~AN~ AC: Hello. Since Avis is still out cold, we muses will be hosting the author's note again.
Voice From A Nearby Closet: OUT COLD, MY FOOT! LEMME OUTTA HERE!!
AC: Go gag her, Bass.
Bass: *grabs Insomnia's bandanna; heads for the closet*
Insomnia: My bandanna!!
AC: Ahem. AN-yway, about the author's note. No Nightmaren Theory today, as Avis can't write a theory when she's out cold…
Nearby Closet: *wham wham wham* MMM-MMMMFF!!!
AC: So we can't give you a theory. We can, however, offer something else. Have you ever wondered what size the diamonds on Insomnia's clothes were? Ever wondered how long Corbeau's cape is? Ever wonder what the patterns on RagDoll's face look like? Yeah, so have I…
Bass: *whap*
AC: Ow---joke, Bass, joke. Anyway, after searching rabidly for a scanner, Avis finally found a store nearby that would scan her things for a reasonable price---
Nearby Closet: REASONABLE, HECK!! THAT COST ME ALL MY ALLOWANCE!!!
AC: I thought you gagged her.
Bass: She chewed through it.
Insomnia: MY BANDANNA?!
AC: Ahem. FOR A REASONABLE PRICE, she was able to scan her things. While Avis is not an artist, she does like sketching, and therefore finding a place to post her drawings was quite exciting for her. Ergo, if you want to see pictures of these characters as a visual aid, go to the following address.
Insomnia: *holds up sign*
Sign:
AC: Enjoy. Now, on with the story.
Nearby Closet: IF YOU DON'T LEMME OUTTA HERE YOU JERK, I'M GONNA WHAP YOUR HEAD CLEAN OFF!!!
Disclaimer: "I love bananas, la la la la la la!"---Jackle
Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music's cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark.
Song For The Last Act, by Louise Bogan
Chapter Nine:
Rolling Thunder
Deep within Mystic Forest, a branch snapped.
It fell to the ground, severed neatly in half by one swift slash of a sword. Another twig was snicked off the same low-growing tree, getting identical treatment to that its fellow branch had received before falling to the ground as well. Several more followed in quick succession.
NiGHTS halted, letting his sword hand relax and hang at his side as he inspected the twigs. Good, good, slightly off, okay, good---really bad. He winced looking at the last one---it had been barely cut, only the very tip falling away from a blow that was meant to sever it in half. He'd been a good five inches off.
He sighed. Still, three good blows out of six wasn't that bad. With a little more practice maybe he could get rid of that stupid habit of his to cut too far to the right.
Sheathing Lucky Star with ease, he kicked at the severed twigs, watching as they flew up with assorted leaves and other forest-floor rubbish to float down again in a dirty sprinkling. Then another kick unearthed something interesting. He bent down to have a closer look.
It was hidden under some recently-fallen leaves, ones that really couldn't have been there for more than a day or two judging from how unsoiled they were. He brushed them aside gently to reveal a footprint, pressed neatly in the damp dirt.
Not that footprints were of any great interest, as everything from Nightopians to Minions to First Class nightmaren would come through Mystic Forest and all left footprints when they weren't flying; however NiGHTS had set himself to learn the ways of the forest, and therefore tracking was something he jumped at the chance to practice at. Whatever it was had left the print too long ago to try and follow its trail, but he could certainly try to identify it.
Then he realized something was different. The print was entirely round, cupping into the earth like a ball, and it was topped by a sharp point a little above the edge of the oval mark. What on earth made that kind of footprint? NiGHTS stared at it, tracing the edges and trying to think, his attention particularly focusing on the sharp tip above the large oval. Then an unsettling suspicion tapped him on the shoulder.
He got up slowly, looking down carefully at the ground. It was covered in a light dusting of footprints from his stick-slashing, but they were all on top of the scattered leaves covering the forest floor. This print had been under the leaves. He began to scrape them away with his foot, noting a slight depression in the surface of the ground with apprehension.
The leaves cleared away to reveal a large, oddly-shaped, generally circular indent in the earth, topped by three ovals which were in their turn topped by sharp points. The entire thing was slightly bigger than his head.
He swallowed, realizing what he was seeing but not sure as to what had actually made it. It was a giant, dog-like footprint.
Meaning somewhere in the vicinity was a reeeeeeeeally big dog.
Jackle's heart gave a horrified jump at Wizeman's words. 'Oh shards he's going to speak to me alone---no, Reala, please! I can't face him by myself!'
Reala looked back to hear his master's last words and caught sight of Jackle's expression. The demi-maren's eyes were wide in pure, almost animalistic fear, his body tensed as if he were about to throw himself against the walls just to escape. A brief memory touched his mind, of Jackle before his improvements, flinging himself against the walls of a cage he didn't even know were there, pummeling himself against the bars in blind panic. The look in his eyes now said that if he had to stay here much longer he might do it again. His emerald eyes were silently pleading for Reala to stay, to at least state that he'd wait outside. Anything.
Turning, Reala stalked out.
Jackle nearly cried out as Reala turned away, face set into stone. 'No!'
A strong voice spoke, its words echoing around him in the empty spaces of the throne room. "Face me, Jackle."
Slowly he turned around, feeling his skin twitch erratically from the amounts of fear and adrenaline rushing through his system. Wizeman looked down at him emotionlessly. "What is it that frightens you?"
"N-nothing, master." 'I can't tell you.'
"Nothing?"
"Yes, master, n-nothing." 'I can't tell anyone…'
"You are trembling, Jackle."
"I'm cold." He was. 'I can't tell!'
"Something else is making you afraid. I can see the fear in your eyes."
"I'm j-just a bit nervous over an-nother improvement, master." 'I know I secret, and I can't tell!'
"Really?"
"Yes, master…I'm sorry, master." 'I know a secret, I know a secret…'
"No matter. But is that all that frightens you?"
"Yes master." 'I know a secret, and no one can know!'
Wizeman fell silent, gazing at Jackle with a penetrating stare. Finally he spoke.
"You're lying."
"L-lying, master?" 'He knows!'
"You did not feel this afraid after the improvements, and there is no reason for you to suffer a sudden relapse now."
'He knows the secret!'
A hand descended from the shadows around, one single stone finger pressing itself against the demi-maren's forehead. "I did not plan upon doing this, Jackle, but you force me to question your loyalty."
And a wave broke over his mind, exploding into twining ropes of light that tore apart every thought he'd ever had.
It was cold.
The young maren in the middle of their sparring lesson shivered. Luna glanced up at the small patches of sky visible through the sheltering foliage; it was overcast, with low, threatening clouds scuttling across the sky like many frightened sheep. Winds blew through the branches, pushing her tangled hair against her face. She brushed at it, preoccupied, trying to judge whether it would rain or not. She couldn't tell.
"Miss Luna?" Aster looked up at her, teeth gritted from the chill that was breathing on the wind. She was struggling valiantly to stand tall and unaffected, like her idol, but she was failing. "Are you all right?"
Luna nodded. "Yes. Don't worry, everyone, only a few more rounds to go and we'll head back."
There was a muted cheer at this statement, and the groups got into their assigned positions. Aster, however, gave her teacher a worried glance as she went to her spot; she could tell some larger threat was eating at Luna's mind.
But if Miss Luna didn't want to share, then of course she knew best. She probably had a very important reason. Consoling herself with that thought, she wrapped her arms about her chest, cradling the borrowed lance to her.
It was cold.
Reala marched along the row of nightmaren, hands folded behind his back, his glance taking in everything. This was one of the few classes that he himself had taken over; this was the first Power Division, Power standing for hand-to-hand fighters, the strongmen of the army. Reala had a special place in his heart for these.
That didn't mean he was nice to them. On the contrary this, along with the second Power Division, was rumored to be one of the most difficult classes.
The maren, mostly males, all stood tall as Reala stalked by them, inspecting their stance. Finally he nodded. "Very good. Space out."
The maren moved instantly, every other one stepping forward to make two larger-spaced lines, rather than the one long row used for inspection. Reala nodded again. "Right."
The fighters responded with a sharp right punch.
"Left."
They did as told.
"One two."
Two punches, one right, one left.
"Good. Twenty push-ups, go!"
They dropped to their knees, following his command. He watched closely, picking out the ones who tired faster than the others. These, along with the ones who seemed to have less coordination, were filed away in the rows of his memory under 'to keep an eye on'.
The nightmaren finished their push-ups and leaped up, straightening to attention once more. Reala allowed them a small smile. "Very good. Dismissed."
The fighters broke up their formation to head for the door, walking in file. He knew that once they reached the hallway they would break into a run and become a yelling group of kids again, but for the time they were compelled to take class they had been exceedingly good.
'Now if only the rest of them were like that,' he muttered to himself mentally, beginning his own round of push-ups to pass the five minutes before the next class he was to teach. 'Half of the idiots can't even control their weapons…'
He sighed and shoved himself up to begin a series of hand-stand push-ups. 'They'll learn, though. I'll make sure of that.'
NiGHTS was following the trail. The dog-like thing, whatever it was, had left clear markings for someone who knew what to look for, and although NiGHTS was not the most experienced tracker around he knew enough to manage.
A small glen shrouded by ferns had been its bed; the indentation in the earth told him that. A side route had been made to the Windingwater to drink before returning to its original path. A deeper set of prints told him it had broke into a run; a bit further on he came upon the remains of a Gao.
He stopped, staring at the small bits of bloody fur and bone. What creature would eat a Gao?
Moments later he was on the trail again, going as fast as he could now. Whatever this thing was, it was dangerous. And there could be people out there…
A boy, lifting his mace in order to try and strike his 'enemy', paused at the last moment.
"Did you hear that?" he asked.
"Hear what?" asked his sparring partner.
"That. It sounded kind of like branches cracking underfoot or something, like a really big animal, you know?…"
Jackle screamed out, hands clutching the sides of his head as a consciousness stronger than his own ripped through his mind. He could feel strikes of crimson lightening flashing through his memories, innumerable tiny, dark hands sifting through them and tossing them away without a thought. He screamed again, tears pouring out of blind eyes.
The hands kept searching, inspecting every memory the lightening dragged from his mind. He clung to the shreds of his thoughts, trying to keep himself together; the lightening burned him, forcing him to pull back in pain, and the hands calmly continued on with their work. He wept as every private thought and memory he'd ever had was brought to the harsh light of the crimson lightening, fingered by countless dark hands, and thrown aside as worthless. His psyche was being torn apart from the inside out.
Finally the hands seemed to find what they wanted, for they made the lightening stop ripping him and circle, waiting for the command to begin again should the hands wish it. But the hands didn't; they were still, studying the piece of memory that they had found. Jackle knew instinctively what it was; after all, it was his own thought. They were looking at the memory of the night he found out about the two Courage Ideya. It was his secret.
He saw them tremble as if they were trying desperately to conceal rage. The lightening forked eagerly, awaiting the command to punish him for his secret sin. The hands ignored it, and Jackle watched them slowly fold up the memory, folding it into halves, quarters, smaller and smaller and smaller. Then, they deliberately ripped it in half.
He screamed, feeling the memory that had already been ripped from him suddenly tear, burning a white flash across his mind. The hands repeated the action, ripping the memory to smaller and smaller pieces, tearing it to shreds. They watched silently as he writhed in agony, every tear sending a blinding scream of pain across his mind like a mental whip.
He screamed once more, then fell silent as the hands stopped tearing. They held up the remains of his memory for him to see; shreds of thought, terribly small and ragged.
He watched dully as they opened, letting the pieces fall to float gently down and land silently on the floor that wasn't there. He could see words written on some of them, remains of his thoughts. They were written in his blood.
It is strange Wizeman knows nothing…upon the Courage Ideya…the hundred years' convergence…Just run. Run!…I know a secret you don't know, I know a secret that you don't know!…Once every hundred years…run!…I know a secret, and no one can know!
The lightening flashed furiously, forking angry tongues of crimson and black. But the hands were calm. They stayed open, gesturing silently at the shredded pieces of memory, not accusing him, but rather voicelessly asking him if he admitted to his crime. He bowed his head in shame and pain, tears streaming out of useless eyes to drip into the nothingness that was the universe around them. And there was silence.
They left. Just like that, they left, slipping away like wraiths of mist on a summer's dawn, fading into nothing before the eye can blink. He was left standing alone in the corridors of his mind, surrounded by violated and discarded thoughts, and the destroyed memory of that night.
He was alone.