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Disclaimer: I own nothing… no, wait, I do own things, but not any particular fandom.
Song of the chapter: Woodkid – Iron. Which I do not own or have anything to do with. Please support the official release.
Small warning: violent assault, ABB being ABB.
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Worm: Babel
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"I don't need you anymore, Taylor. It's over."
A thousand barbs tear my heart as I weep miserably on my bed, holding Mr. Squiggles, the stuffed octopus my Mommy bought me as a babe, claimed by 'Rite of Drool' on my infant self's part.
"She stills sleeps with stuffed animals doesn't she?"
"Yeah, she's a baby like that."
"Ha! What a loser!"
"Why are you still here? Go away."
Two weeks. I leave for two weeks, and Emmaline, Emma, my best friend for eleven years… has decided to cast me aside, as though our friendship, our sisterhood, meant nothing at all.
Another round of grieving sobs wracks my being. It is accompanied by anger; I am not a baby! My stuffed octopus is a gift from my Mommy, not something infantile or immature! My dresses and ribbons make me look cute, unique; many of the other girls at camp even waxed poetic on my skill at always appearing clean and well-kempt in spite of the limited facilities available!
Her change of heart makes no sense to me! And that ruffian she is now consorting with! Oooh, that… that… foul-mouthed, bad-tempered, poorly-mannered tavern wench!
It must be her! She corrupted my Emmaline!
And yet… I dared not raise my voice or make a scene; that wouldn't be proper or tactful…
But what can I do?
…I am alone.
No.
I still have Daddy. I still have my dreams. I have the First Language.
My sniffles and tears begin to subside. I filled more than a dozen pages of my dream journal with translations and phonic descriptors of the language, written upon the walls of the labyrinth, whilst away at camp. The First Language, the identity of this mysterious tongue, I have since deduced; it has modes and methods that, while significantly different from the linguistics of the present, many of those same languages, spoken in these modern times…
They all, even the purely phonic tongues of the Far East, take cues from the First Language. That which was spoken in some unknown eon past, immortalized in the terrible and beautiful images writ upon the labyrinth.
More than this, speaking the names of places while standing before an appropriate image upon the maze's wall allows me to visit them, in dreams. Fantastic and terrible places that are each, respectively, humbling and mesmerizing in their monolithic and fraught beauty.
I am not alone.
I have the dreams of Ulthar, where the myriad cats tell stories of places strange and fantastic; I dream of Celephais, a seaside city where many transient dreamers find themselves, where I walk marble streets and wonder at the red tile roofs and windows of many colors; I dream of the cliffs near Leng, and the Nightgaunts that lurk there in the shadows of the day, where I have seen the Shoggoths that crawl across the desert, but always from a far remote vantage point, for to walk the sands of Leng is forbidden to all dreamers.
But there are other places, realms that are less palatable to a proper, well-mannered young woman such as myself.
Carcosa, where the name must not be spoken.
R'lyeh, the corpse city of the Great Old One, High Priest of the cult to Nyarlathotep, Baat'ko'ept, the Crawling Chaos who punishes those who seek to violate the Boundary.
N'ghftog Lw'shgorrog, lair of the Great Goat of the Stars, mother of the Thousand Young who work Her will.
Epshuggog, the Underworld, where beasts uncounted, terrifying and beautiful in their countenance, lurk in the dark, protect the hidden ways betwixt the many lands.
Yet for all their terrible appearance, these places are not all awful; extensions of the library that is the labyrinth, I find other knowledge.
The song of the Yellow Prison, Lost Carcosa, is rapturously beautiful. The Great Old One's sleeping mumblings speak not insanity, as my Greek translator insinuated, but brings to light the meaning behind the odd and expansive bas-relief writ large upon His great door.
People and places I have seen, and they are all and one beauteous and humbling.
Emmaline would never understand, to say nothing of the wench she now consorts with!
I am not alone, I assure myself, drying my tears with a hanky and taking Mr. Squiggles into the crook of my arm; he'll need to be washed, so the salt of my tears doesn't set in and stain his green fabric.
Emmaline has cast me aside, but I will endure. I will persevere!
I will not let this break me; I will find the root of all languages, even the First Language, and speak it for all to hear!
And, maybe then, I will meet Baat'ko'ept, who is called Nyarlathotep in all of those strange lands, and discover the reason I dream of the labyrinth.
For if I have learned nothing, I have learned this: to speak the tongue of the gods is to invite their attention.
To be given this mode of communication... that is irregularity in the entirety.
But that is a quest for the morrow. Today, I must wash my sleeping companion, ensure my best green dress and ribbons are prepared… and confide in Daddy. I will not go to Winslow, not after this slight most hurtful!
It is a good thing, I muse while preparing the wash, that I hadn't replied yay or nay to Arcadia, that they assured I had until orientation, this next Thursday, to give them an answer.
"You know she's bad at math? Can't even do division. Just a prissy idiot."
Pah, an old defect. Okay, so I have some sort of mental block against arithmetic, but I more than make up for that with my skill in learning new languages! Hardly something that will hold me back in the future.
She wishes to cast me aside? Very well, but I will still inform Daddy about this development, and Emmaline's new brutish companion; he will surely speak with Uncle Allen, and, perhaps, I'll have some closure as to why my dear friend decided to call me prissy.
I am a polite and proper young lady, and am certainly not prissy!
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{/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\}
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It nodded to Itself, 'Not long now…' Idly, It implanted certain 'tastes' into the minds of Emmaline's tormenters. A nudge here, a whisper there.
At the same time, It reluctantly ensured Taylor would fall into a routine in returning home from her schooling. She would come to harm, in time, but this was all part of It's plan.
It had been doing this for a very, very long time. She was not the first It had needed to harm to achieve It's goals…
'Then why do I hesitate?' Nyarlathotep tilted the head of Black Pharaoh in contemplation, observing Taylor Hebert being comforted by her mortal father, and her confession of her recent social troubles. Observing a meeting between the Hebert and Barnes families, the revelation of Emmaline's trauma at the hands and fists of Lung's churls. It nodded in satisfaction as the redheaded girl was mandated to therapy; her mind would heal, but the pain of mental scars inflicted by the meat-puppet that "saved" her would never truly vanish. Much like her friendship with Taylor, Emmaline would never be the same.
As It intended. So why did It hesitate, knowing the pain Taylor would soon experience will only make her stronger? Again, this was as It intended.
Therefore, It discarded the hesitation. This was for her sake, for the creation of Khepri, the death of The Warrior. It could not hesitate.
And yet, with every instance of her incanting the old name for It, Baat'ko'ept, It became more and more fond of this mortal agent It was shaping, of Taylor Hebert.
Yet Nyarlathotep did not discard the fondness. It was too novel a sensation, yet experience showed that this feeling would lessen over the eons that would, indeed, follow this hunt most invigorating. Over time, It would surely come to bore of Taylor Hebert, and look for new or interesting ways to set up her inevitable failure.
As entertainment, of course. T'was the place of all mortals, after all, to amuse the Others.
And if It remained fond of her, after she came into her own?
It shrugged uncaringly to Itself. Masters were often fond of their apprentices, particularly those that impressed them. Only time would tell, whether Khepri would be constantly useful to It.
{/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\}
Arcadia is a fine school. Clean and full of well-behaved people, it is certainly a step up from Winslow, which I'd visited in passing some weeks ago.
There, in the institution Emmaline would have gone were it not for my intervention, were brutish looking persons wearing the colors of the gangs that plagued this city. Nazis and ABB and (hrrk) Merchants. I am glad that I was able to spare my friend that horrible place, and myself as well!
I am excused from most Maths classes due to my unfortunate mental defect, which gives me headaches whenever I try deciphering the arcane mysteries of arithmetic. I have long suffered with and accepted this facet of myself, and it has never truly depressed me. More time to puzzle out the details of the many languages I can learn!
Happily, I have neither been judged nor belittled for this 'problem'. If anything, I've been encouraged to join many different study groups and clubs, though I imagine this is more to do with my fashion sense.
Tis a blessing and a curse, truly. On one hand, I am one of the go-to people when another girl needs advice on the wearing of some accessory or bauble to impress at a formal function. This has ensured me no shortage of acquaintances and invitations to many a function, where adults are impressed by my vocal talents, singing in Italian and Latin, Spanish and German, and my proficiency with these and other languages.
On the other hand… Victoria Dallon.
I am not a cruel or callous person, but I dare say I might not shed a tear at the blonde's passing.
She is loud, obnoxious, and ever seeks to insert herself into any social situation whether she has been invited or not, and no one is offended by these due to the admittedly beautiful girl's Parahuman ability!
Why, just today, on the last day before Thanksgiving weekend (the first since Mommy's passing; morose are my thoughts, yet I am undaunted in my efforts to keep Daddy's spirits up), I was engaged in a delightful and most invigorating conversation with Amelia Dallon regarding vocal chords and the nuances of aural communication when the bleach blonde rudely interrupted us, blindsiding me with her emotional aura (again!) and hands me an invitation to an early Christmas soiree three Saturdays from now at her boyfriend's house!
And if this is not enough, not only did my being caught unbalanced by her ambush result in my demure acceptance to a party most merry (presumably; Dean Stansfield is quite the gentleman), but the irritating flying yellow brick absconded with Amy before our discourse could reach an agreeable result, such as a study session at either of our family's abodes or a meet-up over a future weekend of relaxation and intellectual stimulation! Hmph!
As a summit to all these unfortunate (okay, the party seems like it will be a wonderful romp, and the invitation is quite well-made, as well as addressed to me personally) happenings, her interruption resulted in my having to compose myself, which, as usual, took several minutes, making me miss my bus!
Therefore, I am irked as I walk my way through less than reputable neighborhoods in my best black-and-white dress, no doubt getting my nice shoes scuffed by the rough, uneven sidewalk, and, as I am laden by my school bag and purse, I am starting to work up a sweat!
Again, I curse Victoria Dallon, and the way Amy makes doe eyes whenever her sister is in sight, no doubt an artifact of living with the accursed brat.
I have just made a mental note to find an opportune moment to bring this up to Amy, hopefully without insulting neither her considerable intelligence nor her family, when I am suddenly pulled roughly into a wide alley betwixt two buildings!
Crying out briefly as I am spun out of my pack's straps, I am thrown to the ground by a burly, cruelly grinning man –
He is wearing ABB colours! And he is not alone.
A scarred, frightful looking woman has just rummaged through my purse before tossing it aside with a disgusted scoff; there are two other men with her, one with a crowbar pointed at me, the other flinging my backpack into a pile of refuse after briefly checking it for valuables.
Quite frightened indeed, I try scrambling back, only to slam my jacket-clad shoulder into a fourth man's leg, "Lookie what we got here: a little lost girl, who's got no money to pay the toll," the scarred woman sneers, before nodding to the man behind me while the others' grins widen.
I don't like what those grins portend.
Desperately, I cry, "No!" and attempt to flee through them, but the man behind me snags one of my pigtails in a dirty hand and yanks me back, driving the air from me with a hard, painful blow to my kidney.
Before I can clear the stars in my eyes or regain my breath, the woman strikes me across the face with the back of her hand, stunning me further.
I am only dimly aware of something being affixed to my mouth and being dragged further into the alley, only realizing they have taped my mouth shut when I finally try to take breath and cry for help!
Terror scours my mind clear and I try to fight back, kicking my strong legs at the men and scratching at them, aiming for pressure points and generally making a nuisance of myself.
Then the crowbar strikes me about the brow, knocking my glasses from my face and me to the filthy ground once more.
Mocking laughter and cruel words come to my ears as though from down a long hallway, the sight of a torn open garbage bag sideways in my tunneling vision before a worn boot stands on my wrist.
A hand goes under my dress.
'No.'
I kick out, clawing at them, shrieking into my gag, trying desperately to fight these demons off me!
"Now now," comes the simpering voice of the man over me, pushing my kicking leg aside for another to stand on; my ankle is surely sprained now, "Just lay back and enjoy your toll." The scarred woman appears above me, standing on my left arm, a vicious grin decorating her features.
She is eager for this?!
'No.'
They seek to violate me?! I, who have deciphered the First Language?!
Tremble at the Knowing, Nyarlathotep, He Who Is/Protects the Boundary.
My tongue manages to push part of the tape forward at the ruffian above me tries to pull my panties away in spite of my continuing struggles; the woman laughs, playing with a large knife, "Looks like she wants to get her mouth involved too!"
I have enough space about my lips to speak, I realize through the white-hot miasma of indignant fury that courses through me; they will regret this foolishness!
"Iä! Baat'ko'ept!" I hiss angrily, desperately, into my gag.
The word slams through the air, in spite of all worldly laws, rattling through my bones like the vengeful trumpet blast heralding some primordial legion about to lay waste to all it surveys.
And, with the shocked cries of my attempted violators ringing in my ears… all goes blacker than the darkest pitch of a starless midnight.
A brief silent moment that seem eternal passes before I behold countless stars.
{/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\}
"Oh my goodness!" I declare, finding myself floating in the air and, against all logic but happily, completely unruffled and unhurt from my assault, before looking side to side; to my left is an expansive grey waste and more of the expansive dome of stars that surrounds all.
And then my gaze is arrested when I see some oddly beauteous constructions to my right.
An archway of grey, unhewed stone plays host to two gorgeous columns: the left column seems made of mist of every color and hue imaginable, and some that mine eyes have never beheld! They swirl and undulate, ever changing, in forms and patterns that I can only partially comprehend.
The other column is just as beautifully carved and undulating as its brother, but where there are countless colors to the left, on the right is darkness, pure and absolute; yet the colors of the mists give the near side of the darkened pillar definition even as its shadows seem to steal the colors from the rainbow pillar.
I have descended to the mirror-smooth ground as I behold these glories; distantly I realize that these pillars were depicted in the bas-relief of the step pyramid, the first image I was able… to… translate…
Oh. Oh dear.
"Where the fuck are we?"
I turn around and find my assaulters standing on the same polished floor as I; the one who holds the crowbar is staring at the pillars with a pale face, the man who sought to rape me is trying to affix his trousers whilst trying to draw a large knife, the third man is glaring around and… drawing a gun.
The woman is storming her way towards me, spitting tacks, "You're a fucking cape, aren't you, you little bit-"
Her lower jaw slams into her upper with a crash of shattering teeth.
I let out a shocked "Eeep!" and cover my mouth in fascinated horror as she falls to her knees in moaning pain, holding her now profusely bleeding mouth with both shaking hands, mewling screams beginning to leave her ruined maw.
"Mind your language."
The deep basso words, above and behind me, seem admonishment and dire warning and the promise of violent annihilation by supernovae, but before I can turn to look upon the resonant speaker, I see the ABB goon's weapons suddenly fly from their hands and holsters, before being held by some invisible force above their heads as the bandits themselves cry in confusion and frustration!
It is now I turn, slowly and with no small amount of trepidation, and behold my savior.
Robes that are certainly not the gold nor cloth they depict, for neither gold nor cloth moves when there is no wind to influence them. Their hands are clasped behind their back, out of view, as they stride calmly toward me, a crown in imitation of the ancient Egyptians (or is it the other way about?) sitting regally upon their hairless head.
Their skin would put obsidian to shame with its perfectly smooth darkness, and their eyes are white pits of endless starlight. Those voids regard me, and the skin about them crinkles in a seeming smile; they have no mouth, ears, or nose, and yet I can decipher their expression easily!
"Hello, Taylor. Quite the pickle you have found yourself in, mmm?"
There is only one being this could possibly be, and, understandably afraid as the injured woman behind me begins whimpering in earnest around the blood foaming in her barbaric orifice, I sketch a respectful curtsey and greet the being before me, through a throat dry with terror, "Ahem. Baat'ko'ept, I presume?"