Scene Archives

enters the Liminal Library in a fey–some might say foul–mood. He immediately paces the perimeter of the main room, eyes casting about, but not finding what they’re looking for. It’s been a night’s sleep since his meditation that sent his soul wandering–a sleep broken by fragmented dreams; shattered shards of memory that sliced his hands when he tried to grip them. Wakefulness brought little relief–just a return to the dull, yearning ache in his chest, that slowly twisted and transformed into something like a crawling pressure inside his bones, impatient and pushing to get out. Like the feeling of an incipient storm across his skin, an energy building and waiting to break. And so, the Library, looking for something, unsure of what it would be, even were it right in front of him.

: “Yes, thank you, if I knew what I wanted…” He paces again, once clockwise, once widdershins, red coat swirling around his legs. Finds himself coming to a stop in front of a particular bookshelf, with its multi-colored tomes. “No, I don’t want to go to the kitchen…”

: “I don’t need a snack, I need…I need…rrrgh!” He’s mostly not listening, running fingers distractedly through his hair, gripping there for a moment. He forces himself to take a deep breath, then another. To bear and sit with the pressure in his bones, and not try to push it away. “I want…” Wolf trails off for a long moment, eyes closed tight, as if trying to glean some sense from his racing thoughts. ⁂

Suddenly, looking up at the bookcase: “I want to move forward.” 🙧

looks at it for a long moment. Reaches out, brushes his fingers down the spine. Grips it. Pulls.

presses his hand to the door–feels something in him thrum in response; feels the door shift, ever so slightly. He pushes, and it opens onto… ⁂

…a stone-paved pathway, leading to a stone-paved round not far in the distance, ringed by marble pillars united by a topping circle of stone. All else is shadow and blackness–even above. No light to be seen, yet the stone gleams clearly, as if beneath the light of the full moon. ⁂

steps forward and through the door without thinking, without hesitating. He is neither surprised nor startled, somehow, when the Door swings silently shut behind him–nor when a glance behind him confirms that the stone Door is no longer there. Behind him is only black–though it does not yawn like an abyss. It waits. Wolf moves forward. ⁂

stops at the edge of the stone-paved round. The cobbles are even and smooth, carefully chosen–or carved–to radiate out from a center disc like widening rays. Around the edge is a raised lip of white marble, atop which rest six columns of gracefully-shaped stone. Tall but not towering, they support a ring of stone the same diameter as the circle, held above it like a halo. Where the path meets the raised edge, there is a gap–precisely placed between two pillars, which frame it like a gate. Here, at the edge, Wolf stops–not yet stepping into the circle. It waits, just like the darkness. ⁂

knows, instantly, innately, in his bones–bones now weighty with waiting, like the darkness and the stone–that to cross the threshold is to begin. And things must begin correctly. ⁂

removes his coat, folds it carefully, and sets it beside the path. Then his soft-soled boots, and his socks–the stone beneath his feet pleasantly cool–and, after a moment of consideration, his shirt. They sit neatly on top of nothingness–though, he supposes, in this space, accessed from the Library, none of his clothes are probably strictly real in any case. Wolf faces the circle. Steps up to the very edge. Steps in. 🙧

feels the stillness in his body–not a breath of air stirs his hair, or brushes across his bare shoulders. It settles around him, that feeling of incipience multiplying beneath his skin. Of the world entire…listening. Waiting. ⁂

steps, wolf-silent, to the center disc–perfectly smooth beneath his feet, perfectly round. He looks around. “And now…what?” His voice sounds muted, almost muffled, even to his own ears. Even the sound of his own breathing seems distant, hushed. Still the darkness waits, and the pressure in his bones pulses once, thrums. ⁂

draws a soft breath, and hums a low tone, deep in his throat. It ripples out from him, as if reality itself was a still pool briefly made to shimmer by an incautious step. It lingers–not echoing, but holding in his throat for longer than it should, drawing on something deep within him, before falling off into silence. But it still rings, faintly, in his bones, in his ears, as if–for just a moment–the stones themselves had been a tuning-fork. 🙧

knows, suddenly, how to begin. But where to begin? For the beginning must be correct, else all after it be crooked, and skewed. He thinks, silently, listening to his heartbeat in his ears, a steady pulse of internal rhythm, that sounded like nothing else so much as– ⁂

: “Yes,” Wolf says, to himself, and to the Stillness. “It starts there, doesn’t it? With the ocean.” ⁂

takes a breath in, and with his breath comes the sound of a wave rolling in; with the exhale, the sound of a wave rolling out. He breathes, and breathes, and then– ⁂

With the waves come thunder, and the sound of cool rain borne by sea winds–and the thunder becomes the steady thud of a deep drum, and the wind becomes a flute, rising above the sound of surf and spray. ⁂

: “An old man by a seashore at the end of day* Gazes the horizon with the sea winds in his face Tempest-tossed island, seasons all the same *Anchorage unpainted and a ship without a name…” ⁂

sings, and as he sings, pellucid gnosis begins to spill from him like water, like rain down his skin–the song and the gnosis and the sea flowing through him, washing across the stones and the darkness beyond. ⁂

Sea without a shore for the banished one unheard / * He lightens the beacon-light at the end of world / Showing the way, lighting hope in their hearts / The ones on their travels homeward from afar… / This is for long-forgotten light at the end of the world / *Horizon crying the tears he left behind long ago… ⁂

lets the last notes of the old, melancholy song drift into silence–but the soft sound of waves continues, as if the ocean itself lapped against the outside of the ring. He is somehow not surprised to see that, now, a thin pool of water rings the circle, just inside the marble lip, filling the air with the subtle, fresh scent of clean water. 🙧

walks the circle’s edge, slowly, each foot deliberately placed–so softly as to not even ripple the water with his tread. And yet… ⁂

With each step–quietly, at first, then steadily louder–a drumbeat, and the soft crackle of dry grass beneath his feet. He walks, and walks, and he could swear there is grass beneath his feet, and soft loam, and rough stone. His footsteps are drumbeats, and from the darkness there comes a chant, steady and strong–and it’s as if his path climbs upwards, up, and up again, until his calves are burning– ⁂

–but suddenly he knows the song, like an old friend, and it begins to come through him in a deep and steady growl, as flourishing gnosis seems to spread from beneath his feet… ⁂

At the first stop where paths cross, pause / * Leave clothes behind and all you own / Where you are heading, they’ll be of no use / *The burden lightens, but heavy is the trail ahead… ⁂

At the second stop where paths cross, you pause

Leave time behind, and weighty thoughts

Where you are headed, they’ll be of no use

The burden lightens, but heavy is the trail ahead… ⁂

At the third stop where paths cross, you pause

Leave fears behind, let fall all masks

Where you are headed, they’ll be of no use

The burden lightens, but heavy is the trail ahead ⁂

walks on–he can feel cold wind on his skin now, bitter yet clarifying; can feel sharp stones beneath his feet, the burning ache of ice, and yet it seems not to harm but to hone– ⁂

Around him, drumbeats rise in crescendo, an old and primal chant filling his ears– ⁂

I summon you into the mountain blue

Where neither sun nor moonshine can reach you

I summon you into the forest where no one dwells

And out to the sea where no man rows

Deep beneath an earthbound stone

Out of harm’s way, run through the rivers

And roll with the ocean tides! ⁂

The drums stop into sudden silence, and Wolf stands once more in the center of the circle–the only evidence of his long walk in the burning of his calves, and the thin sheen of sweat starting to gather on his skin. Except–except that now the marble columns are gently wreathed with ivy, and green leaves hang down from the stone halo overhead. 🙧

feels the pressure in his bones pulse and thrum again–and the world seems to pulse with it; a heartbeat, a drumbeat; the…stamping of a foot? He stamps his foot–and it rings like a hobnailed boot on the stone. Rings, and rings again–the march of feet, the stamp of spear-butts on the earth…the pulses coming faster now, as much without him as within– ⁂

–he gets a flash, a vision that pulses and fades and pulses again; of shields interlocked in a row, spear-tips glimmering like cold fire in the air, bristling like thorns–a mass, a unity, an… ⁂

‘Army’ comes to him unbidden, ringing in his mind like struck steel. ⁂

And in the ringing silence comes the sound of a blowing horn, rough edged and somehow martial–he feels the pulse of it within his breath, the marching-road beneath his feet, arms-brothers at his side; a wall, not of stone, but of will, and of men, the likes of which none of the Five Worlds has seen in any age–light flashes with each step, with each stamp of his foot, and in the iron-edged rhythm, words, growling from his throat unbidden: ⁂

What am I supposed to do

If I want to talk about peace and understanding

But you only understand the language of the sword?

What if I want to make you understand that the path you chose leads to downfall

But you only understand the language of the sword?

What if I want to tell you to leave me and my beloved ones in peace

But you only understand the language of the sword? ⁂

His words are as hard as steel, as sharp as glass–but there is a terrible kindness there, beating at the heart of it. A kindness that cuts, and a love that kills–blood spilt for the good of all. A will that marches, and does not yield. ⁂

I let the blade do the talking

So my tongue shall become iron and my words the mighty roar of war

Revealing my divine anger’s arrow shall strike

All action for the good of all, I see my reflection in your eyes

Beloved brother enemy, I sing my sword song for you

The lullaby of obliteration

So I can wake up with a smile

And bliss in my heart and bliss in my heart and bliss in my heart ⁂

A pause, great and terrible–and then a clash; of swords, of steel, of wills–and in him, a powerful resolution that shall not kneel. ⁂

Coexistence, conflict, combat

Devastation, regeneration, transformation

That is the best I can do for you

I see a grey gloom on the horizon

That promises a powerful sun to rise, melt away all moons

It will make the old fires of purification, purification

Look like dying embers, look like dying embers, look like dying embers! ⁂

–and then it is gone, and Wolf sags, heart racing, blood pounding in his ears; the terrible rush of the Rite but somehow more making his hands tremble, even as the air goes still. He licks his lips, the echo-taste of blood still lingering there…and now the columns are shot through with crystal, and banded with iron at their tops and their bases. 🙧

tastes the blood on his lips, and feels the thud of his heart in his chest, and hears the ring of hammering steel in his ears–and the pressure rises again; for his is not in control of this, Wolf was never in control of this–no more than one controls a swift, or the ocean, or the molten fire at the core of a mountain; he has begun and now must ride it to the finish. The heat of his body rises off him in waves, and sweat begins to run down his skin, and– ⁂

–there is something primal to the distant drumbeats as they rise again; something that fills tired limbs with warmth and pools in his belly like flame– ⁂

–and a voice, his and not-his, coming out of his chest, his throat, as his body sways– “You say you’re not afraid to die…” ⁂

But take off the armor ‘round your chest

What’s left inside?

Lion, lion licking your blade

Do you really bleed if it washes away? ⁂

’s fingers drag across his chest, through the sweat there, flesh compressing under fingertips, reddening under fingernails– ⁂

Take a ride, rough as you can

Tell you a secret, right as your dogs are closing in… ⁂

’s fangs bare in a feral grin–tongue stealing out across their points, across flushed lips– ⁂

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin– ⁂

–the song explodes into a chaos of drums and howling voice, as Wolf explodes into motion, half-dragged into a wild swirl of limbs–fingers raking flesh, gripping, body whirling, whirling, as the world seems to pulse with lurid, blood-tinged light– ⁂

Tell me the walls are closing in

Into the fire and born again

Taste the pain and drink it in

I like it when the bite marks cut through the skin! ⁂

throws himself backwards into a nearly impossible arch–

Loud-louder the bark and the bigger the blade

–muscles corded, rippling, coming up onto his toes–

One seat on a throne, one foot in the grave

–and yet he hangs there, one arm thrown up and behind him, fingertips just barely brushing stone–

Lou-louder the moth then the bigger the flame

–snapping back in a graceful curve, throwing himself forwards into a wild, leaping spin–

Do you really bleed if it washes away? ⁂

–and somehow comes perfectly to rest in a predatory crouch in the center of the ring, panting, dripping sweat onto the stones, fingers digging roughly into the cracks in the stones. His breath rasps into the sudden silence–accentuated now by the gentle crackle of flame. A blackened iron sconce now hangs from each pillar, each with its own steady fire, casting wavering shadows across the cobbles. 🙧

pants into the silence for a moment, then tries to push himself up to standing–

–only for a knifing gust of cold wind to hammer him to his knees, sending the sconce-flames guttering as if a hand reached out to crush their flames. ⁂

cries out in shock and pain as sweat turns to frost on his skin, as shadow pours in from outside the circle and threatens to swamp the light entirely. And with the wind, a voice, humming soft and sweet. ⁂

Gripping with my cold hands

The shapes I used to take

Hollow like a straw man

But it’s easier to push away… ⁂

struggles to get to his feet, even as the shadows drag at him with icy tendrils, buffet him like blizzard winds. He’s spun by gust that seems to cut through him like a blade, and comes face to face with–

–himself. Himself, young and lanky–though he knows for certain that his eyes had never been swallowed by ink-like black, hopes that he never wore such a cruel and arrogant smile on his lips… ⁂

recoils, flinches away, and another gust catches him–the world tumbles and he slams into–

–himself, hollow-faced and bent shouldered beneath Sanctuary’s terrible silence, bleeding black tears as he weeps and weeps– ⁂

–then tumbles down to his knees, hands sinking into murky, slick shadow that climbs up his arms as he looks up at–

–himself. Black-cloaked, haughty and cruel; and he knows that voice would not be kind, that voice would cut, would lash with cruelty– ⁂

‘Cause it could all end here

With a strange daylight caught in our eyes

And my shadow stretching out

Through all the things I left behind ⁂

feels the chill soaking through his body, a weary, terrible apathy that saps the strength in weary muscles; that hollows him out like a drinking gourd. It would be so easy. To let go. To fail and falter here, to stop trying…to stop caring… ⁂

It’s in my blood and it’s in my veins

Oh, it’s in my blood and it’s in my veins… ⁂

looks up into those merciless black eyes…as the shadows drag him deeper, and the flames fade to embers… ⁂

…and bares his fangs. ⁂

Got my heel crushing the snake

There is nothing you can take

In my blood, it’s in my veins

I’m still here…

surges upwards, muscles straining–getting one foot under him. Then the other. The cold wind howls but he stands his ground; even as the shadows whirl–his younger-self rises out of the shadows and Wolf ruthlessly pulls the shade to him. Shame lances through him, bitter and rending–but he welcomes it, welcomes it for the clarifying force that it was. In that shame were the seeds of his growth, and he will not surrender it. ⁂

Maybe it’s a far stretch

That I won’t come undone

But I would brave the cold edge

To finish up what I’ve begun ⁂

The shadows howl but Wolf roars his defiance, rising, back straightening, frost-chips shattering and flaking off him like stars. His weeping, broken self swirls out of the shadow and Wolf consumes it with a sharp tugging motion of his hand. Grief wrenches his chest and fills his mouth with the taste of sour ashes, but Wolf welcomes it too–in his grief he found determination, the will to fight for his world, and he will not let that go to waste. ⁂

I’m still here!

All my reasons cut like knives

Keep replaying in my mind

All the times I’ve had to fight

I’m still here! ⁂

strides forwards into the darkness–and sees his shadow turn, and flee before him. His strides lengthen, to a run, then to a lope–there is nowhere it could flee he could not follow, nowhere it could run that it could not be found. He leaps–tackles, grabs, sending them both spiralling into the dark– ⁂

–and he takes his shadow into a gentle embrace, pressing his forehead to the other’s, even as it struggles and howls. “Time to come home,” he says. “No more running. You can’t run.” A moment of crystalline silence. “You’re me.” ⁂

: “I’m still here!” The words pour from his throat like a triumphant howl as two become one–as his heart floods with selfishness, with arrogance, with cruelty. Those, he cannot deny. But he is selfish–he wants to live, and his world to live, and he will fight for them. He can be arrogant and cruel–but gripped well in hand, they are confidence, and the ability to wield the cutting knife. They are his. They, too, are his power. ⁂

They too, are why he is, still, here. [….]

–and, as suddenly as waking, he is standing in the center of the circle, feet planted on cool stone. But now–the shadows outside the circle are deeper; they swirl and pulse like fog. And though they press in against the firelight–they do not snuff it, but make it seem all the brighter for the contrast. 🙧

opens his mouth…and nothing comes out. He wracks his brain, but nothing comes. No song of eld, no firelight melody. Here, at the last moment, his throat is stopped. What could he sing, that would encompass that vastness? What melody could bridge the gulf? He tries. And tries. And tries again. And finally, weary, he sinks down and sits, head in hands, in the center of the circle. ⁂

has come so far. Fire, water, earth, light, and darkness–all these he has summoned, all these he has held space for. Only to falter and fail at the last? It seems too cruel. He’s torn between laughter and tears, to see all this…what? Wasted?⁂

sits, in the silence, listening to the crackle of flame, and the gentle susurrus of waves, and wind through ivy. And there, in that moment, hollow and alone, he hears a voice. ⁂

: “You stubborn boy. You’re trying too damned hard, is what it is.” ⁂

looks up, startled, but–there’s no one there. The voice is distant–almost an echo. Or…a memory. A memory, of a warm, husky voice, nearly as familiar to him as his own. ⁂

: “You always think that wrestling it down is the solution.” It’s a chiding, but a good humored one, laced with wry affection. “Let it be, boy. Don’t grasp for it. Open to it. Don’t grab–reach out, with gentle hands. Then, then–when you least expect it–it will come to you.” ⁂

laughs, and pushes his hair off his eyes. “Yes, master. I remember. Gentle hands.” Wolf leans back, letting his eyes close. Lets himself…relax. Lets the silence, the Stillness, be–not as a wrongness, or an emptiness, but rather…an invitation. A space, quietly held open, for what might come seeking shelter. ⁂

…and then, quietly, from deep inside him, words start to bubble up, and a melody–he lets them shelter in himself, in the empty space created by the pouring out of all these songs and elements. And, steadily…from all around him…gentle and strong…it begins to rise. ⁂

Won’t you stop and take in

The beauty of the wild?

Let it take a hold of all your senses

Drawn right into a symphony

Of falling leaves in symmetry… ⁂

rises to his feet, slowly, as the melody builds around him, letting it pour through him, letting his voice join in as it begins to dance and build–fitting himself into the empty places, placing the song where he is not, and himself where it leaves space. ⁂

Slow down, take a breath

And let the energy flow all around you

I’ve found a place for you and me

A remedy for the hurt we’ve been through ⁂

realizes, in a sudden rush–neither one, nor two. Neither singer nor melody. Neither Stillness nor Song. He grasps, for just a moment–a whole, a world entire, the kind of life and love that could bind forces, and hold together worlds. ⁂

realizes, in that same moment…that there’s nothing he need do. Nothing he need become. The words were there, all along. All he had to do was hear them. ⁂

: “Watch the moon over your head,” he sings–as himself, as no one but himself. As all he ever truly needed be. “Taking up just enough space. Let the stars speak, let the fire breathe, a shadow’s dancing right before your eyes…!” ⁂

And together they sing–Wolf and the world, the Stillness and the Song. ⁂

Now won’t you take my hand and tell me everything?

Every little detail you’ve been swallowing

Don’t you know that you’re not alone in this? ⁂

: “The sun will rise for us again…!” 🙧

lets the last note fade out, and echo into silence. For a long moment…silence. Stillness. Then, like a key clicking in a lock, some last piece aligns in place…and something like rumbling, and something like music, starts to rise up from the awaiting darkness–something new; like a song rising from the World Itself. 🙧

bends–slowly, carefully; both out of reverence out of respect to the way his body is beginning to protest the stresses Wolf has put it through–and picks up the key. Such a small and simple thing, to come out of so much…and yet, it weighs heavy in his palm–and sings, softly, with the faintest echo of that liminal melody. He wraps his hand tightly around it, turns–and there, where the path from the central room once was, is now a plain wood-hewn door, standing casually between the two pillars. Beneath the brass doorknob is a keyhole–he looks down at the key in his hand.

walks–well, it’s more of a trudge, now, since his bones feel like bones again, along with all the strain he put on them–and fits the key into the lock. Turns it.

steps through, and into… ⁂

…a forest. He blinks as the scent of leaf-mold and clean air fill his nostrils, shading his eyes against the sudden light–warm and bright, even filtered through a canopy of leaves.

Under his feet is a dirt path, leading forwards into a small clearing. He takes a step forward, then turns–behind him is the door, yes; but it’s now set into a grey cliff face that rises high and higher above him, stretching out to both sides of the door. A hint of greenery can be seen atop the bluff–which stretches out and around, curving to encompass the entire area in front of him; seemingly a small forest, set neatly into this cliff-ringed hollow. A squint up through the leaves leaves no clear suggestion of the light source, but it seems more “sun” than “centrelight.” ⁂

shuts the door behind him–perhaps unsurprisingly, his clothes returned to their normal places on his body when he stepped through the door–and walks into the clearing ahead. The edges of the path are dusted with scatterings of broad-petaled flowers that seem to shine with an iridescent, inner light–as are the edges of the clearing. From the cardinal directions, three more paths spring; on the inter-cardinals, there are low wooden benches that look quite comfortable for a long sit. Wolf peers down each path in turn–perking an ear to the quiet, not-quite melodic chiming that occasionally echoes through the trees. ⁂

To his left, the path winds briefly down to a small stony shore, where water laps at the pilings of a humble–but sturdy–wooden pier. There’s a coil of rope, but no boat–which is a shame, because the pool leads off to a dark arch in the cliff wall; even squinting, Wolf can’t make out more than a foot or two down its length. To the right, through the opening provided by a what looks like a small, free-standing wood-beam gate, he can glimpse a small wooden dwelling with a strangely-curved, tiled roof, with a door that seems to be made mostly of delicate paper. And ahead… ⁂

…the path curves and doubles back, forcing him to walk further down it; the gentle chiming getting more distinct with every step. And there, in another clearing, sheltered by a guarding hemisphere of oak and pine– ⁂

–a tree of crystal stands rooted in the dark loam. Its leaves are silvery and translucent, chiming softly as a soft wind passes through them; its trunk a delicate twining that pushes gracefully upwards before splitting into a myriad of branches. And amidst its argent leaves are flowers–broad petaled and iridescent, clear cousins of their earthbound kin which cluster around its roots. 🙧

settles himself down into that crook, suddenly weary beyond belief–a perfect curve for his body, as comfortable as any bed. He closes his eyes, and before long, he’s sound asleep, lulled by wood-song and the gentle melody of crystalline leaves.