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I am the storm.
Gently do I tear across the land, a blizzard of roaring intent. All across the tundra soldiers look to the sky in awe and terror at my howling rush, only to stoop and avert their eyes lest they gain my notice. Tribes of yeti flee for their caves at the sight of me, doing all they can to weather my passing. Wolves let out mournful cries, and even greater beasts snarl as they turn away from the kingdom of eternal winter and the perpetual tempest that flows through it.
I am the storm.
Where I go, a thousand upon a thousand fingers of ice follow. They rip and slice through the world, the only evidence of my wandering the broken corpses left in my wake. Screams and blood intermingle with their ringing chime, freezing within moments to join the onslaught of my body.
In time even this fades away, vanishing in the endless swirl and leaving only the dim light reflected across my multitudes. I outshine the stars, the pale sun set in a sky forever clouded and the silver moon as it dances across the heavens but paltry things in the face of my radiance. For that is what is demanded, that I be both terrible and beautiful.
A scourge need not be unsightly. That is what she said to me. I am the reminder, the ever-present expression of her will.
I am…
“Come to me, my champion.”
My lady reaches out her hands, and I am held within her grasp. I swirl between her fingers, filling the crevices as I look up at her with countless eyes reflecting her glow. She smiles, but I know this to be a mask. I would not be called unless she required something, and that means I will be directed in my slaughter.
There is a pulse from deep within, a quiet whisper raging. But the words are lost within the squall, just another cry joining the millions locked inside the shrieking gale and the ringing peal of ice upon ice. Within moments there is a burst of depthless cold, greater even than my own, and the sensation ends.
This, as all things, does not bother me. Nothing bothers me, for I cannot be distracted from my purpose. I am but a tool to be used for her satisfaction. It is all I live for, all that I am and will ever be. There is nothing else.
“I have a task for you, my champion,” my Queen says, walking across halls lined with frost. “My handmaiden has done something foolish.”
I do not speak as she carries me through her castle. She does not address me, for she asks no question and expects no answer. My Lady only speaks to herself, as she so often does, and expects those around her to anticipate her desires.
She leans down, bringing her face to my swirling violence. Her smile widens, but as we pass from the hall into a room filled statues of resplendent crystal I see the fury boiling within her eyes. It steams off of her like mist, taking shape in the shuddering terror of the air and the silent wails of the castle with her every step.
Her hands clench, ever so softly, and agony erupts throughout the entirety of my being. It is like fire, like the weight of a mountain pressing down and threatening to break me apart until nothing but dust remains. But I have not been given leave to speak, so I remain silent even as her rage sends cracks throughout the bedrock and the expressions of the statues warp in muted horror.
“Those I have sent to retrieve her have failed, and my patience is growing thin. Find her, my champion, and bring her back to me.” Now the smile grows beyond her face, revealing teeth that shine in the moon’s light coming from the windows above. “She must be reminded of certain truths.”
We approach a spire of ice, the front of which has been crafted into a bench upon rests an armored figure. Tall and strongly built, he looms even while seated. Great pauldrons hold up a frayed cape that flows around the still form like water, hugging the breastplate lined with angular carvings reminiscent of snowflakes fading into each other.
The face and the helm bleed together, cheek guards curving inward so only the nose and mouth can be seen within its depths. But even so hidden I cannot fail to notice that strong chin, the outline of eyes closed beneath the blue jewel set at the base of the spikes making a lopsided crown. For this is my face, and even so disconnected I would never forget its shape.
My Queen places me next to my mouth and I breathe myself in. Awareness shifts, my diffuse consciousness coming into sharp focus as I settle into my flesh once again. The pillar trembles, pieces crumbling away as I slowly rise only to kneel before her.
For several moments my Lady does nothing but look down at me, her eyes narrowed. By now her anger has settled, resting fully within herself rather than spreading out into the world. But from the pulsing cold within my chest I know it has not lessened, the burning chill of my heart an ever-present reminder of her desires.
“Tell me, my champion,” she says at last, barely above a whisper. “Do you remember the promise you made to me so many years ago?”
“Promise, my Lady?” I ask in a voice of howling wind and cracking ice. “Please forgive me, for I cannot recall.”
She frowns. “It’s not important. Simply focus on your task and bring back my handmaiden. Nothing else matters.”
I nod and I rise, for I am her champion.
But as I leave my Queen’s presence, in moments walking from that room of tortured sculptures to the outside of the palace gates, I am still the storm. I take a single step, and the ground vanishes beneath me. The trail is fresh, worn into the snow without any subtlety or care for stealth. The handmaiden flees with the hope that speed will save her.
It won’t.
Another step, and the wind that is myself roars inside of my ears. The air trembles, and serfs flee screaming to seek whatever protection they can at the sight of my arrival. But my attention is not on them. It is only on the task demanded of me, on the duty I have been given by my Lady. A crime has been committed that demands answer, and I am the bloody hand of justice.
A part of me recoils at this, more whispers raging against the unyielding truth of my existence. I almost stumble as once more my heart flashes with frigid power, silencing these errant distractions and leaving me with clarity of purpose. The trail continues, and so I carry on.
Idly I notice the burned out hulks of my Queen’s servants as I take another step, approaching the edge of her territory. Great war machines ripped apart to crash into the ground, smoldering as bloody fuel and ammunition cooks off before finally going cold as all things must in this place.
This happened recently. An attack? No, this isn’t one of Summer’s weapons. Some other enemy, perhaps? I will need to venture forth and give answer for this insult.
That is a task for another time, however. I top a rise and see my quarry in the distance, the handmaiden riding in one of my Queen’s favorite chariots toward the towering wall of thorns that marks the barrier between limitless possibility and placid stagnation. She is almost there, so close to escape. In just a few moments she will tear through the Hedge and finding her will become an almost insurmountable trial.
This is unacceptable. I reach out my hands and call forth the fullness of my power. The chill, already so great as to drown the unwary in their own breath, increases a million fold as I extend my will in a cascade of blue and green light through the storm that is myself. For a brief instant the light swirls out from me, and then goes perfectly still.
The falling snow stops in place, shimmering motes hanging suspended in midair. The wind, my wind, ceases its roar. Cold encroaches on everything, smothers all things within its embrace. Reality waits within the span of an eye blink, a single beat of the heart. Between one moment and the next, unable to advance and thus waiting forever for a continuation that will never come.
Time is motion, movement through space. And now time, like the world, freezes solid within the perfection of absolute zero.
But my Queen’s chariot has its own function, to break all barriers in order to take its occupants where they desire. Even now it still moves, though only as if through mud. Straining, ripping apart air forced to stillness, the vehicle releases a screech that dies mere inches from its origin. The chariot resists the pull of frozen time, wheels turning desperately to make that final push toward the Hedge.
It is a futile gesture. I move down from the hill, snowflakes shattering on my breastplate as I pass. The handmaiden will not make it to the wall of thorns. She will not escape judgement.
A flash erupts, leaving me blind as the world is engulfed in atomic fire. Heat washes over me, digging into the cracks of my armor and forcing its way down my eyes and mouth. My skin flakes away under the onslaught, wafting away along with steam and smoke in the wind as my grip loosens. Time resumes, freed from limitless ice by the inferno wrought from the splitting of atoms and the riotous pull of entropy.
Cancerous power pushes down on my shoulders, eating away at the edges of my body and mind. Claws dig into my flesh, trying to rip me apart from the inside. I feel blood pooling in my lungs, flowing past my lips, but it is of little consequence. I have no need to breathe, and with an effort of will I force the devouring intensity aside.
Vision returns quickly as I stand, just in time to see the chariot plow through the Hedge and away from my grasp.
I have failed.
No, I cannot fail. I cannot fail my Queen.
I must-
Another wash of fire, and I am almost thrown back as it pushes away the first mushroom cloud with fresh conflagration. I allow myself the echo of a scowl as I search for the source of this attack, and find it quickly in the form of one of my Lady’s jets. Sleek wings merge with the long dragon’s neck, missiles held in grasping claws. It looks down on me, jaws opening to release a metallic screech as its engines flare.
What withered, cowardly thing sits within the confines of that metal shell, so willing to betray our lady? No doubt this is the reason for the earlier wreckage. The dragon circles high overheard, bearing down on me once again through the holocaust that has overtaken my surroundings.
This is a mistake. There is no flame that can withstand me.
I raise my hands and the blaze inverts, the outlines of scalding heat compressed into spires of ice. The storm that is myself is unleashed upon the world, and as I spread my hands wide my shout is like a hurricane. Frost flows from me in all directions like breaking waves of ice. And as I clench my fists, the great glacial flower shatters into countless bladed petals.
A tempest of frozen knives engulfs the rebel jet, the crash of thunder following close at its heels. Metal and flesh tear apart in bursts of fire and gore, its own missiles turned against it as they rupture inside their housings.
The dragon spins wildly, trailing smoke that curls in mad spirals as it tries to remain airborne. But the damage I have inflicted is too great. Leaking blood and oil, the war machine wheels away. The snow shakes beneath my feet as it slams down deep in the Hedge.
Those brambles gather close as I approach, the path the chariot has taken almost entirely overgrown. Even the ice and snow seems to veer away from the thorns, only a light dusting of white managing to find purchase. But I can still see some trace of where the handmaiden has gone, the winding trail taken in her mad dash for freedom.
Freedom. The very idea brings confusion. Why would the handmaiden desire to leave the presence of our Queen? She was favored, held above all others. Her every need fulfilled, her every wish granted. Even my own actions were held at her direction, with many battles brought to swift conclusion through her prophetic vision.
It makes no sense that she would run away.
Another surge of winter’s breath from within smothers my bewilderment. I bask in that chill, let it soothe my burns and bring new vigor to aching limbs. It doesn’t matter why the handmaiden has fled. All that matters is that I complete my task, that she is brought back to our Lady’s mercy.
Which means I must embark on a journey. I reach out a hand toward the Hedge, and the thorns almost seem to leap in greeting. They crawl up my arm like spiders, scratching across my armor and finding the spaces rent open by the earlier bombing. I cannot help but wince at the pain this brings, the burst of agony that reaches beyond the physical and rips into the very essence of my being. Not even the reassuring intensity within my heart can suppress it, clarity momentarily broken by daggers no shield can deflect.
I unleash my storm, pushing against the barbs and forcing them away. Reluctantly the Hedge pulls back, thorny vines overtaken by the purity and power of ice as I walk within its depths. In moments I am locked within a world of thorns that creep ever closer to draw blood. But that is unimportant, and I observe the signs of my quarry through the trenches dug by my Lady’s chariot.
The Hedge warps and shifts as I follow the path, forcing my way through the thorns even as they rake across my armor and dig into my flesh. Only the blizzard that is as much a part of me as my body grants any sort of protection, and even that breaks upon the countless scything blades that makes up the great barrier between realms. Thousands of snowflakes, each as sharp as swords, are left skewered and screaming upon the thorns as I advance, pieces of me dying so that I might take just one more step.
Onward I walk upon a winding road barely as wide as my shoulders. Time stretches and compresses in turns, the sun fading quickly while the moon lingers in the sky. Shadows dance wildly around me, their mocking laughter rising and falling in time with the light wrestling its way through the canopy. I ignore their whispers, their misleading taunts on where the handmaiden has gone. The words of shadows cannot be trusted, especially within the Hedge.
Crimson follows behind me, pooling into every footprint. Slow and sluggish, my blood trickles through the gaps in my armor to paint the cracked plate and broken chain. This path, such as it is, is bought with both my body and my spirit. A price I pay without complaint. The growing pain is inconsequential, the weight of my limbs meaningless. There is only my duty. It is all that matters.
I am the champion. I do not fall.
But it is becoming ever more difficult to push through. The trail… I cannot see the trail anymore. It is lost beneath the ocean of thorns and clinging vines, the grasping branches and the clawing undergrowth. But I must be close now. I have to be close, for I can feel the stagnant pressure of the mortal world just out of reach. Just a little further…
I stumble out into moonlit night that is quickly overcome by storm clouds, my presence bleeding out as much as it can within this static world. It pushes down on me, fights against the full breadth of my nature. With a deep breath I pull my power closer, mist rising as my wounds freeze over. The bleeding ebbs as the cracks in my armor slowly seal shut, and I take a moment to settle into my recovery.
The forest I emerged from surrounds a field of trimmed grass, and nearby there is a small grouping of ponds where the reflection of my storm dances across their surfaces. The fading remnants of the Hedge pulls away, thorns vanishing back into shadows and vines into the ground. Within moments there is little sign of the incursion, leaving this space of carefully tailored nature pristine and unblemished.
In the near distance I see spires of stone and glass rise to scrape against the sky, and beyond that water as far as the eye can see. I can hear the waves lapping against the shore, a calm rhythm that refuses be to be drowned out by the sounds of the city, and smell its scent even through the overwhelming stink of life.
Massive, full of people pressed tightly together, the handmaiden could be hiding in any number of places. Assuming, of course, she is even in this city at all. With an effort of will I bring my storm lower, snow beginning to fall as the temperature rapidly lowers. Frost spreads across the ground around me, grass dying within the sudden onset of my touch.
I will need to be thorough before moving on.
Sudden agony overwhelms me, fire hotter than any I have endured ripping through my body and pushing back even the winter certainty within my heart. A scream, my own echoed by another, tears from my lips and I fall to one knee as the pressure of this stagnant realm increases. My storm, so immense as to spread out for miles, now barely extends past this manmade glade.
Across the field, toward the ponds, I see four figures. One is kneeling, her face in her hands, the others forming up protectively around her as I rise. Throbbing pain courses through me, my storm undulating in time with the ache behind my eyes. The wind howls as I flex my hands, approaching these impediments. I am the champion. I cannot be stopped.
For a moment the world blurs, and I have to grasp one of the trees to keep from falling over again. When my vision clears, I see more easily what has gotten in my way. The older man is one of my Lady’s toys, a book in one hand and a clear crystal orb in his other. Power radiates off that sphere like a heat haze. Somehow it is making everything more solid, bringing the weight of reality down upon the fluid chaos that animates my being.
The other two are also of my Lady, though in different ways. I recognize the lanky man as one of her hounds, a knife held easily in his hand as he interposes himself between the group and myself. The other resembles my liege, sharp features and cold eyes looking toward me through a patchwork of scars and tattoos.
“Hey, Ryan,” says the woman who resembles my Queen. I recognize her now. She is one my Lady spoke of on occasion, the disappointing one. “You look like death warmed ov-”
I throw my storm at the sorcerer. Blades of ice rip into his exposed flesh and stick in his armored vest. They send him flying through the air, tumbling into the water. But they should have ripped him to pieces, rendered him down to so much shredded meat. He sputters, bleeding into the water as he flounders toward the shore.
What have these creatures done?
A terrible, clenching pull wrests my storm away from me as the hound rushes forward. I stumble, looking to the sky as the clouds roil, another will contesting against my own. I barely have time to realize what the tattooed woman has done before the hound closes the distance. A blade of ice forms as I swing my hand down, my enemy intercepts with his knife and-
The knife cuts cleanly through my blade and armour both, coming apart as like cloth beneath the razored edge. I stagger back as pain becomes my world.
“Iron?” I whisper. “You dare bring iron against me?”
His lips pull back in a smile. “Nobody here plays fair, Ryan.”
I lash out, another sword forming in my hand. It sings with the chime of the wind through icicles, a ringing note that echoes wide and far. But the hound has already leapt away, just barely escaping the frozen edge. I step forward only to almost be taken off my feet as the gale whips up around me, the remains of my cape billowing out to drag me away.
In that time the hound has returned to a shape resembling that which our Lady required. He rushes at me, a wolf as tall as my shoulder with the knife between his teeth, and slams right into my chest. What remains of my breastplate shatters as I tumble, the hound staying close all the while. Claws rake my exposed flesh, ripping it apart and leaving it hanging in tattered strips as my blood pools to freeze upon the ground.
With a grunt I throw him off, struggling to rise. But in gaining distance I allowed my enemy to reposition himself. The hound comes in low, the knife in his jaws crossing my hamstring. My leg buckles beneath me and I fall, barely holding back a cry as my enemy shifts back to his human form.
“Just give up, man,” the hound says. “You’ve lost. Stay down and it’ll hurt less.”
He comes close, knife held high, and I seize my chance. Pain means nothing. Weakness means nothing. I am the champion, and I do not fall. The only sin is failure, the displeasure of my Lady. Nothing else matters, and if I should perish here it will be in her service.
I push through my weakness and close my hand around the hound’s arm as he brings down the knife. My knee is a bundle of agony, a blazing sun that renders me blind. But my enemy has come within my reach. Sight is inconsequential. I clench my hand tight, and the hound’s arm shatters with an audible snap. He screams, a sound that cuts off as I throw him to the ground and loom with one closed hand raised.
“Heel.”
“Did you just-”
My fist comes down with the weight of my Queen's authority, and the earth itself trembles. A spider's web of cracks radiate out from the depths of the crater in which he lies, my gauntlet buried in his stomach. He coughs blood, his good hand reaching weakly for his blade.
A wrenching heave tosses the hound into the tree line. One buckles and falls beneath his weight. He curls with a whimper around broken ribs, the iron knife far from his hand.
I turn to the last one standing even as the wind picks up, sending up debris to batter at me. The tattooed witch, the disappointing one… She has taken control of the storm. My storm. This self-contained blizzard, this hurricane that is my spirit, instead moves at her command.
Once more there is a flash of arctic power within my chest, stifling my irritation and the strange relief at my constraint. I have no time for either emotion, no time for anything save the task I have been given. This pitiful, meager thing that looks so much like my Queen… She was close to my quarry once.
“Where is the handmaiden?” I demand, limping toward her. “Tell me where she is, and I will spare you.”
“Ryan, I love you,” the witch shouts, hands held palm up as the shine of Glamor connects her to nature’s power. “But if you don’t get off me I’m going to turn your chest into mulch so help me God!”
Wind buffets me, drawing a hiss from my lips as I’m forced to put more weight on my crippled knee. Shards of ice slide off harmlessly even as stones the size of my fist crash against my exposed skin, fresh bursts of agony igniting behind my eyes. Branches tear from trees to shatter across my legs, grass clinging to my feet to hold me back.
I keep marching through all of it, the center of a maelstrom tearing me apart. For I am the champion and I do not fall. Step by step I come closer, one leg dragging behind me. The witch stares at me with wide eyes, as if she cannot believe I am forcing my way through. She holds that expression right until I backhand her across the face, my gauntlet splitting her lip as she topples over.
There is no part of me that is untouched. My armor is cracked and broken, my flesh torn and bruised. Pain travels across my nerves in a million different flavors, each unique in the torment they bring. But as I form a spear of ice in my hand I know I have won. The witch’s power is spent, and she can barely manage to look up at me as I prepare the killing blow.
The punch takes me completely unawares. Stars spring to life in my vision as iron rings shatter my helm and send me stumbling. Only the haft of my spear keeps me from falling over, digging into the ground only to shatter beneath my weight. I turn toward this latest distraction, hands clenching into fists.
It is the one who was kneeling before. An older woman, wavy red hair falling to her shoulders around an angular face as she brings her closed hands up in a guard. She brims with power. My power. She is me, and I am her, but we are not each other.
For a moment I can do nothing but stare, confusion overwhelming even the touch of my Lady deep within my heart. Who is this person? I feel I should know her, but we have never met. Even still, now that we are this close I cannot deny the connection. Glamor and Wyrd link our souls together, even through the iron weapons laced through her fingers.
Slowly, with what little strength remains to me, I raise my hands in a stance to match her own. For some reason this brings a smile to her face, and my confusion only grows. We circle each other slowly, her from caution and myself from my maimed leg. Edging ever closer, we are almost within arm’s length when she speaks.
“Do you remember what Mama Eileen said?”
Her voice is soft, and as familiar as everything else about her. And her words… I know that name. It brings memories of a warm house, the smell of alcohol. Of an old woman with a kindly smile and love so vast it could take in the whole world. Love that I have felt before. Love I know has comforted me during my darkest hours.
It is so familiar, and yet so completely alien. I am the champion. I cannot have lived in such a place, known such a woman. Ever and always I serve my Lady. But even still warmth grows within the eternal chill raging beneath my skin, like a spark set upon dry tinder.
What is happening to me?
“About our hands? About being better than our father? She said she’d haunt us if we didn’t do right by the ones we love.” Her smile grows sad. “She’s gone, Ryan, and I promised her I’d remind you so she wouldn’t have to.”
I stop dead, ignoring the stabbing sensation in my leg. My vision swims and this time it isn’t just from the pain, but from the tears gathering at the edges of my eyes. I do not need to breathe, and yet I find myself choking. Swaying, I try to hold onto my balance as the world seems to shift beneath me.
I don’t… None of this makes sense! And yet the anguish, hot and fresh, almost sends me to my knees.
“I’m sorry, Ryan,” she continues, dropping her guard as she comes closer. “Family isn’t supposed to hurt family. But we can stop now. You can stop now.” She brushes her fingers through my hair, holding my head steady. “Just let us help you. Please.”
My fists open slowly, and with trembling fingers I reach for her face. That familiar face I have seen only in the reflective sheen of frozen water.
A flash of cold clenches my heart in a vice, and my hands lower to snap around her throat. The woman gasps, hands coming up around my wrists, but I have leverage now and force her toward the ground. But even through the pain, the desperate struggle for air, she smiles at me through her tears…
No. It didn’t happen like this. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. But I’m killing Rylie. I’m killing her and the Queen’s laughter is filling my ears and I can’t move, can’t do anything but watch her die with that smile on her face. Her hands drop to her sides as she closes her eyes, and inside of my head I’m screaming.
Cartilage crunches beneath my fingers as Penny shrieks, trying to pry me off of her. Hamid joins, hands around my neck to pull me back. They might as well be trying to lift a car for all the good it does. But I want them to succeed. I want them to take Bart’s knife and ram it into my throat. Better I die than Rylie. Better I was never born than kill her like this.
I need to wake up. Please, God, let me wake up. Wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeupwake
o\O/o
Ryan awoke with a strangled cry, clawing at the air. The yell was lodged in his throat, struggling to get out, and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. He kicked off the blanket and rolled to the side, gasping for breath as he fell to the floor.
The frost broke beneath his weight, and through blurry eyes he saw his cramped, spartan room was covered in a thin sheet of ice. His bed, his bookshelves and his small television set, coated in rime that was already melting. But he had little care for that, not in the face of his fear.
Fear, real and raw. It was so bitter and yet so sweet. He desperately reached for it, to hold that terror close. It was so incredibly real, breaking through the frigid contours of his thoughts to blaze like a star. But in attempting to grasp that feeling he pushed it away, and it slipped through his fingers like sand.
In moments his breathing leveled, as did the frantic beat of his pulse. He rose and took stock of the room, and with a wave of his hand Ryan willed the ice back to him. There was enough flash-frozen moisture to form a solid block little bigger than his fist, and the activity provided a useful distraction from the throbbing pain coming from the blackened scar over what used to be his heart.
It hadn’t happened that way. He knew this, had memories of the battle with his friends after coming to Chicago. He could even recall the echo of that overwhelming rage, the fire that had driven him to rip open his chest and shatter the Queen’s power with a final, beautiful moment of defiance.
But could he trust those memories?
How much of what he recalled was real? How much wasn’t? Was his nightmare the truth, and his recollections a lie? Did such questions even truly matter anymore? When one walked the path of the Wyrd the lines between reality and fantasy blurred, mixing together until all that remained were mysteries that faded away like mist in the morning’s light.
Ryan needed a lifeline, something to hold onto so he could anchor himself with solid surety against the crashing waves of his doubt. Without that his mind would continue on in circles until he drove himself insane.
He picked up his phone and dialed a number with trembling fingers. Ryan paused briefly to take note of that, and gently brushed against those lingering embers of terror. The shudder that tore through him provided a strange comfort as a familiar voice answered on the other end of the line.
“Ryan?” Rylie mumbled, not even half awake. “It’s barely past six in the morning.”
“I know, and I apologize,” he replied, faint relief mixing in with the remains of his fear. He was disappointed as both quickly vanished, leaving him with nothing but the chill memory they had ever been there at all. “I was just hoping you would be free to have breakfast. It’s been some time since we’ve seen each other.”
“We met up last week. What’s…” Rylie trailed off, perhaps catching some hint of his anxiety, and took a deep breath before letting it out in a sigh. “All right, let’s aim for around nine.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s no problem,” she said. “Just so long as you pay for the coffee. Now let me get some sleep!”
A click, and the call ended. Ryan set the block of ice in his bathroom sink and returned to his bed, sitting on the edge as he watched the slowly brightening sky. He stayed there to make sure the sun would rise, and then prepared to go about his day.
There was much to be done once breakfast was finished.