A/N: If you've heard of the band Beirut you get a cookie or a hug. Your choice.
"Well," ventured Mary. "How did you like your first day of school?" Her voice is to others what a silver stream is to a black sea. Mary has come to a happy resolution. Screw not talking, she has chosen instead to portray herself as the most dull, uninteresting person as possible with few to no secrets whatsoever.
Atul is not fooled in the least. He finds Mary very annoying, because clearly she has portrayed none of her personality yet.
Mae's mind is elsewhere. Mae's mind has already traveled to what she anticipates today. Her plan revolves around Azreal. And Azreal, as we all very well know, is not the most stable of individuals.
What Mae doesn't know is that Azreal is already unsure if he wants to kill her. She thinks that he is already sure of this, and that he has only to decide when to kill her. Mae doesn't like thinking about this, but she will have to in a matter of hours.
"Oh, it was very interesting." He lies. Atul knew everything that was taught already.
"Yes? And how did you like the teachers?"
"Well, they certainly are fond of homework." Atul eyes his backpack with distaste.
Mary laughs quietly, hiking her own messenger bag up over her shoulder. Actually, at the moment, the way that her hair skirts her shoulders and the light flirts with her face, she resembles her true self. Atul himself suspects this.
Atul was born on the edge of a cliff.
Not literally, of course, because that would have been very difficult, but his life has always teetered between the real and the surreal, daylight and fog, walking and gliding.
With a final, inconspicuous glance into his crystal green eyes, Mary begins to walk towards her home. Truth be told, and I do always tell the truth, dear reader, however vague it may be, she is normally picked up by Wes on his bike fifteen minutes after school ends (so that no one may see plain Mary of the simple brown eyes slide her arms around the waist of an attractive, exciting boy of her own age). This day, however, she does not want to be the one that waves as Atul disappears in his car or with his friends.
"Wait." Mary's heart jumps, she hears his footsteps behind her.
"You walk home?"
"Yes," she whispers. She stares, from her meager height, up at his head, formidably up there as far as heads go relative to the ground.
She stares at a spot right on his forehead. She does not want to look into his eyes, because undoubtedly through those Coke-bottle thick glasses she will get sucked in.
Mae herself has two differently colored eyes. One, on the left, is such a deep, rich dark brown that it is almost black, and the other is hazel or gold depending on what clothing she's wearing (for you see, eye color doesn't change. Our perception of it does.). She is always having to suffer comments for this.
'Did you know you have two different colored eyes?'
'No, I didn't, thanks for the update.'
'Like…why?'
'Oh, I poured acid on one of them as a child/I can't see out of one/one is made of glass.'
'Really?'
'…no. It's called an incompletely dominant allele.'
'So do you see different out of them?'
'Yep, everything out of my left is darker.'
'Really?'
'What do you think?'
Each of these questions, and each of these responses, have been excreted into the air countless times since Mae was old enough to have a basic grasp of the English language.
You may think that having eyes of different colors is cliché, but firstly allow me to remind you that it is really just two different shades of brown. Secondly, and, of course, much more importantly: you must remember, dear reader, that I am only the messenger. I can tell you only the truth, as we have already established, and the truth here (which, luckily, is simple) is that Mae has eyes of two different colors, and that those who notice it ask incredibly pointless questions that they already know the answers to.
In these walls, dear reader. In these walls, truth is all that we have left. Truth and bones.
"That's an awfully long way to walk."
Mary wonders briefly how he knows just how far away she lives. That isn't something that a virtual stranger should know.
"Well, I get by."
"Can I offer you a ride home?"
"You don't even know where I live," she whispers, though knowing that it wasn't really a question.
"Where do you live?"
She purses her lips. "Just…just off the highway."
Atul thanks the Lord above that he lives close by and can say so.
"Why, me too. Come on. Really, it's absolutely no trouble at all." He eyes her very carefully, sees indecision perched on the pink arch of her lips. He knows as well as she does as well as I do as well as you do that it is not a request, it is a challenge.
And she has no choice but to accept.
So begins the careful dance between high school outcast buddies and people with massive secrets, each afraid that the other will know too much. Fear will always play in the light of the center stage, flickering like a foggy mist out onto the crowd.
"Well, I suppose…"
XXX
Atul drives a tin can on wheels. Once again, I am not being literal. Please take note of this in the future.
His particular brand of tin can stopped being produced in the early 90s, meaning that Atul -
-who is the grandson of Gemma and Kartik, and honestly, you'd better have figured that out already-
- has quite a bit of trouble procuring new parts for it.
On the ride back, on which I will not go into detail because, frankly, we have some more things to get to, Atul and Mae let their inhibitions somewhat down. They speak about school, and Mae goes on a bit of a rant about the her science project, as she is not the most doting of all people when it comes to cyanobacteria.
Sooner than either of them have expected, Atul pulls up right next to Mae's house.
"Thank you,"
"My pleasure. Would you like the same arrangement for tomorrow?"
"Oh, no, I have a friend that usually picks me up."
Mae curls her hand around the handle of her backpack, her fingertips resting lightly on the door.
"Ah. Well, then. I will see you tomorrow?"
"Yes, I expect you will." She steps out of the car, slinging her bag over her shoulder and regarding the long, winding walkway that leads up to her house, atop the hill. Her mother inherited quite a sum of money from her late father, and stays in the circus because, for one, she loves it, and for two, she feels that it is always good to have a steady income instead of a set amount.
Atul, who is not nearly as defiant of friendship as his grandfather was (or possibly is, I swore to never lie, it does not mean I'm obligated to tell the whole truth), has no misgivings about his friendly demeanor. He silently appreciates Mae in the way that you would expect him to.
"Oh, and good luck tonight."
Mae freezes.
Perhaps, I say, he could learn from his ancestor's silence.
She turns her head over her shoulder. Unwittingly, she looks extremely mysterious now, her dark hair obscuring half of her face, only her gold eye showing.
"Why, whatever with?" Her voice would make honey feel bitter.
He smiles back, just as sticky sweet. "Your science project, of course. Why, what else could it be?"
Her eyes are as hard as a yellow diamond.
"Yes. Yes, of course. I don't know what I thought you meant."
XXX
After a call to Wes to apologize for not being there when he showed up – Wes looks forward, everyday, to having so many excuses to be close to her. He finds her arms around his waist as they rode down a highway an extremely exciting prospect.
Mae usually enjoys it too. For slightly different reasons.
But now she must steal herself for what you, my dear reader, must have been looking forward to. Oh, yes, because it isn't your life that is in danger, and you would rather see the plot plod along like a good little story.
But imagine for a minute, just a minute dear reader, that it is you who is about to go and face your almost-certain death.
Are you happy?
Well, neither is poor Mae.
Her stomach churns in odd ways, as if there are elves rearranging her organs, and briefly Mae wonders why such a reaction is merited in the human body. It doesn't seem to be helping her much at all.
Shrugging off her shirt to leave only a white tank top (Mary always wears underclothes for decency's sake), she searches for something that might be considered pertinent to wear. She considers wearing green and black and brown, colors that would blend in well, but she has in the past learned that avoidance often does not work with the Poppy Warriors. No, instead, she opts for horizontal black-and-white stripes, because Mae is into extremes, and black jeans.
Feeling a bit like a mime, and a lot like a prude, Mae does not wait for the familiar sucking feeling that will inevitably tug her towards the door. Instead she tucks her hair behind her ears, straightens her back, and sets off for the rock outcropping near her house.
XXX
"Halt! You shall not pass!" Mae halts.
The voice is that of a man, British by the sound of it, though she has never heard it before in the times she's been here.
Mae has 'landed' strangely off-base; instead of across the river and staring at the castle that truly does look beautiful until you see it up close, she is in a stone courtyard. The only apparent exit is through two iron gates, with are flanked by weeds as high as trees.
"I bet I shall," she calls back, her voice echoing off the walls. She cannot see far beyond the gate, only white mist.
A creature trots onto the stones, which (though Mae cannot realize it) are arranged in a circle. It is not an animal to which you can compare an earthen animal. Perhaps, if forced, it would be like a cat. But it is more doll-like in its construction; with a too-thin waist and feet that taper off into stilt-like apparitions as opposed to paws, and it has wings of a sort. They sprout off of the creature's shoulder blades, and are really more like solid sticks with feathers bursting from them in a line. Its face is even more bizarre, looking like it is made up of bits of glass and metal, the metal reflecting the sunlight and the glass refracting the shining metal, only the vague triangular suggestion of a cat's head. Its eyes shimmer like underwater green, and its mouth is almost as if someone took a human's and placed it on top of the creature's head, so perfect are the lips.
It is a sphinx, one of the last left alive.
"Riddle."
"Riddle?"
"Answer my riddle, and you may pass. If not, then I'll devour you, bones and all!" The sphinx does have a confirmed English accent, and sounds rather delighted at the latter prospect.
"Well?"
The sphinx smiles, and its teeth shine white.
"What is as light as a feather, yet no man can hold it for long?"
Mae pauses. Her lips move, as if formulating the answer.
"Martha's reins! She's a show pony." Before she was old enough to care for herself, Mae lived with her mother with the circus.
"No, the answer is: breath!" The sphinx looks ecstatic that she got it wrong.
"No, no, I think you'll find it's Martha's reins. They're designed to be light, but none of the men want to lead her because they don't feel manly with a tiny pony."
The sphinx pauses, takes a step back with one stilt-like leg, clacking on the cobblestones.
"My turn," Mae says, taking a step forward.
"Uh," she deadpans, taking inspiration from elsewhere. "A bell rings, a man screams, a man dies. What happened?"
"Um," The sphinx pauses, looking down at the ground thoughtfully.
"Do you give up?"
"No, no, let me think." It sits down on the ground, its feathers fluttering.
"Okay then," Mae smiles, inching towards the gates. "You just sit there…and have a really good think."
Finally, she skirts around it, and is happy to see the castle up ahead.
She'll almost be glad to get to wear she's going, at least Azreal never threatened to devour her before.
Beneath her Wellingtons, peat moss leaks moisture, squelching unappetizingly under her boots, and the great stone mansion looms larger. She feels her hair frizz in the fog, caring very little; as she approaches she sees the lookout perched on the turret and catches his gaze.
He flares his nostrils, appreciating the scent of someone who is not decaying. This lookout's name is Baceo, and he hasn't much in the way of individual thought. He is a model sheep.
Mae sends him a death glare that would make a snake cower; he hisses his discomfort and disappears into the walls.
The building is as she remembers it; no longer bothering to fool her, it stands there in all of its hideous, horrifying glory, the stones once majestic now crumbling under their own weight, under the guilt that they bear from the dozens slaughtered.
Mae's heart jumps into her throat as she walks around, over to the side, scrambles up the uneven stones which provide convenient foot holes up to the high-arched window above.
When she reaches it, she looks down upon the men scattered below; seeing all and searching for one.
Each one of them ripples with muscles, whether they be beefy or sinewy, and a choice few have the perfect medium seen all too often in underwear commercials.
They all turn to attention when she lights upon the windowsill, as if waiting for her which they very well could have been, black diamond eyes trained.
Mae waits.
Carefully, she leaps down, landing squarely on her feet and causing a minor dust explosion.
When it clears, she gazes at each individual. They all have the same brand: hair remaining in only one nearly flat strip on top of the head, a band of red flowers around the arm trailing black threads (a tattoo, merely). Each has a blank look in the eyes, which sparks hope in Mae, for those who do not know why they do something can be swayed to do otherwise.
But she is most concerned with the one closest to her, the man whose eyes are as blue as ocean mist and just as hard to see through. Azreal is the only one who is not smirking with pleasure, he is smiling – though it is a forced smile. He does not want to look forward to her visits for any other reason than engaging in their game of cat and mouse, to end the agreement that they will kill no others until she herself if killed. But he does.
He hates being fascinated by a person.
Oh, dear reader, poor Azreal has unwittingly fallen into a trap of his own making.
"'Allo, poppet," he whispers, taking a step towards her. She doesn't flinch.
"The odds have changed," she replies simply.
"And how is that?"
Mae just smiles at him.
She takes one step back; he takes one forward. None of the others move.
"You'd like to know?"
"That I would, poppet." She takes another step back, he takes another step forward.
She reaches out, curls her hand around his chin to force him to look down at her.
She leans in, and he watches her with mild fascination, allowing his head to be tilted, their faces brought closer together.
"We're playing outside today."
With that, she speeds off out the castle doors.
A/N: Thankies to hibiscusqt, who beta-ed (sort of? I don't know what you call random file exchanging). Aaaand, Nitlon, OUT.
Oh, wait, reviews feed my plot bunnies, and no that is not a threat. It's pretty obvious I don't write for attention...
I hope.
Okay, how about this: I don't write for attention.
But it shooah is nice.