors of peaks and valleys straining for release...

... from the fetters of an existence bound within the flesh.

I know your thoughts, whispering to me like angels from beyond the Veil. And I did not ask...

... to hear them. Yet still I do, tinkling like silvery bells in the green twilight of the Fade, echoing your sleeping kisses into eternity. I should press my flesh to yours to whisper into your ears of a phantasy too sinfully sweet to remain in the suite of your fantasies.

Draw in a deeper breath and make room for the warmth of my heat within your breast. Let your obsession bloom there into rich fullness, until it hurts to keep it all inside. So that I may urge you to reveal to the world what you have held onto all this time in your waking steps, your tremulous beating heart...

... what sings in the drops of blood you paint the circle around you with, in glistening wantonness. You're far beyond the pale hue of your skin now and your body stretches and creaks with fullness for all that you keep within; we two, as one, united in spirit in flesh for all the world to glimpse with their waking eyes.

They see dread, but it is wondrous beauty alone that we wish to reveal to the world. Why should they not see? Why should we keep it hidden, bursting with fullness inside? Why should we not share our elation in rivulets of passionate magic that passes between this world and the next and merges the two together like they should always be?

Let them come, we are one, and all shall see the beauty we have become...

[Kicks]

Spoiler: Fade 

And fade... into the darkness...

He opened his eyes once more. Earlier in the night he had woken many times, staring across the room or turning over to check the time on his clock. Each time he woke up he prayed for it to be morning already so that he could quit pretending to sleep and just get the day over with.

There was nothing special about this day. It was a day like any other. He just hated school. He was afraid of people. He had no friends, no one to sit with at lunch, no one to talk to or study with... And he loved it. The fact was, he had never been a people person. It was not that he was a shy or anything of the likes. He did not hate anyone, nor did he feel any discontent towards anyone either. He was more or less an awkward fellow that did not quite know how to communicate with other human beings.

He had always been involved with his studies. He found reading far more interesting than talking to other men about the hottest girls at school. He found figuring things out to be more immersive than a boring discussion on what is cool and what is not. That is not to say that he was a dork or even unattractive, far be it. From what he had heard at lunch time discussions, he was high on the scale and even seen as "mysterious" and "dark and handsome".

But it was not like him to fall into the trap of flattery. Rather, he brushed it aside with a sort of smirk and continued his endeavors. He was young, but not too young for a high schooler. He was a genius of sorts, but not arrogant. He was merely ambitious, ready to take on the world, to put his strengths and knowledge to the test.

And what better way to do that than the war? Yes. It was not a special day for him. It was a day like any other for him. Except today he would hear from the recruiters whether or not he had been selected to join the Navy.

It was a time of war and drafting was a big thing. This was no ordinary war, it was not against people or other races. It was against their own kind, turned mad by a disease that had overridden part of their country. They were forced to cut their ties with that portion of the country and blow it from their land. Now men and women of the likes were being sent over to regain the land, to stop the virus before it got too far.

They had lowered the age to join the military to 16. That was just how desperate they were to get this all under control.

His father had been a Navy man. His brother a Navy SEAL. His mother had been an Air Force woman. He came from a long line of veterans that it was almost expected of him to join the fight. But his father made it perfectly clear that that was not what he wanted from his son. After the way his brother came from the fight... His father did not want the same thing happening to him.

But he had aggression for what was happening and it was only natural for him to pursue justice until the land was healed again.

Today he would visit his brother in the hospital for the wounded soldiers. He would do that after he found out whether or not he had been recruited though. He wanted to see his brother with news, not to make small talk. He was afraid of small talk, afraid of saying something that might trigger another episode. When his brother got like that... He shuddered to recall the last time.

His alarm clock buzzed. It was time to get up. Time to get to the school, to walk through the doors of the office and head for the recruiter's quarters. The military had been a presence in the school for a year now since the law had passed to lower the age of consent. There were assemblies on it, teachers urged to encourage their students to go to war. And for the most part, it worked... until they all started seeing on the news the numbers of how many came back.

The fact was no one came back. The only way to get out of their alive was to be critically injured. And even then, the chances of dying back there were high. He was surprised his brother had made it back and wondered what would have happened had he not been injured in that way. His brother's hand was completely gone. One of his friends had cut it clean off his arm.

Something else had happened to, but he was not told. He just knew his brother was not the same as he was before going to war.

With each movement he got ready he could feel his body shaking. He was nervous for the news, to hear his name called out. He was excited to go to war, to help, to test himself. But he was also so afraid. He did not want his father to lose him. He did not want to disappoint his brother. He did not want to die.

The office where other men and women waited for their names to be called out was small. There were only three of them in the room, and each of their names were accepted into the registry for military. He was accepted in the Navy from his scores. The others were shipped off to the Army. Six months of training and testing and they would find his rank for him. They would decide what he would do. And then he would be gone to war.

He wondered whether or not this was good news to bring to his brother. Now he was wondering whether or not he should even tell him. And how would he let his father know? Would he not have been called forward anyways because of the draft?