Mars

Home.

It was a simple word, but one that meant the world to Mars in that moment. True, he wasn't home exactly. If he had really been home he would've been back in his room upstairs arguing with his brother Hunter over if he was allowed to play two cards in a row. Dimir, though, was a nice substitute.

At least until he factored in what they were currently doing. His fingers tapped against his thigh in a worried fashion. Every so often, his hands would would fidget and he would lose the delicate rhythm he had been building. Listening to the tap, tap, tap of his fingers against soft fabric, he glanced up at the world around him.

The hallway felt empty. Black marble tiles ran along the floor, interrupted only by the light dusting of white they held within themselves. No footprints were tracked across. No scuff marks or spills were worn in. It was as if no one had been down here before. A white ceiling stared back at the floor in defiance, the opposites making the hallway seem even larger. Between them sat a dark blue, carvings ever so often interrupting its smooth flow.

On either side of him sat other tributes. Until now he had somehow managed to drown out the noises, but when he looked at them, the sounds all came back. They slammed into his ears and suddenly he could hear the loud arguing of the two standing closest to the door, the hushed whispers of the others, and all of the constant shifting, moving, tapping. He blinked, momentarily overwhelmed. Even with the noise and the bodies surrounding him, the hallway still felt empty. There was no one to talk to.

Sighing, he cupped his chin with his free hand and rested his elbow on his knee. It had been a very long string of days. His hair fell down from where he had tucked it, yet he didn't bother to fix it even when it blocked one of his eyes. Mars stared out into the hallway and let the silence wash over him again.

"Marigold?"

His fingers stumbled, the rhythm lost. Wide eyed, he glanced up to find a familiar face. The Vedalken scowled down at him.

"Would you follow me for a moment?"

Mars suppressed a smile. He recognized the harsh tone better than most, and could see the hint of a happy expression in his brown eyes. Nodding, he pushed himself to his feet and quickly checked that none of the other candidates seemed to mind nor notice. Following the older man, he tried his best to keep his back straight and his expression neutral.

It was only when they had turned the corner and were out of sight that the man wrapped his arms tightly around Mars. The boy's face instantly broke into a smile, excitement bubbling out of him. It felt far too long since he had seen a member of his family and the surprise was more than welcome. Only when the man pulled away was he finally able to gain enough air to breathe.

"F-" he paused, carefully remembering to avoid the word father. He had steered clear of using the title as a kid, he would seem stupid to use it now. "Coran, what are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you were doing," he responded, placing a hand on the boy's cheek and tilting it up to look for injuries.

Mars shifted awkwardly, not wishing to be rude and bat the hand away. "I'm fine," he mumbled, blush spreading across his cheeks.

Coran nodded approvingly, letting him go. He looked back the way they came and frowned. "I don't really have much free time. I should go back."

"I understand," the boy responded. The man had never been around much during the day when he was growing up, always having a lot of work to do. "Tell everyone else I say hi."

He nodded, giving Mars one last hug and then heading off. The vampire watched him go for a few minutes. He felt a little better, his hands having gone still all on their own. Ignoring the nerves of the task ahead, he walked back into the other hall. Most of the other candidates had disappeared and before he could even sit down again, a young woman popes her head out from behind the door frame.

"Mars?"

He made eye contact and nodded, hurrying foreword. There was nothing but a table and one chair in the room, both of which was already taken over by the woman. She smiled and looked down at a small pad of paper she was holding.

"Full name?"

"Marigold Cypress Lost," he paused to take a breathe, his cheek beating slightly. "D-Dimir."

She nodded quietly. Afterwards, she looked up for a moment and squinted. "Favorite color?"

He blinked, his mind going blank. Favorite color? What did that have to do with anything? He saw her smiling for some odd reason, and she marked something down on her sheet.

"Never mind, you're free to go."

Mars bit her lip but nodded. He left feeling confused and a little worried. Thankfully, he wouldn't have to think on it too much longer. Since he was done, all he had to do was head to bed. After everything that had happened so far, the thought was a relief.

***

Mars bolted awake. Swear drenched his back, his hair was matted. He clutched a fist to his forehead. He couldn't breathe. It was just a dream. That was all.

Rubbing his eyes and pulling his knees to his chest, he sucked in a deep breath. Mars placed his chin on his knees and stared down at his feet, which were still covered in sheets. He needed to calm down. It was fine. He hadn't killed anyone. He hadn't done anything.

Letting the air past his lips, he tilted his head and stared at the room around him. His body froze when he spotted the Dimir signet. His throat caught, a lump suddenly jammed in it.

It was real. He shook his head. It couldn't be real.

The trail had been simple. They had each entered room. Across from them sat another person. Mar's had been a short boy, with pointed ears and a wide grin. He had acted so cocky. Mars thought he'd be fine.

Each candidate had been given two bottle. "Put one in front of you and one in front of your opponent. Just get them to chose the green one."

Mars had been nervous. He thought he would fail. He set the green one in front of himself, the red one in front of the boy. The boy had squinted at him, but he never said a word. He grabbed at the green one, and raised an eyebrow. Mars said nothing, but his fingers began to tap against his knee. The boy smiled. He thought it was a sign.

Before Mars could stop him, he had piped open the top and drank it all. Not a minute later he had fallen over, body stiff. He had wanted to warn him. If he had know, he would've preferred the boy lived. He would have forfeited.

Squeezing his knees, he buried his head within his chest. Mars felt like his heart would burst. His stomach was rising and he swallowed painfully.

It had to be lie. For his own sake, he needed it to all be a lie.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Iracun Rumpig 

Life does not exist outside of itself, yet Iracun had already knew that. It was in his next task, in Dimir, that Iracun learned about his greatest challenge--himself. The mind was a deadly thing, and it's only so that a grand man such as himself would have to do such and win to obtain that from Dimir that he was to need. One more signet that would go under his belt--but how was the true question, both grand and fantastic in nature. Ah, he could speak wonders on life itself, and the grand battles that he was to face in life. Perhaps not on the field, as he was not a fighter, but Iracun's mind was a place of great strength and reverence.

For him, it seemed fitting, the Dimir task, for it was exactly the challenge he needed. Another milestone for him to write down, a moment of greatness, where he would be able to chastice himself and allow the virtues of a life to be instilled into his soul.

Upon arriving at where the House Dimir was said to be, he settled into a bed and slept for the night, as it had grown dark before his very eyes. It was dawn that awoke him, with birds and people chattering in their weird ways. He hated that noise--the way it could drive a person mad without even realizing it. There were the Vedalken that he could identify by sound alone--but when it came to sight, that certainly helped. They made up the most of the noise, though there appeared to be humans out as well, speaking and talking in their human ways. If Iracun were to be truthful, he didn't honestly believe that the House Dimir existed. He'd heard very little of it, and, frankly, there wasn't much to be said. They held no true power and without power, what were they? Of course, these were only his thoughts when settling in--at twenty five, Iracun had been just a little over middle aged, with his graying and balding scalp, some hunches, but still the awkward, and--to some--attractive face of a goblin, but even at middle aged he had little true knowledge. He saw with his eyes, not his mind, and that was why Dimir was able to get him.

It was why, in that great challenge, Iracun faced himself. The mind of a grand goblin, someone strong, someone who wasn't willing to be taken down by anything. He was more than just a name, more than someone to be seen, Iracun was a goblin of intellect and strength, carrying within him a greatness that came to life. There, he would learn who he truly was.

"Who are you, Grandfather?"

A pause, followed by a throaty cough to clear his throat. "Well," he began, then paused again. Light shifted as the early rays of dawn passed through a dirty window. Who am I? he wondered, looking down at himself, at the hands that wrote his biography. "I'm Iracun." It didn't feel right. The answer was forced, fake. Cheesy.

But she was only a girl, a young one at that, so she nodded and went back to sitting and staring.

Greatness wasn't something to be said of many, and though Iracun certainly would fit the bill, when he awoke that morning in Ravencia, ready to start his next task, Iracun didn't truly feel great. Something lingered in the back of his mind, testing his strength as it wavered between there and not. It existed on the outskirts of a memory, as though he'd done something he wanted to forget.

To forget, ah, it was a wonderful thing. To not remember the details of a mistake made, or a life taken, but Iracun had learned throughout his years that forgetting was stupid. Wholly, those who are ignorant enough to want to forget everything don't deserve a memory! He could go on describing how it was, that small amount of uneasyness that came without his knowledge, but it had came as shortly as it went. And went, oh, that forgetfullness went. It ran away, scared of itself, scared of the knowledge it'd withheld. Memory came like a peasant bird, swooping down and attacking, picking at the crumbs until nothing but concrete was left.

It was on that concrete that he'd stood, laughing to himself. Night had came, but in his hands, he was holding something stronger than the night. It was a knife of his own design, with fire magic inside of it. He didn't know where he'd gotten it, but something told Iracun that he'd designed it. Stolen the magic.

Thievery, but magic was not the only thing he'd taken that night.

As he held the knife, Iracun heard yelling. Screaming.

"Who are you, Grandfather?"

"Who are you?" he'd asked, calling into the void of dark. Rows upon rows of lights flickered on, one by one showing what lay hidden. If only he could return to the darkness.

Bodies lay there, some sleeping, some awake, their eyes wide in fear. All of them goblins, fitting two to a table, feet to head. "Stop this!" someone shouted. It was a girl, one younger than him. She was in her teens, he could tell by her voice. It was gravelly, like glass spread onto a table and crushed. She had a flower behind her ear. That would be his daughter--or, if one was to be true, the child he'd adopted a few years back, Suz. A maid who cleaned. One that, later in his life, would become the dearest thing to him.

That night, Iracun had dwelt with monsters.

Knives could cut, but no goblin had been able to create a knife that sealed a wound with fire as it cut into it. It was something he'd scribbed thoughts down on for ages--something simple, yet upmostly complex. A complicated tale that left him breathless just considering. One foot moved, then the next. Iracun was trapped inside the memory, his body wanting to stop but not. A laugh left his throat but he didn't want it to. No, no, he had thought. I wouldn't. I couldn't.

"Now now," he said, looming over her. She looked so innocent there. So gentle.

She'll be so easy to cut into, he'd thought. Just a few cuts and the organs can be removed, cleanly, for operation, he knew. What does a goblin's inside look like? It was a devilish thought, but he was a devilish man. She was screaming but that didn't matter--Suz was unable to move, so she wasn't a problem. The whining would stop eventually.

Iracun tested the knife not on Suz first, but the sleeping goblin beside her. Their blood came out only a little before he pressed the knife against the edge of the cut, allowing the heat to burn the skin to a crisp. Breathing in the deep, sweet smell, he laughed. Fresh air rejuvinated him. It was wrong, so wrong, but something about it felt right. Hurting them, cutting them open, operating on his own kind...it was pleasant. They weren't really real anyways--just bodies on a table. Who cared that some stared at him, the whites of their eyes seeming to glow in the night, the screams that left their mouth loud.

It was nothing compared to the knowledge he'd gain, of course. A few lives lost never hurt anyone.

"Grandfather--you killed people?"

"No!" Iracun stared down at his writing, feeling shame overcome him. "No, no...I..."

The world shook in his memory, the tainted strands tangling downwards. He cut them open, person by person, until most all were dead. The only person left for him was Suz, who was crying, her eyes reddened and more purple than usual. The greenish gray color of her skin stood out, as though begging him to look and see who she was.

"Please, Ira, don't do this!" she cried out. "This isn't you! This isn't right! Don't kill me, please, please."

Oh, but the longing of a child...to look a murderer in the eye and ask for mercy. It wasn't right, yet, what in life was?

"Oh, don't scream," he'd said. The tearing of her flesh was no different than anyone else.

There, he'd killed her. Watched as the life drained from her eyes. Felt nothing but joy.

It was in that where the House Dimir had made their mistake.

Iracun wasn't the best man, he would admit that. There were several mistakes he'd make throughout life that wouldn't help. He had an anger that would burn through the world if it could. Hell! His students could speak ages about his faults. They're wrong, but they'd do it, as they've always been a group of slackers.

But out of all the things in the world that Iracun could be, he knew that a killer of the innocent would never be one. When it came to those that he knew, those he took care of, those he saw and longed to help...he'd do anything. The burning oils in his mind kept him up at night as he worked to create inventions to help the world, not destroy it. Though Suz then was only his maid, she'd later become his child, an adoption of the greatest asset he'd ever obtain. Though he didn't know that (How could he? You expect him to see the future? He is not that great, oh little one reading this), Iracun knew in his heart right from wrong.

So he stopped, falling off the floor and hitting the ground. "That's not real!" he exclaimed, looking wildly at himself. "A dream! Mind assult. But that," Iracun spoke, "is not who I am."

"Who are you, Grandfather?"

"I am Iracun! I am a man of mind and soul--smart, with a ferociousness, and perhaps I am a bit full of myself. But I am no killer." It was then he was able to see what lay on the edge of his bed. The signet of the Dimir. A treasure, left for those who could find it. "You may mess with my mind, play with my memories! But you are stupid! Stupid, for I know the truth. How could you hide it from me? This is a trick, something simple. I am complex. I am not tricked!"

They'd just left it there, on the bed. Shaken, Iracun stood, only to fall back down again. Tears feel from his face as he shook away the memory. "It's not real," he whispered. If he said it enough, perhaps it would come true. Wiping at his nose and eyes, Iracun breathed in and out, waiting for himself to calm. "I would never." Would he? "I couldn't." Could he? "I won't."

Noon rose before Iracun was able to convince himself, to fight away the wretched memory. It would never truly leave him.

So he took it, the signet there, and left the place.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Heccan Kirkeus

"And by came an angel, who had a bright key,

And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;"

- From "The Chimney-Sweep": William Blake, Songs of Innocence

When he was younger, Heccan Kirkeus dreamed of an angel.

Now, this had a much different meaning to Heccan than it might to us, for angels were a race with which he might interact at any given point. Of course, there are stories of humans on Earth who have interacted with angels – the most popular of which, of course, being the Christian story regarding the Virgin Mary – but the point is that, to us, this is a story worth telling. In Ravnica, angels are as typical as, for example, the Scandinavian: common within a certain region (Scandinavia), but there is no doubt outside of said region that they (the Scandinavian) exist, and they are not thought of on a regular basis (unless, of course, you either are Scandinavian or simply happen to be fond of their culture) because there is nothing more to tell.

Why, then, you may ask, am I telling you about this dream?

Because, though he cannot find the body, Heccan Kirkeus remembers very distinctly the feeling of his fingers wrapped around said angel's cold throat, watching its wings flap senselessly as all the life drains from its body.

This might – and probably is, in fact – be a somewhat jarring turn of events, so allow me to rewind ever-so-slightly in order for this to make more sense. When he had first arrived in the Dimir region, he had felt incredibly drowsy. Deathly so, in fact (he remembered this specifically because a myriad of jokes had come to mind about the glorious irony of the situation and he had begun to giggle gleefully at the thought of death-related puns. Simple as it was, Heccan had decided that 'so tired he could drop dead' was his favourite, purely because it was truly a classic). And so, as any reasonable necromancer elf would, he had yawned, stretched out, and laid down on the grass, not to wake up until quite a while longer.

His dream had rung strange, for he had been both awake and asleep, drifting off into a land where he watched himself sleep. He'd watched at his body – and the bodies of the others, for that matter – were shifted into coffins by shapeless, faceless mages, each one more shrouded in the veil of dream than the next. Were they real? Heccan had no idea, for, though the events rang true, they looked the stuff of nightmare, not of a waking horror. He'd felt the coffin shut above him, heard its slam! and noticed his breathing grow shallow as the air available to him grew more and more limited, more recycled with each passing moment.

He hadn't been sure how long he'd stayed this way, for time was strange in the coffin: he'd had time to think, and think, and think about every person, place, and object he'd seen in his life, every interaction he'd ever made. And yet, despite this, he did not notice time pass; rather it went in the blink of an eye, dizzying him with an inconstant stream of ticking and tocking from an unseen clock, unregulated by any sight save for his breath against the hard surface of the coffin.

It had been an eternity; it had lasted the blink of an eye. But that's how dreams work, isn't it?

All of a sudden, there had been a tapping at the top of his coffin. A tapping which, unless he was mistaken, sounded distinctly like the noise of a leaf falling on the frozen autumn ground, dead before it hit the ground. What kind of creature could make such a tapping? Then, with a swing, the coffin opened, and before Heccan had stood beauty, grace, and all the ugliness that humanity could never comprehend.

"Do I know you?" had asked Heccan.

"You do," said the angel, "and yet you do not. What is knowing, really? Do you know me, you who have seen me in a dream – I remember it well, child, so do not pretend otherwise – or do you know my face, my image? Is that all I am? And if not, do you know my heart? My soul?"

Heccan had blinked. "I don't know. Have you seen Fluffy?"

"Is that all?" had asked the angel. "I propose to discuss in conversations of the soul with you, and that is the sole reply you give me? Where's Fluffy? "

"Yup!" had chirped Heccan. "So where is he?"

"Where rabbits go, I suppose. Or perhaps where the dead go. Which is he?"

Heccan had frowned. "A rabbit, of course. Fluffy isn't dead."

The angel had laughed. Heccan had leapt. This, you might think, is quite a strange and uncharacteristic thing for him to do – you would be correct. Perhaps, then, you could blame such a flaw in logic on dream, for in Fiction people do things they would never do when they stand in Reality, where there is no safety net to save them when they forgo their morals and let the world come crashing down. This might be a correct assumption, and yet I could not tell you, much as I could not tell you why the sky is blue or why my cat will only love me when I refuse to give her attention. There are things in this world, unpleasant as that may be, which must be taken at face value; to question is to undermine, and thus I might say that there are some things which are so true that they simply cannot be seen in any other way. But was Heccan's action such a thing? That, reader, is entirely up to you, for, as I have said, I do not hold the answers. Interpretation, after all, is the key to literature. Writing is neutral. Truth is irrelevant.

Then again, to say this is to claim truth as well, is it not?

The next thing Heccan had come to realize was that he stood atop an angel which had once lived. I used the term once, here, in the sense that he was no longer so; in fact, I can confirm that he had indeed been quite dead when Heccan had come to consciousness (though, as I have mentioned, it was but a half-consciousness, that either of a dream or a distant memory that came, piece by piece, hidden in a dark recess of the brain. The whole experience had been, as I'm sure you can presume, reader, quite odd. But I can confirm that he is now awake, and, having thought things through (and seen Fluffy standing next to him, very much unharmed), he is more than willing to write the entire experience off as a dream.

Or at least, he would be.

If he hadn't woken up in a coffin.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vellatovarin Tempus

TEST SUBJECT FOR LATEST IZZET TELEPORTER

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Calais Agate

The memories flood her as rain does after a drought. They are unpleasant, tortured memories she wishes to forget as soon as they plague her with their tendrils. She is a monster, everything she hates. When she stands she cannot bear to look in any reflective surface for fear of seeing who she has become.

It began yesterday, a free day to roam the darkened alleys and bright cobbled streets of Dimir. She was out of place: an ogre amongst a sea of normal sized species. Awnings too short for Calais spread across the sidewalks so that the vampires could go about their business without the interference of the sun, which left Calais to walk on the road.

She had watched in anxious apprehension every step she took, careful not to trample an unexpected small animal or person. Heccan and Fluffy had all but disappeared. She was left to navigate the roads alone, unable to speak confidently in the language spoken around her

After reaching the end of the main street in Dimir, she had turned to find a place to rest that had adequate space. Dimir was far different from Gruul. Squat buildings advertised services in Dimir, a sight foreign and strange to Calais who had only been exposed to open plains and a few sparse buildings meant for community meetings and the occasional merchant's shop.

There were few green spaces, most were shadowed and obscured from sunlight. There was, however, a bench perched just across the road from where she had stood, as though it was meant to beckon her over. She had been nearly alone on the road, and as she had sat on the bench she had to stoop to fit both under its awning and to fit comfortably on the bench itself. She had not known when it would be an appropriate time to return to their sleeping quarters.

She had had nothing to do with herself. Every measure had been taken, every activity had been thought about and dismissed. So she had watched. The few people on the street were an older pair of species she had never encountered—a name she could not pronounce with her Gruul accent—and a group of small children of unknown species origin. They laughed and kicked around a makeshift ball out of an unidentified animal skin.

The ball rolled towards her, and the children had been so engrossed in their game they had not seen Calais, and instead focused only on the ball. That is, until they had reached where the ball was, and had seen large feet—larger than anyone's in Simic—and had looked up at Calais with gaping mouths.

She had tried to smile like Heccan had instructed her, but she had felt it came out lopsided. She was getting better with her social skills as the competition wore on. Still, she had felt like the children would run away, but instead they stayed for a moment, and then broke out into grins.

"Hello!" One of the children said, a young humanoid-type girl who Calais could not tell the actual specie of.

"Hi," Calais said, but it was forced and it made her sound far harsher than she had intended. She cleared her throat and smiled again. The children had looked again in curiosity, until their frowns had turned into smiles once more.

"What are you?" A young humanoid-boy asked.

"Calais. I am ogre, from Gruul."

"Gruul? That's so cool!" giggled one boy, whose friends then proceeded to laugh along with him.

"Calais is a pretty name," said the girl. "I'm Saskia, and this is my brother Watton and his friend Henry."

The situation had felt familiar. Bright faces, curious faces, had looked up at her in expectation. How could she hate those who were so pure? So innocent and without prejudice?

"Thank you." She did not know what else to say to them, but she wished for them not to go away, so she had conjured up the only question appropriate to children that she knew how to speak in the common language. The words had come easy and full. "And what do you want to be when you grow up?"

The little girl's bright eyes had lit up. "Well my mom is a private investigator and my dad investigates the private investigators so I want to be a superhero. Won't that be cool? I'll get to go around and help people, like pow-pow," at this, she had pretended to punch her brother and then heroically rescue him. Henry continued to remain silent and held the ball. "And then all of Dimir will say, 'Wow look at Saskia! Sassy, super, sexy Saskia! Except mom tells me to not use the word sexy 'cause it isn't appropriate. But the name is still something I'm working on."

And then now, in this one moment, she could not understand what came over her. She was ugly, deformed, just as everyone saw ogres as. For she had looked at Saskia in her bright little naïve eyes, and told her, "Superheroes don't live in Ravnica. Cute, cute, cute." And she had patted Saskia on the head.

In that moment, she had become everything she reviled. She had told a child they could not be what they had wanted to become. Who was she to ruin another's dream because she had never reached her own dream herself?

The little girl's eyes welled up with tears and she stared at Calais with anger and hatred. "What a mean thing to say. Mom was right—Gruul is mean. Come on, guys, let's get away from the ogre." She had run off with her brother's arm around her shoulder, comforting her at the hurt Calais had caused.

How could she bear to stand killing a dream, injuring the wings so beautiful on the little girl? In her jealousy and hatred, she had become nothing more than the worst of herself. She had become nothing more than he who had first crushed her own dream so many moons ago. And she did not call for them, and that was the worst of all.

The memories weaned but she could not forget. Even as she held the signet in her hand, as something told her something was askew, she knew it had to be true. She was nothing but the thing she hated most. Her words had spoken louder than all of her actions. Around her, magic was expelled until she was surrounded by nothing but devastation. And she wept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elijah Karsur

The smell of spices and wine drifted through the atmosphere, clogging up Elijah's nose as he tried to brush through the dining hall.

It was still packed, or at least as packed as it could've been, considering the group's dwindling numbers. Scanning over the crowd, he finally located the door at the other end of the hall. It wasn't the fact that he didn't feel like palling around with the others, though, admittedly, the thought was far from his mind. A headache had begun to form over the bridge of his nose, and the idea of going to bed early was swiftly becoming appealing. As he headed out, he found his eyes lingering on the dark coloring of the walls, mahogany lining hues of purple. Elijah couldn't decide on whether it was more threatening or relaxing. He gave up trying when he spotted a familiar face ahead of him.

Making a quick detour, he let a smile slip onto his lips. Padding up behind her seat and leaning over, Elijah folded his arms on her shoulder. Her hair tickled against his skin, yet he didn't bother to pull away.

"Long time no see," he said.

Mikaela glanced over her shoulder, her eye roll already in progress. When her dark eyes stopped to meet his, she offered a tight smile, "I'm sure."

The tips of Elijah's smile dipped. Trying for a better reaction, he glanced both ways as if looking for someone before turning back to her. "It's odd seeing you without a babysitter," he commented, quirking an eyebrow for extra effect.

The girl's mouth twitched. Her eyes narrowed a little more. She looked back down at her plate and became quiet. Peering at her curiously, Eli tried to discern if he had hit a nerve or not. When the shoulder he was leaning on remained cool, he racked his brain for something better to piss her off. Maybe he was wasting his time, but he didn't really care. A lingering feeling of anger lay condensed inside of his chest, fueling his pesky behavior. In truth, he had gotten over the initial act, it was just the residual feelings leading him to want to poke at her until she snapped.

"Mr. Karsur," a voice piped up behind him, disrupting his thoughts with its light tone.

He turned around, internally groaning. To his surprise, a tall, fairly attractive woman stood before him. Her hair was a deep black, part of it tugged up and braided to keep it clear of her face. Her skin was luminescent in comparison, though her eyes were just as dark a color as her hair. She smiled, her lips thin pressed.

"I'm afraid I need to ask you for one of your personal items until the trial has been completed," she said, revealing a sharp pair of fangs as she spoke.

Elijah gave her a quizzical look, "We don't even know what it is yet."

She shrugged sympathetically, "I'm afraid it violates the rules we've established."

His face screwed into a scowl. It wasn't like they had told them about any rules. He opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted as she held out her hand.

"The amulet, please, Mr. Karsur."

Reluctantly, he reached up to undo the clasp. The metal slipped from his neck and into his palm. Had his headache not been growing more persistent, he most likely would've launched into a full blown argument with the woman in front of him. It wasn't like he cared that much or perhaps, more accurately, he didn't want to seem worried. There wasn't much to see in his head anyway. Still, the thought of someone being able to root around in there whenever they wanted. He rolled his shoulders to suppress a shiver. It was all rumors anyway, paranoia even.

Smiling at him as he handed over the necklace, the woman's thin hand folded around it, "Thank you very much."

He watched her hurry off to go deposit it somewhere and looked back to find Mikaela with a small smile flitting across her face. "Something funny?" he asked, his voice coming out more on edge than he had expected it to.

"No," she responded, her smile fading. Her eyes cast down the hall where the woman had disappeared. "Sorry about your thing, Elijah."

He couldn't tell whether she was being sarcastic, so he merely responded with a shrug. Noticing the food still on her plate, the man reached over her and snatched up a fry.

"Hey," Mikaela yelled, swatting at him as he swallowed it.

"Thanks, angel," Eli said, using the pet name jokingly before giving her a wink. "I'll see you at the trial."

He then turned and headed back towards the exit of the dining room before she could retaliate.

All he wanted now was a decent night of rest.

***

The beginnings of sunlight graced Elijah's eyelids, turning his darkened world a fluorescent shade of green.

Squeezing his eyes shut tighter, the young man hid his face further in his pillow. He let out a huff as the spots from the sun died behind his eyes, leaving him again in darkness. There were no sounds he could make out, other than his own breathing, and nothing to smell but clean sheets. Why did it have to be the sun, of all things, that woke him up? Maybe if he just didn't get up, he could get back to sleep.

Eli shifted beneath the covers, trying to get comfortable again. A sharp pain bit at his hand. Startled awake, he yanked his hand away from the bed. As he rubbed his fingers over the stinging spot, he felt warm metal meet his touch. Opening his eyes blearily, he frowned. Since when did he wear his rings to bed?

The man pushed himself into a sitting position, causing his sheets to slip off and pool on the ground. As he rested his back against the headboard, he ran a hand through his tangled hair. A better question might've been what had happened last night? His brain felt fuzzy on the subject. There was dinner, then... his thoughts trailed off as he cast his eyes to the nightside table.

Sitting on the wood lay a small circular object, glinting in the soft light. Curious, Elijah picked it up, flipping it over in his palm. On the other side lay the signet for Dimir, carved into its surface. A brief moment of victory arose, then quickly fell. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach and dropped the thing back where he had found it. When had he received the thing? More importantly, how had he? As his eyebrows knit tightly, he slid his feet down to touch the floor. Maybe if he went and asked someone?

When he tried to stand, it all rushed back.

Blood.

The memory hit him like a tidal wave, knocking his head for a loop. His hands clutched at the fabric beneath him, grabbing fistfuls of cloth. His eyes closed to the darkness and he watched. He watched as a body crumpled and blood began to spill. It leaked across the concrete floor, spreading until it reached the tips of his shoes, and he was forced to stumble back. There was more than he had expected the girl to have. So much more.

He remembered smiling. Why had he smiled?

The memory jumped back at him in pieces. They were forced to. He had won. That was why he had smiled. But what was he? Successful? Yes. Angry? No. Proud? ...

No, he decided. He had been proud. He no longer was. Words came at him next. Images followed.

"This is nothing personal."

"Agreed," the words came out flat from his mouth, the humor missing. He felt as if his throat had been replaced.

"Good luck to you."

"You too."

They stood in a large room. Concrete surrounded them, the scuffling of feet and heavy breaths bouncing from one wall to another. Neither had a clue what the room was regularly used for. Neither wanted to know. Elijah's hands itched beside him. They had said it would be randomized. This didn't feel very random. Then again, luck was funny that way.

Mikaela stood across from him, her chest rising and falling with each breath. There was no armor on her shoulders for once, her mind forgetful without others to remind her. She was missing her sword too, the thing still left somewhere deep beneath Simic's first floor. All she had was her magic. The heat searing, fluctuating flames that made her hands shake. The thing she feared to use. Elijah smiled. He could win.

He didn't remember when the trial began or who threw the first punch. Instead, he remembered the silence. For once, the man had held his tongue. He kept from insulting her, clamping his mouth shut as he back stepped a blow. He couldn't fan the fire, because he knew what would happen then.

The trial felt violent. Or at least more violent than he would've expected from Dimir. That didn't mean he could stop, though. His hands scraped the ground as he ducked a roundhouse kick. He watched the frustration slip through the cracks in Mikaela's face. Her hands began to spark, causing a familiar glow to take over his fingertips as jolts from the sparks trailed up her arm. He didn't have much time.

Elijah stepped back and stared at his own hand. He flexed his fingers, releasing his breath cautiously, as if it was a precious resource. A small pool of mist began to drip into his hand. The color began as red, slowly turning itself white as it grew warmer in his hand. Reaching a size larger than he could hold, the mist poured down and began to harden. A spear formed in his hand. Elijah smiled, his grip tightening around it.

He cast his eyes upward, immediately throwing himself to the side. A wave of fire licked at the walls behind him. It faded out swiftly, leaving behind a scorched trail. The girl across from him had crossed her arms furiously. Miniature flames swirled around her palms, the heat beginning to overtake the room. As sweat began to drip from his forehead, Eli lifted the weapon as best he could. If it had actually been made of metal, he was sure his arm would've given out.

The first shot missed. It struck the concrete with a crack, disapparating instantly. Mikaela stared at him with surprise. Elijah wasted no time letting another form. Then he waited for her. He waited for all those angry thoughts to catch up to her and to make her skin burn. His face split into a mocking grin, shoving her a foot closer to the edge.

"Hey Mikaela, did you ever consider this was all your fault?"

She looked up, eyes narrowed. She pressed her lips tighter.

"Lavina, I mean. Or well-" he faked a laugh "-Either of the deaths in Simic really. Hell, I could go back further. After all, that monster wasn't the only thing you burned alive, was it?"

He shoulders bristled. "Listen, Elij-"

He cut her off, worried she would calm herself back down if she spoke. "It's all because you can't take care of yourself. You don't have any control over your own magic. Maybe it's all because you know it's useless to learn. Without your wings, you j-"

Eli barely had time to move. The fire scraped against the edges of his skin. He saw his opening as she tried to control the flames. The spear shot through and suddenly, they were back to the blood again.

His hands squeezed at the sheets tighter, balling up the soft fabric beneath his fingers. He felt shaky. Without meaning to, he pulled his knees a little closer to his chest. Elijah had done a lot of things, been called a lot more, but a murderer? No. No, he had never strayed that far. His hands went to clutch at his hair, his fingernails digging into his scalp. He needed to calm down, to breathe.

He wanted to say she deserved it. She had burned him alive. It was payback, revenge. But she had brought him back. He hadn't done the same. He couldn't have if he had wanted to. The rest of the anger he had built up finally drained out of him. His lips twisted, and he let his arms fall back to his sides. He needed to look at things logically.

Maybe he only wanted to doubt himself to lessen his conscious. Even so, the more he thought about it, the less he trusted what he remembered. For starters, the easiest fact was stating that Mikaela easily should've been able to kick his ass. There was something else too. There must have been. His eyes shifted behind his eyelids, searching for a loophole. Everything seemed real. The sweat, the concentration, her magic. Elijah paused. He rewound the memory again, eyes narrowed. He stared at his own hands. An amber ring, two silver, a black, a green.

A smile slipped onto his lips, quickly spreading into a grin. The grin grew until his face could no longer contain it, and he laughed. The movement took even himself by surprise, his body collapsing back onto the bed. He pressed a fist to his forehead and laughed until it began to hurt his sides. Had anyone else been in the room to watch this change happen, they might have suggested he had snapped from grief. But Elijah knew better. He knew it was all in the details.

Emotions flooded over him. Relief. Stupidity. Certainty.

He waited for his body to regain its air, his chest rising and falling heavily. When it did, he pushed himself up and finally managed to get out of the bed. Pocketing the signet to keep it safe, he headed for the door. Maybe he was still up early enough to bug Mikaela during breakfast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hesperia Haera

The crows swoon in the air

and she swells.

Two hearts beat;

Hesperia yearns for skin

against skin against skin.

it's touch; it's love.

The first sensation she feels is the pumping of her own blood. The numbness of Hesperia's consciousness slips away, replaced with a new feeling of scarlet and crimson and life pouring from one vein to the next. It's eclectic; she suddenly feels each breath slide down her throat, every wind caress her skin. The world seems a little less-

The second sensation she feels is a weight in her hand. She looks down, lungs bursting upwards at the signet in her palm. A hurricane brews- she doesn't remember obtaining it, doesn't remember falling asleep the night before.

The third sensation she feels is deeper than the rest.

She shakes her head, cracking her knuckles against the outline of the morning sun. There's a smile on her face, a flat grin full of a sheer joy like mountains upon mountains until their peaks meet in the vast openness of space. She felt her lips tug apart with happiness.

A woman's face swarms her mind, with golden eyes and blonde, braided hair. She's tall in Hesperia's head, her legs and arms twisting about her brain like beautiful and wondrous veins. Her face is soft, delicate. Hesperia softens under Angelique's gaze.

Angelique.

I am in love with her.

Her smile vanishes. It's a maniacal phantom; suddenly, she's up, knees wet with moisture from the rocky ground. Her skin twinkles, but everything inside her head becomes shadow. Bile piles inside her stomach, mixing with glittering wings of nervousness, remnants of a pretty future. The earth begins to revolve around black and tar, but her heart swerves, elastic with mutters and whispers of a forbidden love.

It repulses her, first.

It frightens her, second.

And third, it stretches her joy beyond imagination. It's panicky and lovely and insane; Hesperia paces back and forth- no- yes- oh, how I want my brain to stop- and another flicker of Angelique's face turns the ember into flame.

It makes her feel beautiful. She burns under the thought, alight with boisterous inferno, the sudden heat of a memory- a memory of them, running, hearts malignant below a sky of stars. Angelique simmers with the glint of every constellation; Hesperia is swallowed by light. It makes her feel beautiful.

Hesperia has never felt beautiful.

"My fair lady-"

"Fair? Is that all I get?"

Angelique breathes through her in a dream. Hesperia feels like she's swimming in the shimmer of sun and gold. It's daytime; when has she last been awake during the day? Warmth seeps from their tight hold, coils and twine releasing harmony into the air.

Discourse- Hesperia longs for disorder and-

Angelique caresses her cheek. There's never been anything as smooth. Hesperia wonders if the wind has such quiet potential, if the ground could quake with as still a quiver

"I am in love with you," Hesperia hears herself murmur. In the beginning, it doesn't feel like her voice, but someone else. As if stolen. A thief of sound and melody.

Angelique laughs- a ripple of tongue and wool- and Hesperia can't help but laugh as well. Angelique's laugh is like a curtain draping anything evil surrounding them.

She yearns for silence; nothingness; love is a dangerous-

"And I'm very much in love with you, too." Angelique's eyes glow further; a twitch and a breath and time fleeting past them.

The galaxies align. Hesperia drowns under Angelique's touch.

Angelique chuckles. Again, a timbre of grace. "Really? A woman as fair as you. A thing as vulgar as me-"

Angelique cuts her off with a kiss. Lips- Hesperia can remember the touch of them against her own.

"Fair? Is that all I get?"

Hesperia nods, numb from the lingering taste.

"My fair lady-"

Through crescendo, Hesperia begins to miss her. She begins to miss Angelique with every bone and muscle and wavering hair. Part of her realizes the wrongness of it, but more of her swirls and teeters and flies with the wings of Angelique and Hesperia. Two intact minds blurring into one.

Memories surge through her- none of them are real, but Hesperia believes them. She believes them all. She fell desperately for an angel; how disgusting true love must be.

The crows fly away with clamor

and she's sweet.

One heart beats;

Hesperia dreams of the woman

in love with a monster.

it's real; it's unreal.