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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Mar 27, 2023 10:07:35 GMT -5
I'm glad to hear this. And I hope you get well soon.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Apr 10, 2023 11:28:38 GMT -5
Chapter Five – End Of
Beatrice tried to open her eyelids but they resisted, weighed down by a hazy tiredness. She let out a long deep breath, and shifted herself around. She could hear the sounds coming back to her now, of birds chirping in the trees, children playing and shouting, a dog barking excitedly. But there was something else there, another sound echoing in the background. It was a deep undercurrent, like waves lapping up against the side of some great hulking beast. It didn't make any sense to her, it didn't fit, but still she could hear it, that noise, somewhere out there.
She had been dreaming of the sea, she knew, and the dream was still there now that she was awake. But there were so many strange details, so many things that she could not quite place. Specific and unspecific at the same time. It was almost as though she was giving her next performance, but all she had been given were a scant few lines of dialogue, with no indication of what order they were supposed to be delivered in, and no idea what the story was really about. She remembered something about a boat, and that there was an infection of some kind.
'Are you hungry?' Bertrand asked.
Her eyes shot open suddenly, and the sunlight flooded her thoughts away. She took a moment to adjust to the brightness around her, and as she sat up she noticed the heat bouncing back off of her. There was a thin film of sweat covering her, making the fabric of her dress stick to her skin. The locket Bertrand had given her was weighing heavily around her neck, the cool metal resting gently on her chest.
It must be late afternoon by now; the sun was beginning to fall down to one side of the sky and casting long shadows across the grass. It was only early spring, but the day had been an unusually hot one. After rehearsals had finished Bertrand had whisked her away to the park, and after chatting idly she had fallen asleep, laying next to him in the grass.
'Well, I am.' Bertrand spoke again.
'You're what?' she asked, propping herself up onto one elbow.
'Hungry. I said, 'Are you hungry?''
'Oh.' Beatrice smiled at him. 'I wasn't listening. I guess I could eat something, yeah. What were you thinking of-'
'Ice creams.' he interjected, a boyish grin on his face. 'This afternoon feels like the perfect afternoon for ice creams, don't you think? There's an elderly man who sells little tubs not too far from here, if you'd like one?'
She nodded at him, and rubbed her eyes in an exaggerated motion.
'I can get one for you if you're too lazy to come with.'
She nodded again. 'Yes, I am too lazy.'
He laughed, stood up, and stretched the kinks out of his back.
'I had a strange dream.' She told him, although really she didn't mean to. It was more that the words seemed to come out, the thoughts needing to express themselves aloud. 'Or at least I think it was a dream, it may have just been thoughts that I had.'
'Isn't that what dreams are?'
'Maybe. I don't really know. It didn't feel like it was a dream, it felt like I was remembering something.'
'Remembering what?' He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement.
'Something that has never happened to me, at least not in this life. Or it hasn't happened to me yet.' Beatrice sighed. 'I was on a boat, in the middle of nowhere. Lost. We had no idea where we were going. But there was something strange about the boat. And I feel like I wasn't me, as though I was inhabiting someone else. It was like I wasn't really there, do you get what I mean?'
'No... not really, no.'
'It was like it was an experiment. As if I had been put there just to see what would happen.'
'And who would do a thing like that?'
Beatrice shook her head. 'I don't know. Maybe I'm just being weird again.'
'Maybe.' said Bertrand, with a forced levity that his face did not match.
There was one thing Beatrice knew she could not say, that she could not explain, especially not to him. There had been a man in the dream, a man whose face had seemed so strangely familiar.
'Well, I better get that Ice cream.' said Bertrand, smiling again.
Beatrice nodded at him, and he began to wander listlessly away from her. Lazily, she drifted her gaze across the park, scanning the blurring outlines of children playing. There was a couple, probably the same age as her and Bertrand, sat at the opposite end of the green and canoodling. There was a gruff looking man, barking loudly at a dog to stop doing one thing or the other. Off in the distance there was an elderly lady sitting on a bench, throwing scraps of bread to the birds, her eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses.
The park was often busy like this. It had formerly been a plot of land belonging to some rich count or the other, and in order to get various people off of his back he had agreed to cleave a small portion of his prodigious monopoly out and open it up to the access of the general public. In the years since, Beatrice had frequented it regularly, from when she was a little girl until she was... whatever she was now. A young woman, she supposed.
Beatrice was not sure how much time had passed since Bertrand had left her, it could only have been a few minutes, if even that, but she was already starting to drift back to sleep. She lay back down on the soft grass, and felt her eyelids begin to drop once more. She could hear the sound of the waves coming back, gently rocking up against her ears, the wind howling around her, and the sound of screams
'Excuse me?' said a voice, and Beatrice's eyes snapped open again.
There was a woman peering down at her, the one who had been feeding the birds only a few moments ago. Her face was drawn into a small and deliberate frown, and her eyes were hidden behind her glasses. She had greying hair pulled back into a neat bun, but a few stray locks had clung to the side of her face. The sounds of the ocean were gone, and Beatrice was flustered, embarrassed at having fallen asleep again.
'Hello?' Beatrice said, unsure. 'Can I help you?'
'I hope that you can.' said the woman, and she held out a hand to Beatrice, helping to pull her up. She was surprisingly strong, and perhaps not as old as she seemed.
'I have something to give you.' said the woman, and she began to rummage around in a worn and tattered bag slung over her arm.
Beatrice said nothing, at a loss as to what the woman could possibly be wanting with her, so she simply waited.
The woman took out an envelope that was as tattered and worn as the bag from which it had emerged. There were small rips all over it, and the top had been torn open in a haste. She handed it to Beatrice, and when she turned it over she saw that the words 'My Dear Sister' had been written on the front in black ink.
'I'm sorry, but there must be some mistake.'
'Oh indeed?' the woman raised her eyebrow, almost mockingly.'
'I don't have any siblings. This letter cannot be for me.'
'Oh Beatrice, of course it's for you. It's of vital importance that you read this letter, and that you understand what is inside, though I don't think those two things will happen at once. But you are quite correct; the letter isn't addressed to you. But just because something wasn't meant for us, it doesn't mean that we should let it pass us by.' She smiled then, a sad smile, full of regret.
'I don't know what you're talking about.' Beatrice shook her head.
'No, you don't. But you will, one day.'
The woman stretched out a hand, and gently took hold of the necklace holding the locket around Beatrice's neck. She ran her thumb over the metal surface a moment, before letting it drop back once more.
'You had the dream, didn't you?' said the woman.
Beatrice stopped, her hands frozen, still clutching the letter hesitantly.
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Except that you do. The dream with the man in white. The most beautiful man that you have ever seen, like an angel.'
'How do you -?'
'How do I know?' The woman gripped Beatrice's hand, fiercely, tightly, and pulled her in close, her voice barely more than a whisper now. 'Because I have the same dreams as you, you fool.'
Beatrice pulled free of her grasp, the letter squashing between her fingers. She straightened up, her breath now ragged gasps.
'Read the letter' said the woman. 'And take my advice; when the time comes, don't hide the truth. Dishonest answers are of no use when confronting the great unknown.'
And with that, the woman turned to walk away. Beatrice felt as though she should try and stop her, hold her there, force her to explain any of what it was that she was talking about, but instead she somehow found herself drawn to the envelope clenched in her hand. Beatrice pushed the two folds of paper that concealed the letter open, and took out the crumbling yellow paper from within, and read;
My Dear Sister
If this letter has reached you then perhaps it is not too late. Rasmussen has promised that he will do all that he can to reach you, and I believe that he is your best hope, but I myself am not hopeful. Please know that I am sorry, sorrier than I have ever been, and that I died trying to save everything from turning to ashes.
I did not want this life for you, and I tried my hardest to prevent things from being this way. When your mother died I made a promise to myself that things would be different, that I would protect you no matter what happened. It seems I've spent most of my life failing to live up to that promise. At least I may finally have found a way to save you, even if it is only in my death.
A lot has changed since last I saw you. We have made it back to the city, but I do not think I will survive much longer. The journey was long, and our resources were limited. If I can make it there, I will try to let the authorities know about the infection, but it will already be too late. But it is not death that I fear, it is what comes after it.
I do not know how much you have discovered, but if you escaped from the facility it must have been with good reason. I cannot dare put everything into this letter, in case it were to fall into the wrong hands, but I must say this at least; The organisations; experiments went further than we could have ever imagined. They have unleashed something terrible, and it cannot be stopped. You cannot reason with madness.
It is coming for you, sister, and it will not stop. When I last spoke to you, I told you that history was about to repeat itself, and I now know this to be more true than I could ever have imagined. Rasmussen may not say it to you, but time is against us. It is the end of everything.
I am sorry that I cannot be with you. Remember what your mother used to say to you, whenever you were alone and afraid. Remember, and don't forget.
I enclose in this envelope the key that our mother gave me before she died. She told me that it was very special, and that it would open the door to heaven. I don't think I will end up there, not after all I've done, but perhaps there is still some hope for you.
I pray that I will see you again, in this life or the next.
With all due Respect
Your Beloved Brother
Beatrice folded up the letter carefully, scared that it would fall into pieces in her fingertips, and then carefully peered inside the envelope. There was no key to be found. Whoever had opened the letter in the first place must have taken the key with them.
She looked around, glancing here and there, but the strange old lady was gone. All she could see was Bertrand heading back towards her, two tubs of ice cream delicately balancing atop one another.
The sound was growing louder in her ears now, the waves and the wind and the boat. All of it was there inside her head, and this letter, whatever it was, however inexplicable, she knew that it was part of it. Whatever this mystery was, she had to know the truth.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Apr 10, 2023 16:25:36 GMT -5
Then there are experiments promoted by some organization. These experiments generate several different lives. The same person lives several lives, like some kind of scientific reincarnation or something like that I guess. But, that experiment went wrong. Are the different lives connecting through dreams? Is Fernald Beatrice's brother from another reality? He's fighting this organization, and Beatrice/Fiona were too? But do they need to find a way to reactivate the memories of themselves and each of those lives so they can fight coherently again? Are these lives artificial realities?
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Apr 10, 2023 16:40:17 GMT -5
The answer is much more simple than that, but then I do have all the pieces. I think one clue I would be willing to give is that the way in which the three main story threads connect to each other is key to understanding everything.
Also, I would like to know speculation as to who the elderly lady is.
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Post by HAL 10,000 on Apr 13, 2023 14:43:21 GMT -5
Just discovered this story but I love how dreams and reality and blended so seamlessly together.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on May 1, 2023 12:18:12 GMT -5
Hopefully should be getting chapters more regularly from now on Chapter Six – Wooden SouvenirJulian couldn't help but fidget in his seat, his legs growing itcherr and more irritable with every passing second. There were several small fans bolted into the ceiling of the stuffy room, but all they were doing was simply pass around the warm and claggy air. It was the height of summer, and the heat outside was pummelling desperately at the shuttered glass windows, eagerly trying to sneak its way inside. 'Lot number Thirty-Seven' came the droll voice of the auctioneer, a mirthless drawl that hung stodigly in the air. 'A small collection of pamphlets from the Sebald theatre...' At this, Julians attention wandered off once again. The item was of no interest to him, and he had already managed to purchase a few smaller items so as to avoid arousing suspicion. He was already sure that he had reached the point of this entire exercise, and the end could not come soon enough. Veblen Hall was a grand and classy building, an establishment that was well used and respected by the well loved and respected members of the city's highest societies. This was not one of its grander rooms;It was small, tucked away, and barely large enough to contain twenty people, let alone the thirty who were currently shuffled inside. The room was hidden away behind a secret doorway in a secret room, though in truth its existence was not a secret to so many. It was one of those things that simply nobody spoke about, and what happened in those rooms remained furthermore unspoken. 'Lot number Thirty-Eight' said the auctioneer, as the next item was brought up and placed on a small table to his right. 'A small ceramic sugar bowl containing....' but this was of no interest to Julian. It had been a long and boring afternoon, though not entirely fruitless. Julian had come here looking for something, and he was certain that he had found it. Ever since the fire that had destroyed the Douglas mansion, his organisation had been on the hunt for certain items that had been inside the building at that time. Well, that wasn't the whole story. They had been trying to get his hands on those items for a very long time indeed, this was simply the latest step in that journey. That was why he and his associate had visited Mr. Douglas that very day, in order to retrieve the items that he had stolen from them. Unfortunately, things had not gone to plan. However, with every misfortune a new opportunity can be created, and it seemed that one was about to present itself. In truth, it made no difference to them if they had the items or not. It didn;t really matter either way. What did matter was who else had them. 'Item number Thirty-Nine' said the auctioneer, his voice as dull and uninspired as ever. 'The diary of a Mister John Tamson, first mate aboard the doomed sailing ship The Prospero.' A small glass case was brought up onto the stage and placed onto the table. Inside, was a pile of small leather-bound books, one of the books held upright on a spindle. Julian could see the words even from his distance, the hard and blackened ink surprisingly undamaged, standing clear of the faded and yellowing pages. If any item was sure to capture attention, this was the most likely. "We shall start the bidding at two hundred Dollars.' Julian held his breath for a moment and listened intently, keeping his eyes fixed firmly in front of him. A paddle shot up into the air a few seats away from him, and the auctioneer responded; 'Three hundred dollars.' Julian let out a wry smile, as he noticed his target shifting uncomfortably across the other side of the room. 'Five Hundred dollars' For a moment Julian was tempted to make a bid of his own, to raise up his arm and just see what the reaction of his target would be, but that would be foolish. He knew his mark was interested, and that was enough. And Julian had no need of the diaries, it was nothing but superstitious nonsense. A fairy tale. The bidding continued, and as the money rose higher and higher, Julian dared a glance at the fool he was following. He could see a flock of red hair, tied back into a bun. His clothes were elegant and fine, betraying a birth perhaps too noble for such a backhanded exchange. It made Julian feel insulted. Who did he think he was? The diary went to someone or other, it wasn't important who. Some banker, just like all the rest, one who had no real interest in the object other than how much he would be able to profit from it somewhere down the line. It was a simple investment to them, nothing more. To Julian it was an obsession, a question that must be answered. His attention lulled away to nothing as the afternoon wore on, the heat continuing to build. He fidgeted restlessly in his chair, and could feel the sweat building up between his back and the fabric of his jacket. He was impatient to get out, to see what would happen next, to find out where this was all going. Eventually, the auctioneers' gavel sounded for the last time, and like a great wave the assembled men rose from their chairs and a gentle hum of chatter resounded in Julians ears. The man sat for a moment, looking at something secreted in his lap, before rising like the rest. As he stood, he turned, and for a moment caught Julians gaze. There was a quick flash of recognition, of realisation, and then the man turned and began to walk out of the room as hastily as he could. Julian rose and followed, his pace perhaps slightly slower than that of the man. It would not do for him to be seen giving chase, especially not in an establishment such as this – he needed to make sure he would be invited back. The man was gaining ground, but it did not matter. Julian knew the building well, and he could not be outrun. Outside the auction room there was a small staircase, nestled between wood paneled doorways, decorated with ornate paintings of edwardian men standing around in front of desks trying to look important. The man dashed quickly up the stairs, and Julian smirked to himself. This way led towards a private quarter of the building reserved only for the richest members, one that only regular patrons of the building would know about. Julian lessened his pace, relaxed. Even if he did not find the man today, he could deduce his identity simply by perusing the list of patrons. He had narrowed the field. And besides, it was a dead end. There was no way out. As Julian topped the staircase he noticed a small, private bathroom to his left. There was an attendant standing outside, barely more than fifteen years old. The door behind him was pushed ajar, but not quite fully closed. Julian pondered his options, and decided to chance it. With a curt nod at the boy, Julian pushed open the door and made his way inside. The man was standing next to a basin, rinsing his hands gently under a running tap. When Julian entered, he snapped his head towards him, his eyes calm and steady, but he stood at the basin, finishing his hands. Julian waited. The man twisted the tap shut, dried his hands on a towel, and reached into his pocket to take out a pocket watch. 'You saw me.' said the man, his voice steady. 'And you saw that I saw you. But yet you still took longer to catch up with me than I would have thought.' He held out his hand to Julian, an offer of friendship that both surprised and agnered Julian. 'What do you want?' Julian asked, the hand ignored. 'That's very rude of you.' said the man, returning his hand to his pocket. 'You haven't even asked me who I am yet.' 'Why are you so interested in the possessions of the late Augustus Duncan?' 'I could say the same of you. And who says I'm interested?' 'I'm not, as it happens. But as you?' Julian let out a dry, sarcastic laugh. 'You sat through that whole auction and didn't buy a single thing. Now that, to me, looks suspicious.' 'Suspicious, maybe.' smiled the man. 'But that hardly shows that I'm interested, does it? If anything, it simply confirms that you and I had the same intentions.' Julian could feel the heat creeping up his collar. 'And what would those be, then?' 'Why, to find out who is interested of course. You tried very hard to not seem suspicious, friend, but I'm afraid that your mark rather gave you away.' The man inclined his head, and Julian looked down. The shape on his wrist - the insignia of his organisation - was peeking out from underneath the cuff of his shirt. A mark of black ink, painting two snakes entwined around a caduceus. 'You people never give up, do you?' said the man. 'Yet your ignorance will always blind you from the truth.' 'What does that mean?' 'Well, to put it bluntly, you're an bear.' Julian lept, as much of a surprise to himself as to anyone else, and clenched his hands around the man's throat, smashing him against the side. The man's head glanced off of the glass of the mirror, shards peppering the ground around them, but Julian pushed tighter. He was bent forwards over the edge of the basin, pulling his weight onto him, the man's legs struggling and kicking from underneath. Julians hand tightened around his throat, the man struggling for air. His hands grew redder as he squeezed, the black of the tattoo darkening as he intensified his grip. Julian felt a blinding pain on the back of his head, and he fell, crumbling to his feet. He could taste blood at the back of his mouth, and for a few moments the whole world shook around him. He pulled himself upright, a mess on the floor, and glanced around to see the attendant from outside, a wooden baton clasped into his hand. 'Apologies, sir.' said the boy, though he could barely contain his smile. 'I heard a disturbance.' 'You bear.' shouted Julian, and he lunged upwards. The man held out a forceful hand on Julians chest, pushing him back to the ground 'I think we should forgive the boy.' Said the man Julian scowled, rubbing his hands tenderly 'I apologise for causing any disturbance.' said the man politely, to both the attendant and to Julian. 'And I think I should take this as my cue to leave.' 'This isn't over.' said Julian. 'Oh, I would never expect such a thing from your kind. You're an animal, Julian. An obedient dog, always at your master's beck and call...' Julian growled in anger. 'Sorry, I shouldn't tease you.' The man smiled, and offered his hand to Julian once more. 'I'm sure you will do your best to find me again, but I'll make it easier. The name is Fernald. Fernald Duncan, and I am living over on Hollingbourne Avenue. Pop round for a drink sometime. There are many things we could discuss together.' Fernald waited, but realised that Julian wasn't going to shake his hand. Instead, he gave a curt nod, and departed the room, as casually as if the two of them had just been discussing the weather. Julian threw himself upwards, let out a cry of anger, and smashed his hand down on the marble basin. He then shook his fist in pain, feeling embarrassed. The bathroom attendant was still standing there, a look of confusion on his face. 'Did you want something?' Julian asked. The boy did not respond, staring blankly at the wall, deep in thought, as though he had forgotten Julian was even there. There was something odd about the boy's face, something that made Julian feel uneasy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. 'Do I know you from somewhere?' Julian enquired. The boy turned, and looked at him. 'Of course not.' he said, but there was a look of fear in his eyes, one that Julian had seen too many times before. 'If that will be all, Sir?' Julian waved the boy away dismissively, and turned to wash the blood from his hands. The water stung as it wormed its way into the lacerations on his skin, and Julian gritted his teeth as he lathered them in soap. He couldn't do anything more, not here, it was too dangerous, but he was certain. Julian knew that his boss would feel that today had been a failure, but Rasmussen was always a fool. He was too focussed on his experiments and research to see the bigger picture. But he had learned two things today, and that was two more than he could have dared hoped. First of all, there were others out there who knew just as much as they did, if not more. Which meant that Rasmussen was on to something. Perhaps they had not succeeded so far, but it seemed as though they may be on the right path, even if they were not going in quite the right direction. There was still hope. Second, and perhaps most worryingly of all, Harold Duncan had survived the fire that had killed his parents, and the enemy knew exactly where to find him.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on May 4, 2023 23:24:29 GMT -5
So this caduceus organization looks like a religious sect.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on May 17, 2023 13:47:49 GMT -5
Chapter Seven – Folding Stars
The woman was floating, her arms waving desperately around her in the water, trying to reach for help that would not come. There was a stricken look in her eyes, a desperation that could not be understood.
Fiona pressed her hands against the glass circle of the porthole, rapping lightly against the glass, but there was no sound to be heard. It was like her ears were full of cotton wool, muffled and deadened.
She couldn't bear it any longer, she had to get out, to help. She stared restlessly at the woman in the water, and her eyes filled with tears.
'You're too heavy' said the woman, and shook her head sadly.
The water surged upwards, the currents rippling around her, and a great darkness moved between them like a shadow.
Fiona hammered her fists at the glass, harder now, desperately trying to break through, to reach her, but it was useless. And then she saw it. Huge black tentacles were reaching out from the darkness, just as she had seen before, only not here. No, it was somewhere else, she was sure.
The something, the blackness, was dragging her mother toward it, once again stealing her away.
That was when Fiona noticed him, standing far away from their mother, yet somehow his features were so much clearer and sharper, as though he was the only thing that really mattered.
Her brother smiled when he saw her, and raised his hand to wave at her. There were hooks where his hands should be, the left rusted and decaying, the right shiny and new. The locket was resting around his neck, a strange light shimmering from its surface. He looked down at it, surprised to see that it was there, and then he looked back up at her and smiled. His eyes were brilliant white circles, but when he blinked they turned to black. He blinked once more, and they flickered back to white.
She called his name, and he shook his head at her. His lips moved, but no words came out.
And then she heard it, as she expected, the experience now familiar to her.
'What do you want?'
The words whispered loudly in her ear, and then she woke.
For a few moments she laid there with her eyes closed, reluctant to bring herself back to her dismal reality. Her face was half buried in the pillow, and she could smell the sweat of the night biting back at her nostrils.
The dreams had become her constant companion, dogging her relentlessly at every opportunity. Every time she went to sleep she hoped that she would at least be able to gain some kind of understanding as to what they could mean, but to no avail, Her brother was always there, but the situation was always changing. Memories of the past, the horrors of her present, or something yet unknown.
Being awake was not much better than being asleep. Fiona was lost and dejected, with no purpose and no hope. They were getting nowhere, and they would never arrive at their destination, she knew that now. The infection would take them all in the end, and she had no clue what she could do about it. It was an inevitability that was hard to swallow.
Fiona sat up, rubbing her temples angrily. She felt as though she were living with a constant headache, pressure piling itself up against the sides of her skull, rapping noisily to be let in. Sleep only seemed to leave her more drained than she had been while awake. Perhaps she needed to get out of the habit, and simply stay awake until she died.
As she dressed, Fiona noticed the tattoo on her hand was inflamed, red lines running their way up her thumb and down around her wrist. She could see small marks around the edge of the caduceus, as though she had been scratching at it in the night. It was another symptom of her madness, another thing she would have to try and ignore.
She had not seen the stranger again since she had followed him into the room, through a door which was impossible to open. At least she could take some comfort in his absence, though she wasn't sure if not seeing visions anymore was really a sign of recovery or not. It had simply been a dream, or at least that was the best explanation she could work out for herself. But can you dream whilst you're awake?
Either way, the stranger had not put in another appearance regardless of whether or not she was awake or asleep. Fiona had gone back to the doorway several times, but she could not find a way to open it. She could try talking to one of her crewmates, maybe even Tamson would be strong enough to open it, but she was afraid. If they suspected that the infection had reached her and begun to corrupt her soul, then there was nothing that she could say or do that would convince them otherwise. All they needed was an excuse.
It was a cold morning, and the clouds were thick and leaden. When she emerged onto the deck she kept her eyes downcast, avoiding the gaze of anyone she met. The last thing she wanted was a conversation.
It had taken five days for the infection to claim Rommo. They had thrown his body overboard yesterday evening, as the last embers of the sun had dissolved into the ocean spray. There had been a small ceremony, led by Andrew, a young man of noble birth who had been training to become a priest before they had been taken. The service had been the same as all the others; a few scant prayers and readings, before the crew had taken up in a chorus of song, and dispensed the body into the murky depths. Fiona did not care for it.
After the first death, she had felt that such a ceremony would be good for morale, and keep the crew unified and hopeful. But that was then and this was now, and things were so very different to how they had been. There were thirty of them left, almost half of their number were gone, all of them claimed by the sickness. With each new victim, the ceremonies seemed to grow more ostentatious and righteous. She did not trust Andrew one bit, but it was her own fault. She had allowed him to gather too much strength, and she knew that the crew would follow his word over hers if it came to it. They hung on his every word. Pray, he would tell them, and they will find their salvation, their way out, their rescue.
No rescue had come, yet still they prayed, and listened to his advice about what they should do to prevent infection.. Andrew would listen to their concerns, and they would listen to his every word and obey. They trusted him, and yet they did not trust her, and it left Fiona deeply unsettled. Why did she not have their trust? She had not asked for any of this, and yet all the blame was hers. All they needed was an excuse.
Fiona spent most of the day in her cabin, as she so often did, keen to avoid the others. There was nothing she could do, nothing to occupy her mind or to pass the time. For the last week or so she had barely left her quarters except for meal times, and even those had filled her with dread. There was not much longer they could hold out on these rations. Contemplating such a thing was too hard, at least at the moment.
She lay on the covers of her bed, staring up at the ceiling, her eyes drawing lines in the wooden boards. The boat swayed gently from one side to the other, and she picked idly at the flaking skin on the back of her hand.
There was too much to think about, to contemplate. Her mother... Why would she dream of such a thing? The monster that dragged her away, she had that before, but most other times it had been trying to attack her. Why was it suddenly interested in somebody that had died?
Fiona's mother had died when she was young, but she had not seen it. She had never really known her mother, not really. The only memories she had were fogged and distant, sepia-tinted like an old movie. Her brother used to tell her stories when she was younger, whenever she was sad and afraid, and from those Fiona had created an image of what she must have been like, but she had no real way of knowing the truth of it. It was a fiction, one that she used to make herself feel better, but none of it was real.
Hours passed, and Fiona lay in silent contemplation. After a while, Fiona sat herself down on a small wooden stool that was perched next to a sunken wooden desk, She studied her reflection in the small fragment of dirty glass that served her as a mirror. It was not a reflection she was pleased to see.
There were lines creasing her forehead, and when she wrinkled up her face in frustration they only grew deeper and wider. Her long ginger her was thin and fraying, sweat and dirt matting it into long clumps. Her eyes were worn and hollow, thick black circles surrounding them. She seemed older than she remembered, as if she had jumped ahead a few years, like a record skipping. But that wasn't all that was missing.
There were things she could not remember, no matter how much she tried. It was not that she couldn't recall it all, but as though things were in the wrong order, all confused in her head, and they would only make sense once she had put them back in place. It was like trying to fit together the pieces of a puzzle, but nobody had told her what the picture should look like.
There was a knock at the door, and she tensed, feeling like she was being uncovered, before answering 'What?'
'Excuse me ma'am' came a voice from behind the door, polite and calm, and it made her smile. It was Harry, and she walked over to open the door.
She opened the door, and couldn't help but smile at him. Harry seemed to be remarkably unchanged by the events of the last few months, as though the storm had passed him by completely. He didn't seem quite as stressed and worn as the other crewmates.He always seemed to be calm and relaxed, but Fiona wasn't sure if that was out of strength or ignorance. It was as if he was preoccupied, as though his mind had somewhere else to be. Fiona didn't mind. Harry was the only one who didn't seem to scowl every time he saw her.
Harry smiled at her, his deep blue eyes gentle but distant. 'Tamson wants to see you.'
Fiona sighed. Tamson never had anything good to say to anybody, least of all her, but there was no point in refusing him. If she didn't come to him, then he would come to her, and that would have been much worse.
Harry led the way, though it wasn't really necessary, Fiona knew where she would find him. The same place he always is by this time of night.
It was a cool night, and the sky was clear and bright. The pinpricks of starlight were sharp and clear, and the moon was full, casting a whitish glow on their surroundings. Fiona had a sudden urge to simply sit here with Harry, and discuss everything that had happened to them, under the light of the stars. It seemed the perfect evening for quiet contemplation. But they did not have the time for that. Tamson was waiting.
When she entered the ship's hold, Fiona first thought the room was empty, and that Tamson had disappeared whilst Harry had come to find her, but he was there, on the floor, nestled between two wooden crates, their lids torn asunder in a fit of desperation. His eyes were downcast and heavy, pinky red and bloated. He didn't look up when Fiona entered, perhaps he hadn't even noticed she was there.
The diary was sitting in his lap, the words an illegible scrawl stained with tears. There was a bottle of whisky clasped in his hands, it's contents almost empty.
'There ya are.' he said, his voice morose and serene, and he glanced up at her angrily.
Fiona said nothing, and sighed at him, her arms folded.
'Tis the captain!', he exclaimed, a mock joviality, gesturing towards her with the bottle
'What are you doing?' said Fiona, wearily.
'I'm celebrating.' he said, smiling at her mockingly
'There's nothing to celebrate here.'
Tamson chuckled, and then muttered quietly to himself.
'Why am I here?' Fiona asked.
Tamson let out a low groan, and chewed his thoughts over for a moment, as though considering whether or not to proceed. He swirled the bottle around, the liquid spiralling in small motions as he contemplated.
"We have to tell them the truth.' he said finally. 'They have to know.'
'No.' said Fiona, instantly, without hesitation. They couldn't. She had felt it, ever since they had realised. Things were bad enough already, if they knew the truth about what was really happening then... well, they would kill them. Both of them.
It had taken a while for them to understand, or at least from them to realise. Truth be told, Fiona still did not really understand what was happening, only what wasn't. They were lost, completely and irrevocably lost. They were nowhere. They sailed onwards, but there was no destination. When they had set sail they simply wanted to cross the ocean, to get as far away from the organisation as they could. They stole a ship and ran away, but where they had ended up could not be discerned.
They were nowhere, sailing across an infinite land, never to return.
'They'll find out.' said Tamson, softly.
'Only if we tell them.' said Fiona, her arms and face firmly locked against him.
'No.' Tamson shook his head. 'Don't ya see? We're all gonnae die, and when we do....' His voice trailed off into nothing, and he took another gulp from the bottle, wuping his mouth bitterly with the back of his hand.
Fiona reached out, and grabbed for the bottle. Tamson whipped up his other hand, gripping onto hers tightly.
'Don;t you dare.' He growled, the stench of his breath misting against her face.
Fiona stared at him fiercely, and he stared back at her. His eyes were cold and hard, but she could see tears pooling in the corners, and after a few seconds he broke away from her, letting the bottle free of himself.
'If you tell any of them the truth,' said Fiona, as she moved away from him. 'I will potato ing kill you.'
He snorted. 'Gawd, I hope so.'
There was a shuffling of feet and creaking of steps, and Harry pushed his way back into the doors.
'Ma'am' he said, his voice was breathless and his face red and flustered, as if he had been running 'You better come and see.'
'Harry?' said Fiona, slightly put out by his haste. She could shouts and cries coming from above.
'Just....' Harry waved his arm pointlessly. 'You need to come and see. Something's happened.'
A few moments later, they emerged onto the deck. There were some people, two or three of the crew, and they were rushing back and forth frantically. When they caught sight of Fiona, they glared at her.
'What's going on?' she asked.
The men said nothing, one of them shaking his head in disbelief, but they quickly dashed back under cover.
Harry went over to the edge, and pointed out at the sky.
'Ma'am' he said. 'Look at the stars.'
Fiona looked up, the stars shining brightly around her, but could not understand what Harry was talking about.
'Yeah, there are stars. What about it?'
'Look' he said, gesturing over the edge.
'I don't understand.'
Harry pointed down into the ocean, and Fiona peered over the side, but what she saw made no sense. It was impossible..
The sea was gone.
Fiona looked around wildly, her eyes finding themselves lost and confused, all sense of direction a mystery. She looked up at the sky, and realised that the moon was gone, vanished like the waves. There were only stars surrounding them, enveloping them, taking them where they were gone.
They were sailing on a sea of stars.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on May 28, 2023 4:00:00 GMT -5
So this caduceus organization looks like a religious sect. I'm really interested in what makes you say this. You are correct, but I hadn't intentionally signposted this yet. I expcet that i subconciously slipped something in, my brain working ahead of time, and I would be interested in what gave you that perception. After several chapters of set up, I feel that the story really is starting to get underway now. The next chapter really starts to highlight what the thing is about, I suppose. Oh, and Jean, there is a character named after you. I can't really explain why, but once I had the idea it just felt right and there was no going back.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on May 28, 2023 10:24:46 GMT -5
This is really confusing... Reality and dreams seem to be blending together. So this caduceus organization looks like a religious sect. I'm really interested in what makes you say this. You are correct, but I hadn't intentionally signposted this yet. I expcet that i subconciously slipped something in, my brain working ahead of time, and I would be interested in what gave you that perception. After several chapters of set up, I feel that the story really is starting to get underway now. The next chapter really starts to highlight what the thing is about, I suppose. Oh, and Jean, there is a character named after you. I can't really explain why, but once I had the idea it just felt right and there was no going back. And I would be delighted to have a character with my name. It always pleases me, and coming from you, it would be an honor. Regarding the fact that I deduced there is a religious sect... I think I based it on your previous writing, Black Ink, and just thought that maybe you could address that theme again. Furthermore, there is a symbol, a caduceus, that may have a religious meaning in itself.
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on May 28, 2023 10:31:37 GMT -5
I will provide me with a summary here to help me remember some facts, as each chapter is long and I know I'll end up forgetting some things before reading the next one.
1
In the first chapter of "Puzzle," titled "The Atrocity," we find Fiona, the protagonist, amidst maritime chaos during a storm. Something monstrous, possibly with tentacles, is pulling the ship towards the depths. She wakes up startled, realizing that it was all a dream. However, she can't shake off a medallion that her brother Fernald gave her. The story continues with Fiona getting up, confronting the crew about the condition of a sick member, Rommo, and the emerging tensions surrounding her leadership. In the midst of it all, she notices an unfamiliar face that shouldn't be there. The plot, so far, introduces intriguing questions such as the meaning of Fiona's nightmare, the significance of the medallion, the role of her brother Fernald, Rommo's illness, and the presence of the unknown stranger. The issue of Fiona questioning whether she is going crazy or not is also presented.
2 -
In Chapter 2, "Eradicate The Doubt," Fiona is immersed in a tense dialogue with Harry, implying a conflict between them about acknowledging certain realities. This moment of tension is revealed to be a scene in a play, where Fiona is actually an actress named Beatrice rehearsing at the Sebald Theatre. The dialogue turns out to be an exchange between Beatrice and James, her aloof yet attractive co-star.
The theatre is described as old, quaint, and somewhat dilapidated. Beatrice goes to her dressing room under the stage, preferring it to the awkward silence with James. Later, Bertrand, a man with an affectionate relationship with Beatrice, arrives, bringing a newspaper that features the controversy surrounding their upcoming play. The conversation is lighthearted and flirtatious, ending with a passionate kiss.
Bertrand presents Beatrice with a curious gift - a locket, old and ornate, with an eye image on one side. The locket has a damaged casing matching a scar on Beatrice's eyebrow, adding a layer of mystery. When Beatrice opens the locket and examines the photograph inside, she hears a strange voice whispering, "What do you want?" and suddenly disappears.
3 - Chapter 3 titled "All The Way Down" delves into the narrative's protagonist, Harry, exploring an off-limits room in his house. An air of mystery and tension surrounds the room, which bears signs of neglect. The room, a library filled with worn-out books in languages known and unknown to Harry, houses a desk and a comfortable-looking armchair, accompanied by an odd painting and a globe.
Two paintings catch Harry's attention; one depicts a beautiful Edwardian woman, and the other one is a baffling, abstract depiction of the night sky and the sea. After fourteen years of living in the house, Harry's curiosity leads him to explore this forbidden room, mainly because of recent tensions and secretive discussions between his parents regarding his father's mysterious job.
During his exploration, two men associated with his father visit his house urgently. Harry, unable to be a part of their conversation, retreats into the secret room and discovers a program from a theatre on the desk, along with a silver ball and a model of a sailing ship. His exploration is cut short when he hears shouting from outside, and his mother enters the room in panic.
Beneath the carpet, his mother unveils a hidden escape route, urging Harry to descend and not return until it's safe. Unable to comprehend the gravity of the situation, Harry ventures down the ladder into the dark tunnel, feeling a sticky, black, luminous substance on the steps. The tunnel eventually leads him to a dark stone chamber with multiple exits and a pool of the same black substance at the bottom.
Lost, confused, and alone, Harry is left with no choice but to wait in the stone chamber, hoping for his parents to find him. As time passes, he hears a whisper asking what he wants, but finds himself completely alone.
4 - Chapter 4 - "Help Me Be Captain" opens with a morbid scene as Rommo, a character in a grave state, is described. He is visibly ill, and despite attempts by Ned, the crew's closest equivalent to a doctor, his condition continues to worsen. An unknown infection is spreading, which is alarming the crew due to its unknown methods of transmission.
Fiona, presumably the captain, expresses her concern about the contagion and appears to be seeking a solution by studying the symptoms and ramblings of the infected. Rommo's ramblings, however, are incomprehensible to Fiona, and it is unclear whether they are caused by his fever or the mysterious illness. Fiona feels increasingly helpless and frightened, especially when she notices inflammation around Rommo's hand tattoo - a symbol of their shared past, and possibly the source of the illness.
Meanwhile, she is haunted by a man dressed in black from a dream she had three days ago. He is nowhere to be found, but Fiona fears being viewed as unstable and thus being quarantined, should she reveal these visions to her crew. Her worries and frustrations culminate in a conversation with Ned, in which she suggests that they should have thrown Rommo overboard to prevent the spread of the disease. Fiona feels increasingly isolated and burdened by the knowledge of the crew's dire situation, which she has not shared with the rest.
On the deck, Fiona encounters Harry, a crew member who is also feeling sick. She shares a few words with him before returning to her cabin, where she sees the man in black again. She follows him into a room previously sealed, where she finds a room full of barrels. She opens one of the barrels and is startled by its contents. The man in black speaks to her, and just as she affirms her position as the captain, she wakes up, revealing that the encounter was all a dream.
5 - Chapter five, titled "End Of", presents Beatrice trying to open her eyes as she slowly wakes from a dream about the sea filled with strange details she struggles to understand. Beatrice feels disoriented, and only gradually becomes aware of the sounds around her. She is with her companion Bertrand in a park where they've been relaxing after their rehearsals.
Beatrice shares her dream with Bertrand, detailing the surreal experience of being on a boat lost at sea, and feeling as though she inhabited another person. She expresses confusion about the dream's meaning. Their exchange is interrupted by Bertrand's decision to get them ice creams.
While Bertrand is away, a strange elderly woman approaches Beatrice. This woman, who was previously feeding birds, presents Beatrice with a worn envelope addressed to "My Dear Sister". Beatrice initially disputes the relevance of this letter to her, as she has no siblings, but the woman insists she read it. She further surprises Beatrice by discussing the dream she had, the one with a man in white, claiming she has the same dreams.
The woman departs after offering a cryptic piece of advice regarding truth and the 'great unknown', leaving Beatrice to read the letter. The letter, from a dying man who claims to be Beatrice's brother, speaks of a terrible infection, a disastrous experiment by an unnamed organization, and a dire warning about an unstoppable force coming for her. The man suggests that time is against them and everything is nearing its end. The letter also mentions a special key, given by their mother, which is supposed to open the door to heaven, but it's not found in the envelope.
Just as Beatrice finishes reading, Bertrand returns with their ice creams. Despite the normalcy of Bertrand's return, Beatrice feels overwhelmed by the strange events and the dream now feels like a harbinger of some mysterious truth she needs to unravel.
6: revolves around Julian, who attends an auction at the well-regarded Veblen Hall. Despite the scorching summer heat, he is there with a mission - to identify individuals interested in certain items related to the late Augustus Duncan, which his organization has long sought. Julian, through his discrete but keen observation, tries to deduce who could have these items.
Despite the boring items and irksome heat, Julian's focus is unwavered. His intent is captured in detail when a diary belonging to the first mate of the ship, The Prospero, comes up for bidding. He restrains himself from bidding despite the temptation to gauge the reaction of his target, symbolically revealing his patience and restraint.
Once the auction ends, Julian observes his primary target – a man with red hair tied into a bun, dressed elegantly. He follows this man discretely, using his knowledge of the building's layout to his advantage, eventually confronting him in the bathroom. The confrontation leads to a tense dialogue, where the man reveals himself as Fernald Duncan, potentially related to Augustus Duncan. The exchange ends in physical aggression, with Julian attempting to strangle Fernald before being knocked out by a bathroom attendant.
The chapter concludes with Julian nursing his wounds, pondering over the day's events. He concludes that there are others with similar knowledge to his organization and that Harold Duncan, Augustus's son, is alive. Both revelations are significant in the grander scheme of Julian's mission, yet cast an ominous shadow over what's to come.
7 - Chapter Seven titled "Folding Stars" revolves around Fiona, a distressed and bewildered woman grappling with surreal dreams and an abysmal reality.
Fiona’s dreams are a complex web of bizarre and unsettling images, full of desperation and dread. She sees a woman drowning, her mother being dragged away by a monstrous shadow, and her brother with hooks for hands and fluctuating eye color. The brother, seemingly unaffected by the chaos around, gestures to her with a surprising calmness.
Upon waking, Fiona grapples with her harsh reality. She's aboard a ship struck with an epidemic that's claiming the lives of the crew, including Rommo, whose body they recently cast into the sea. Her dreams offer no relief, nor do they provide any clarity about the past, present, or future. Fiona feels lost and despondent, feeling the overwhelming pressure of an inevitable death and the anxiety of an infection she does not understand. She is haunted by a peculiar tattoo on her hand and disturbed by visions of a stranger, making her worry about her sanity.
Fiona is also dealing with a growing distrust among her crewmates. Andrew, once a priest-in-training, has assumed a position of authority, conducting burial services and leading the crew spiritually. Fiona feels alienated and suspects that Andrew's increasing influence may be used against her.
In her solitude, Fiona reflects upon her recurring dreams. She contemplates the depiction of her mother's death and her brother's presence, who usually narrates stories about their mother. She also ruminates over her fading and disordered memories, which add to her existential angst.
A knock interrupts her thoughts, and Harry, a fellow crewmate, informs her that Tamson wants to see her. Despite her aversion towards Tamson, Fiona accompanies Harry. She finds Tamson in a despairing state, drinking heavily and musing over a diary.
Tamson insists on revealing the truth to the crew: they're irrevocably lost, sailing on an infinite expanse with no destination. Fiona vehemently disagrees, fearing that the revelation would lead to their deaths. Their confrontation is cut short by Harry, who urgently calls for Fiona's attention. As she emerges onto the deck, she hears shouts and cries from above... ( There were only stars surrounding them, enveloping them, taking them where they were gone. They were sailing on a sea of stars.)
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on May 28, 2023 14:57:49 GMT -5
Chapter Eight – In The Name of the Wee Man
The dark was drawing in, the power of the candlelight diminishing with each second that passed. The stained glass windows looked washed out and gray, with nothing left outside to make them shine and come alive. It cast a dull red hue on the floor, though it would soon be lost to the murk. There were candles set in sconces around the edges of the room, and a small circlet of light stood to one side. Jean sgooc and watched them for a few moments, the flames dancing and twitching as the room grew ever darker.
It had been a quiet evening, with hardly anything to suggest that something untoward was about to happen, but nonetheless Jean felt apprehensive. Quiet was not always the best thing, and it seemed to draw a tension within him, like a string being pulled back on a bow, poised to fire. He paced restlessly back and forth between the pews, his hands tapping and strumming against the synthetic cup of coffee that was warming his fingertips.
There was a sound, a sudden sharp creak that echoed around the cavernous eaves. Jean glanced down the pews, and saw the door to the chapel easing gently open, and in he walked.
'Harry' said Jean. 'What an unexpected pleasure.'
Harry smiled thinly, but there was no happiness in his eyes. His hair was unkempt and bedraggled, his clothes carrying the weight of that afternoon's rain. Wherever he had been, and whatever he had been doing, he was clearly rattled. The boy had been through a lot, so this was hardly unexpected, but it was still unsettling to see.
'I need guidance, father,' said Harry.
'Of course you do.' Jean smiled, and he gestured towards a seat. 'That's what most of the people who come and talk to me want. It would be nice, I suppose, if once in a while someone wanted to spend time with me because of who I am, not because of what I do.'
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that.'
Neither did I.' Jean laughed, and gestured happily to the nearest pew. They sat down next to one another, alone in the cavernous hall. Jean looked up at the candles, twinkling away as the last moments of daylight crept out of the windows, Harry stared absently into the growing shadows, his thoughts in another place and time altogether.
In the few years since Harry had first come to the monastery Jean had grown particularly fond of the boy. He had been through a lot, and had come out of those things the right way, which was at least one small mercy. He was at a difficult age, and try as he might, Jean could not help but feel as though the boy was his responsibility.
'So Harry, please tell me, how can I guide you?'
Harry kept his eyes low, staring down at the ground, wringing his hands in one another. There was nothing to be gained from pressing the issue. The boy would talk when he was ready.
'I wanted to ask you about the devil.' said Harry, his eyes still fixed downward.
'The devil?' said Jean. 'I see. Well, I'm much more concerned with the other side, if you catch my drift, though I will admit there is quite a bit of overlap. But please, do elaborate.'
'Well.' Harry shifted uncomfortably, as though trying to scratch an itch in the centre of his back. 'I suppose my question is.... well, it seems silly really.'
'Harry, please.' Jean smiled. 'I'm all ears.'
Harry smiled back, biting his lip intently, chewing it over. 'Does the devil really exist?' he asked
Jean frowned. 'What would make you ask such a question, I wonder? Don't get me wrong,' He interjected, seeing Harry's reaction. 'I think it's a perfectly valid question, I'm just interested in where it's come from.'
'There was...' said Harry, but his voice trailed away to nothing. 'No reason, I just have been thinking, that's all.'
'But what made you think?' Jean pressed.'
'Can you answer the question?'
Jean shrugged. 'I'm afraid God doesn't do much in the way of definitive answers. We tend to deal in speculation and guesswork, I do have to admit. The question is, what answer could I give you that would satisfy you? How could I say something that you would believe? And to answer that, to find that right combination of words, it would help if I knew exactly where that question is coming from. I can help you reach the destination if I know at which stop you boarded the train.'
Harry sighed, and shifted around in his seat. Jean remained still, his eyes fixed at the glass windows.
'I saw something,' said Harry. 'Well, not so much saw, but heard. And it..... it made me doubt myself, I suppose.'
Jean nodded. 'I imagine there's no benefit to gain from asking what you saw, because I would imagine it's not something you could accurately describe? Am I correct?'
Harry nodded.
'Okay.' Jean sighed, and took another sip of the coffee. The liquid was cold and thick, but tasted good nonetheless. 'Does the devil exist? It's a perfectly valid question but, really, does it need to be answered?'
'Huh?' said Harry, but Jean raised a hand of silence.
'When I was young, not much older than you as it happens, I liked to ask all the wrong questions. I see a lot of similarities between you and me, actually. We both come from a similar background, we both lost our parents at a young age. We even share the same star sign, if you care for that sort of thing. And In you I see a common similarity, a trait to question that which should not, in some people's opinions, be questioned.
'Now, that's all well and good, but as I've already said, religion and definitive answers don't really mix. When I began my training to become a priest, we would take lessons in theology and philosphy, to analyse the teachings and lessons of God, and to decipher the greater and hidden meanings, all that stuff. It was an opportunity to discuss such things and to question the unquestionable in ways that would not normally arise, and to ask questions such as... does the devil exist?
'I should say that it was only in my eagerness to impress - and in my naïve and inexperienced view – that I would argue that when the chips are down, and in the grand scheme of things, the devil didn't really matter. God is what is important, and that is what we should focus on, especially if we are asking questions on truth and reality. The devil is neither here nor there, god is what we are all here for, and that's what we should be focusing on. Everything else is just so much ballast, and we should not lose our focus.
'That was not to say, of course, that the devil as a concept does not have its uses. Nothing turns people to god quicker than the thought of burning in hell for all eternity. That's always been God's problem – he needs to work on his marketing strategies. The Devil has got that one sewn up. Anyhow, I would argue that if we were to examine the subject too closely, and find out that the devil was nothing but propaganda, a concept we had created to better our ends, well, it wouldn't really be in our best interests. Nobody would want to be the one to burst that bubble, so let the lie continue, and hope that nobody looks too hard.'
'So you don't believe he exists?' Harry interjected.
'I'm not finished,' said Jean sharply. 'Back then I was naïve and foolish, and thought that I knew better than anybody else, as we all do at that age. And then you grow older, and you experience things that gnaw away at your naivety, Many years later, I spent a great deal of time working as a missionary. I would travel the world, and we would give aid and assistance to those who needed it, all whilst spreading the good lord's word as far and wide as possible. Nothing opens your eyes quite like travel, and although I could bore you with tales of that time all evening, there was one experience that redefined my thoughts on this subject more than any other.
'When we were in Peru, we came across a small village in the middle of nowhere. The people of the village were kind and decent people, who knew nothing of our religion or ways. Not that it mattered, that is not what we were there for. There was an elderly man in the village, as old as anything you could imagine, he must have been at least a hundred. The people of the village revered this elder, almost worshipping him as if he were a god.
'I spoke with the man every night that we stayed in the village, and I learned a great many things from him. He spoke no English, but it didn't seem to make any difference. We learned to communicate, because his heart was pure and open. He was wise, and kind, and gentle, in a way that I could never hope to be. He was a truly kind and decent man, of the kind that my young and ignorant mind had never expected to find in this part of the world.
'It was on our last night in the village that a militia came upon them. When they arrived, the villagers fled and hid inside their huts, scared to even step outside. But not the elder. He walked up to them with open arms, their guns trained on him, without a single trace of fear in his eyes. He begged the men to just put down their weapons and go home. The chief, this big muscle of a man, took one look at the elder, and laid down his gun.
'The chief and the elder went into his hut, arms around one another as though they were brothers. They stayed inside for what must have been hours, I can't be sure. I don't know what they spoke about, but when they came out, they embraced each other like old friends, shaking hands and declaring peace amongst their peoples.
'The elder called the rest of the villagers out of their huts, to celebrate their newfound alliance and to join their new friends. And then, the chief slaughtered the elder, in front of the entire village. He butchered him, hacking him apart into a thousand pieces, while everyone who knew and loved him watched.
'So, to answer your question. Yes, I do believe the devil exists. He exists inside all of us, and it saw it that day, in that man's eyes. It was an evil that cannot be described, that cannot be controlled or contained or tempered, and I know it to be real.
'When I saw those things, it made me understand my role in this world. Whenever I tell this story to people – and believe me, I am unfortunate enough to have told it many times over – they always tell me that I was unlucky, that it was a terrible thing to have witnessed. That is not the case. I understood, in that moment, that not only does the devil exist, but that I must do everything in my power to prevent that evil from growing inside us all, spreading to others, like a sickness, before it consumes the entire world.
'Which is why, to bring this back to you my friend, I am so concerned when you come into my chapel and ask such questions of myself.' Jean shifted in his seat so that he was facing Harry. 'Because if you've seen the devil, that I need to know, so that I can do everything in my power to help.'
Harry avoided Jean's gaze, his features tense and fraught. He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair in frustration.
'I found them.' said Harry, as if trying to change the subject. 'The organisation that you told me about.'
Jean sighed, closed his eyes, and stood up. He walked over to the stained glass window, and placed his hand delicately on the cold surface.
'Erit Lux.' said Jean. 'Let there be light, indeed. And how did you do that?'
'I met someone at the auction.' said Harry, his eyes still avoiding Jean's gaze. 'It's like I said, I know they had something to do with my parents murder.'
'Indeed.' said Jean, his hand now tracing the stained glass window, the image of two snakes surrounding a caduceus. 'Rassmussen will stop at nothing. It seems that we may have more to fear than simply the devil.'
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on May 28, 2023 15:57:10 GMT -5
I will provide me with a summary here to help me remember some facts, as each chapter is long and I know I'll end up forgetting some things before reading the next one. Thanks so much for this. I think its really useful to see the story from an outsiders perspective. Tahere doesn't seem to be anythign amiss here; perhaps a thing or two that has passed you by, but thats no issue, and one thing I had forgotten about. With this chapter and the confirmation of Erit Lux as a recurring concept, I feel I should clarify that this is not a sequel or set in the same universe as Black Ink. It is perhaps a spiritual succesor, taking its themes and developing them more fully. I have said before that I feel this will be my last fanfic, and partly that is because it is a summation and culmination of everything I have to say on the themes of death, time, and the great unknown.
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Post by Isadora Is a Door on Jun 14, 2023 3:18:26 GMT -5
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Post by Optimism is my Phil-osophy on Jun 14, 2023 14:47:39 GMT -5
Oh, I will read it, just a moment.
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