31.1.24 prompt: space friends

Sci-Fi | 1333 words | tw: swearing, casual discussion of mental illness. leave a comment if you enjoy it! it’ll help boost my creativity 😉

“This is, uh, Mission Control to ByoRax Carrier 405LR. Please confirm you are receiving us.”

Even though she was hearing it through the grainy crackle of space radio-comms, the sound of another human’s voice made Halide close her eyes in contentment. She savoured the way it rose and fell, the deep tenor of the man’s voice, the hesitant, almost fearful emotion –

Her eyes opened again. 

“This is ByoRax Carrier 405LR, receiving you loud and clear. Confirming the craft is ready for reentry, permission granted?”

Fuzz greeted her through the speakers. Halide let one moment go by, then another, before –

“Permission denied.”

Halide froze, hand hovering over the space-comm button. Denied? Denied? Was this some sort of…twisted joke? Lone astronaut comes back from 32-month long mission, see how long it takes for her to break down crying, begging for reentry to Earth?

“Is…is there a reason why?” No answer. Hesitantly, she added, “sir?”

Before her, the beautiful, blue horizon of Earth spanned the length of the reinforced glass window. The nose of the carrier pointed gently downwards, ready to begin its molton-fast descent towards home, towards humans and trees and cats that weren’t just mechanical replacements meant to appease her strained mind. Before the mission, Halide had been scanned extensively, put through years of rigorous testing to ensure she wasn’t susceptible to harmful mental illness, or muscle decay; prepping her with binders and binders of therapists wet-dreams – meditation regimes, yoga classes, journaling strategies. She had been prepared for the months of loneliness. More than prepared, really – if anything, she was overqualified to be lonely. But there was a difference between being lonely, and being alone. Once can be lonely on Earth. 

In space however, it was  literally just – her . It’s not just feeling empty, or like it’s only her fending for herself – it’s that physically, for incomprehensible miles, it’s simply…Halide, breathing recycled air. Looking out at the blackness of space, and the occasional asteroid or exo-planet, or star. 

Halide, her mechanical cat, and her imaginary friend.

“Can we confirm this is Commander Astronaut Halide Christopherson speaking?”

Halide licked her lips, and pressed the button. A slick, shimmery shadow glided across the interior reflection on the window ahead. 

“Yes, this is Commander Halide speaking. There is only Commander Halide, or have you forgotten this was a solo mission, Control?” Although she tried to inject lightness in her voice, it fell flat, vowels and consonants cracking on her tongue. She’d never forgotten how to speak – too afraid to lose the musical lilt of her accent, she had spoken every day into the recorder provided to her. But faced with a real human being, someone who was speaking back – she fell on the back foot.

“Commander, we’re detecting another life form onboard Carrier 405LR; repeat, we are detecting another life form onboard Carrier 405LR. This is a CODE UMBER. Initiating protocol –”

White fuzz crowded out the frantic voice of the man in Mission Control. It felt like liquid ice was creeping through her veins. Another lifeform. Another lifeform. Another life form, another lifeform, anotherlifeform– 

Halide turned around. Jami stood in the open hatchway to controls, filling up the space like it always did – hazily, almost flickering around the edges. Blues and purples spread around its skin, dizzying her. She’d been delusional. That was all it was meant to be. An imaginary friend come to life, driven by psychosis and the pressing cold indifference of space pouring in through every window and crack of the carrier. Jami’s appearance had frightened her, and it had almost seemed frightened by her, too. But the more Halide talked to it, pouring out her fears and feelings, all the data she’d retrieved that day and the intangible things she missed about a living home, the more it had gotten…clearer. Eventually, it had come to curl around her, like a weird pet. All soft, plasma-like skin, and fluctuating colours. She had started to sing it songs, for fucks sake, and taken comfort in the fact that at least when she got home there would be drugs that could help her – even if it meant no more space missions. She’d grown to almost hate the sucking darkness of space, anyway. 32 months was enough.

It was all enough. 

Another life form.

“No,” she said. The cold metal of the control desk pressed harder into Halide’s legs. “No, I – you aren’t meant to exist. They said the planet was dead, I never – I never saw fucking nothing, all those months I tracked that planet.” 

Jami stepped towards her, its head cocking to the side in confusion. The hard radio-comms button gave way under Halide’s finger.

“Jesus, stop. Don’t – you aren’t meant to be real.” Desperation tasted like metal on Halide’s tongue, and still Jami stepped closer. Like it had learned to do, like Halide had taught it, it bowed down, shrinking, until it fit under her chin. The cool flesh gave way slightly, like rotten fruit. Halide had always wondered just how bad she had gotten that she was imagining the feel of flesh against her. She was fucking deluded, to have so easily accepted its companionship. So wretchedly desolate. A mechanical cat can only do so much. 

“Mission Control, please, please. It’s just…it’s just my imaginary friend. Please. I didn’t know, how could I know?”

The silence on the other end made Halide frantic, but she couldn’t move. The heavier she breathed the more the alien pressed against her, contented, like it had been for so many months. Her heartbeat thrummed in the hollow of her throat, clawing its way up to her mouth like a hard brick. Eventually, she let go of the space-comms button. Whatever CODE UMBER was, it was non-communicative. The slide down to the ground was slow, tortuous. Every inch of the way, the alien – her friend, her pet – followed her, pushing and pulling its mass like the play dough she had as a child. 32 months ago, she would have found this fascinating. An alien – proof, at last, that the human race are not alone. But as it was, it just felt like she was dreaming. As if she was living in unreality; her world – this little carrier, her cat and her friend – crashing around Halide. 

The distant alarm of the airlock unlatching was dim in her ears. Against her, the alien suddenly went rigid, in a way Halide had never witnessed. No longer rotten fruit, its skin was hard – like treated wood. The pounding thump of military boots didn’t reassure her either – Halide felt removed from the world, like everything was witnessed through a dreamy film. This wasn’t how this was meant to go, none of it fucking was. She was meant to be welcomed home, lauded for her efforts, handed platters of fresh fruit and given seeds to sow –

Dark navy forms crowded in the hatch to controls. Halide closed her eyes. 

* VOICE LOG #419.

Commander Halide Christopherson, ByoRax Carrier 405LR. 

I think I’ve gone insane. All that training, for nothing Jami. I mean, I knew things were going a little rough when I made you up but – I never thought I’d go so far as to see you. You look weird too. I thought you’d be human not…a weird alien, I guess? Looking at you makes my eyes hurt, and you’re so…skittish. I can’t believe my mind can’t even give me a delusion who wants to see me. I didn;t even collect any data on that fucking planet, I’m too focused on trying to catch a glimpse of you for more than 3 seconds. Like, if my mind is going off the rails I’d rather get to actually witness you Jami, instead of just go fucking ghost-chasing. That’s what it feels like anyway. God, I’m never seeing the inside of a spaceship again after this, am I? The higher ups’ worst nightmare. Gonna have to pay for my medication for years when I get back. Better enjoy my uniform while – hey! Get back here! Jesus – – 

The Magnus Response & Review

INCREDIBLE solo ttrpg. Literally blasted this out in one ~6ish hour sitting. Genuinely cannot recommend it enough. Get it on itch.io here: https://momatoes.itch.io/the-magus

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My name is Terle, the first born to our village’s local florist, a traditional path sweeping back centuries for our line. I had the unfortunate luck – in the eyes of some – to be born a woman, but the fortunate luck – again, to some – that the floristry profession is known for a woman’s career anyway. My parents had no fear in putting me to work on our ‘stead. It is a good career. Humble. But it is not what I desire. Some would struggle to call me a humble woman. 

Magic has..always drawn me. Its masters are lonely folk, and hard to get a hold of. They are reviled, yet highly sought after; a single, pitying wizard can twist your life around, change the fate of your fortunes. Or destroy everything. Their deep connection to the wicked – to the demons that give them their power, at the taxing expense of their soul – has always set them apart from the church and its droves of worshippers. But much like manure on a flower farm, its usefulness cannot be denied. For although anyone can study it – with time, ambition, and resources – the black stain it casts on your soul in this life and the next scares away the common folk  and elite power alike. But ‘hard’ is not ‘impossible’. And I was a determined young woman. The flower farm had grown…stifling. The pollen ached at my eyes and dripped down my nose. Under my skin lay a thousand, prickling hairs from the stems I pulled each day. A change was direly required, for I could feel myself draining the more seasons I spent toiling under the watchful eyes of my weathered parents.

And Aebh…oh, she was so different. The way she could twist the matter of our world – force it to her will, all the while smiling at me her queer, twisted smirk – it captured me. I could feel the answering pull deep within me. Ironically, the sensation made me feel like my soul was finally reawakening, like petals unfurling after a deep chill. I made her teach me. Demanded it of her, like an imprudent child. She was soft with me – heeded to my whims like a lover to their cherished. It almost made me greedy. Firstborn I may be, but sons poured out of my mother, like I had been the stopgap to her fertility. This specialised attention intoxicated me. For months, Aebh taught me the steps to access my magic, hidden in the woody fields my family grew kitchen herbs in. She was achingly gentle with it – hands on my wrists, shoulder to shoulder, purple veins moth-like under my fingertips. I’m not sure she knew how to look me in the eyes. My demon’s name is Xerxes. The ritual, a convoluted and winding affair that took place in the brook a half-mile from the farm, saw my soul bound to it in exchange for this…power. That night, Aebh and I celebrated my newfound abilities, rejoiced with each other under the waning moonlight shifting in through the canopy above.

The morning after, I awoke to her gone. I suppose I understand now why we wizards are such isolated beings. Magic…demands. But oh, how I had wished she’d never left. Magic was so bloody interesting. Some say flowers and such are fascinating, the way the stem can follow the sun and hide beneath dirt to protect from unsuspecting frosts. How a simple daisy can concoct teas curing ailments. But I knew flowers as well as I knew my own face. Intimately, so much so that it bored me. If to a bee the orchid is a mystery unsolvable, with its confounding stems and curing petals, magic was my equivalent. The way one can alter the world merely with words! In my trade, words did not carry much. We traded by bunches and stems, dried furled petals and the bulbous lumps of seeds half propagated. My newfound connection to this previously hidden world awoke within me a hunger I could not contain. No longer would a humble profession constrain me to the mundane. I was a wizard. 

However, I found myself not only skill-less, but friendless. Or rather, mentor-less. Aebh was, for reasons obvious, out of the running. I could only hope to one day see her again. But I desired…direction. Some guidance on how to manipulate this newfound power. There was much to being a wizard, I was discovering, that the rumour mill of the world just simply glossed over. How to acquire spells, for example. Or power – ability – whether it was through lack of spells, practise, or raw arcana, I instinctively knew I was less powerful than Aebh. I wanted to correct this, put myself on even footing for what I assumed was the wizarding standard. More than that, I desired to understand how such a thing was possible. And what was not possible was gaining that knowledge in my hometown.

So, moving it was. I’d assumed saying as much would be harder than doing, but reality again seemed to bow to my whims. After those first few days of settling, the feeling of acting the new fawn faded. Xerxes awakened in the corners of my mind, a faint presence I could sense curling around mine. It guided me out of my village and I travelled eastwards, the south, days slipping by on horseback, on foot, clutching the roiling edge of a slip boat across the Gerhad’s Lake. I settled in a rather meagre cottage on the outskirts of Niocur, a large and bustling town that rather abruptly faded in wilderness. It was within this wilderness that my new abode was built. A little dilapidated, but nevertheless mine, acquired from a local family who had no need for the steading when I was offering the presence of a serviceable wizard. That I knew nothing well…it never came into the equation. The cottage had 3 rooms downstairs, an attic one could stand in, and about half an acre of land surrounding it. Enough, certainly, for me. The southernmost room became my study; on the land I broke earth once again to begin to cultivate useful household herbs. I lived in the first room; the attic and smaller room to the east remained rather dormant. It suited me well. 

My first few days at the cottage – which I decided to name Cutter’s Cottage, in some strange fit of lonely melancholy – were quiet. I did not venture into Niocur, nor to any of the steadings in the near distance to mine. In fact I barely explored my own land, which as it happens, contained not only a wealth of edible plants, but wild ducks which I promptly captured to keep close to the cottage upon discovery. But isolation was new to me, and it was only a matter of time before I bumped into someone…captivating, on one of my excursions into Niocur. Startling, she was the image of Aebh. So similar in fact that I felt my heart leap in my chest, felt a confusing tumble of eager excitement and burning, resentment fueled confusion crawl up my throat. I had almost spoken to her, had already reached out and caught her attention, when I noticed the subtle differences. A freckle at the corner of her mouth. Brown eyes, not a hardened blue. Powered makeup dusting high cheeks. Embarrassment replaced all else, and I ran away before I could further muddle the situation. I almost wish I had stayed to talk – laugh off the peremptory casualness – but cowardice had taken hold of me. And perhaps a little fear, too. Xerxes had brighted at the edges of my soul at the sight of her – the feel of her. It wanted to know her. And I didn’t know why. 

I took to the books. Well, more accurately, I reflected what I felt on paper. I had no books. No knowledge. No mentor – yet. But Xerxes was still active, in the back of my self. My magic felt closer than it ever had. So, I…experimented. And, oh. It was glorious. Arcane thrummed through me, sparking up my veins and fizzling on my tongue as I spoke out the words, breathed life into the matter of the metaphysical. The flower cuttings I kept on the sill of the study flushed to life. My own skin took on a glowing hue, as if I had spent hours lounging in the sun. I had done it – all without a mentor or guidance. I am not, it must be acknowledged, a humble woman. But this felt worthy of a braggarts attitude. 

Spell: Verdure Sighs. A lyrical stance that, when sung at the right tune, embalms all around it with an artificial flush of life. Lasting for a little over half a day, it gives people and objects alike the appearance of being flush with health. 

My success filled me with confidence – and a source of income. Wizards are rare (people are loud. Xerxes seems to have sharpened my senses to the natural world), and people paid minted money for one who could enable them to look flush with health, even if only for a short while. The shorter the while, in fact, the more often they paid me to give them my service. The wealthy of Niocur, the poor of the surrounding hamlets; I took money from them all, though I was glad to retreat to my cottage after casting out my services. There is a certain…twitching under my skin, sometimes, interacting with folk. I’ve heard the rumours now, about wizards and power. It doesn’t disgust as it perhaps should.

Nonetheless, my trips into Niocur increased. I never did run into that woman again, but the next time Xerxes awakened under my skin I was better prepared. For the person, that is. I do not think I could’ve ever prepared myself for the way in which we met. Bal, whose name I later found out, is a sailor. Cut from cloth far flung from Niocur, their eyes gleam with knowledge I could only dream of – thinking about it even now makes me itch to hear them speak, shake loose all the sights they have seen, the wilder magic encountered from a life on the sea. They stood alone when I first caught a glimpse, surveying the packed crowds of Niocur’s main promenade from a sheltered cove against a wall. Yet clearly their sea salted exterior hides a noble disposition, for the minute a fair lad cried out in shock as his purse was snatched by thieves, they threw themselves into action – foolish, if you had asked me. One scuffle later, and yes the young lad had his coins back – bar a few he graciously gave Bal with a starry-eyed expression – but Bal themselves now sported a rather ugly blackening eye after a nasty box to the cheek. Luckily by then, I had gotten my hands on a few magical tomes, and knew enough spells to remember a minor healing wound that quickly soothed Bal’s face. They asked me why I bothered; I asked Bal why they had. After a moment, they simply shrugged. And that was that. The life of a sailor keeps Bal on the ocean, and it was only hours later they departed. But I do not fear; I will see them when the tides draw us together again. 

It…relieved me, I think, to speak to another human as I had to Bal. Though to be frank we had not done much speaking, as much as I long to hear what they have seen on distant lands. Instead, we got coffee. Such a mundane activity, coffee with acquaintances. Yet I realised then that I had grown somewhat withdrawn, alone in my cottage, surrounded by notes both my own and those written by wizards I will never know. Dead fellows, even. I must not forget, in my pursuit of knowledge, that I am human as well. Bal was a welcome reminder. 

And in hindsight, a glaring reminder that set against my magical work, what I deal with now is as far from human as ever fearfully pictured by the lay folk. Mastering spells increasingly eats up my time. My hunger for power – for knowledge – has only increased the more greedily I consume magic. But they don’t get any easier. My theory that it was simply a matter of practice – of flexing the muscle, as such – was proven woefully wrong. Magic is a funny thing to understand. Some spells take naught but a flick of the fingers, a flex of the soul – but those are so mundane as to be practically replicable by humans. The true spells are more…otherworldly. And these take a deeper engagement with my magics – with Xerxes. The deeper I probe into spells forgotten, into true knowledge, the more Xerxes bayed with hunger in my flesh. I could feel its excitement crawling up my spine, tangling with my own naive eagerness for achievement. But it is addictive, even as it goes wrong. Mistakes still teach after all. My latest spell was a remnant of one I found in an old magister’s tome. As it happened, one of the local farmers had a building on his land that once housed a wizard, centuries ago. The magic then seemed…rougher, perhaps to match the lifestyle. I couldn’t be certain of the nature of the spell on first reading, but I could sense a malevolence emanating from the words I slowly mouthed aloud. It excited me. Up until now, the spells I had cast were…tame. This not only felt powerful, but was an area of the arcana I had not yet touched on. In my eagerness I neglected to consider any wards the old wizard could have cast on his notes, or perhaps any extra components the spell might need to stabilise. Whichever mistake I made the outcome was this: the book melted in my fingertips, pages rotting at a speed hitherto unknown. Black, clumping gunk seeped through my fingers and fell to the ground where it gathered and formed into a monstrous shadowed figure. It grew taller than the amount of gunk would assume, hunched and terrible and silent as it moved its great head to stare at me. For a moment, there was stillness. Then Xerxes awoke in earnest. My heart pounded in my chest as an unnatural excitement overtook me. All sense of panic was abandoned; instead, I felt an ever tightening band across my chest as my demon sensed my potential death. I understood – when I died, my soul belonged to it. But underneath this strange eagerness, my hands clawed into my legs. I stared down the shadowy beast; it stared back at me. Slowly, it sluiched its way towards me, no legs visible; only a terrible, seeping black mass. With an almost detached calm I considered the spell that had gotten me into this; revelatory poison. Malevolence. In the old tongue, there was a rune that symbolised a weaponised hatred, a malevolence so deep that it drove men against men. As if guided by the spirit of that wizard, I turned my hands to each other and carved that rune into my palms with my own fingernails. As the blood dripped feverishly down my arms,  my world erupted in such pain I was convinced either Xerxes or the shadowy beast had struck me. But no; oh, no. It was something much better. My fear of the shadowy beast seemed foolish in the face of my internal agony. What had I to fear, when I could withstand such pain? Why had I frozen in cowardice, when as my veins bulged and blackened in my veins I could sense every weakness of the pathetic creature in front of me? It was easy to constrain it. Easier still to temporarily bind it to another book, though not as proficient as the wizard before me; the beast still roamed free in the corners of my eyes, but I knew it had no agency to attack. Xerxes flushed through my veins, mildly disappointed at my success. What was one more demon haunting me, after all? But one thing was clear: if I wanted to continue down my path, I needed more power. 

Spell: Revelatory Poison. A rune scratched into both of the caster’s palms. When the casters blood has dripped past their wrists, their blood will erupt in very veins as if set alight; the veins and eyes will rapidly darken until it appears as if the caster has been poisoned. All weakness of the caster’s immediate enemies will become evident, as if marked out by an unseen hand. The caster will retain a darkened tint to their veins and eyes, worsening each time it is cast. 

Bal returned from sea. They seemed…different. But then, so did I. My exchange with the shadow creature not only hardened me, but changed me physically. My veins ran darker; the whites of my eyes, now a sallow grey. People avoided me on the street more often than not. Bal didn’t even hesitate to draw me into a rough, salt-scented embrace. It – refreshed me. Together we sat, huddled into a darkened table at a shabby bar, and whittled away the hours with chatter. I learned their stories; told them mine. Tenderness is so odd, I found. To learn someone more intimately – it rubs. There is almost a fear in me when I begin to recognise the oddities that compose a person. I am ever grateful for our companionship. We agreed to send letters. 

Bal spoke to me with such softness, despite their craggy exterior. The reminder of my humanity once again frightened me, yet reassured. I almost believed them when they took me into a closing embrace and wished me well. They inspired me to make my presence more known in Niocur, as a person and not simply a wizard. I feared I was too late; already tales of my spellcasting into darker matters has spread on the streets, and as I mentioned people have started to avoid me. True, it could’ve been because of the shadowy beast that flickered in the corners of my eyes; it made me twitchy. Not many enjoy the company of a twitchy wizard.

 I took to lingering in pubs and bookshops, rather than standing exposed to hate on the street. The folk in here were more to my taste anyway; either sullen and quiet, or sharply inquisitive. It was within one such bookshop that I met Koval. She is a small woman. Forlorn. I pitied her story, yet felt drawn to her perseverance; a disgraced scholar, withered and hunched over with the pain of attempting to cure her husband’s illness. She claims to have been searching for such a cure for decades now, and I certainly believe her old enough. Perhaps the stress has taken years from her unfairly. I hadn’t the heart to inform Koval that a miracle cure does not yet exist, and instead inquired if she had pursued any of the more powerful wizards that occasionally haunt the area. To my surprise, she confessed that only five years ago she had attempted to strike a deal with a demon herself. But, she said, no demon wanted a deal with a soul as sucked dry as mine. 

An individual inclined to danger, then. I liked her. 

It was still infused with this deluge of human connection that I found the mildew-coated papers outside my door. They were naked to the elements, tied together only by a strangely sinuous string. I brought them inside, dried them; spread them reverently out on the floor in front of the fire. I had no one to thank for dropping these arcane notes to me, no hands to reverently shake – but I vowed to do so, for they were unlike any notes I had ever seen before. The spell it seemed to describe made my insides twist, nervously, excitedly. It would push my knowledge and power to its boundaries. Despite my research, I had not yet figured out how to change myself that much further, that the same magic Aebh had yielded would pour over my own hands. But this – might this do it? 

Deciphering it took weeks. I shared my progress with Koval, Bal when they were around, and other like-minded folk from the libraries. Slowly, word spread of my latest spell. It was shaping up to be something truly exciting; I had uncovered the title of the spell – ‘Hallowing Judgement of Mirrors’. It called to mind prestige, power, and knowledge. My pursuit of its contents became feverish and had I the will to do so, I would have isolated myself in my cottage. However, the choice was rather rudely taken out of my hands. This…waif of a woman showed up at my doorstep, and simply never left. Please, she begged me. Please, do not use this spell, do not engrain its foul words into your mind. Only despair lies ahead, so she warned me. Despair, agony, pain – misery for all. This is not the way forward – apparently. 

But I cannot simply unlearn what I know. Attempting to explain this was futile. Ignoring proved useless, locking my door only appeasing my sense of security – I could hear her wails even from within my attic. I studied throughout it all and ignored her increasing hysteria. Eventually, the words came to me. It was late, the woman having exhausted herself to mere laboured breaths outside my front door. Pulling open the door caused her to fall in, at my feet. I looked at her, and felt…nothing as I spoke the spells, a screeching symphony echoing the chant. Then I was unable to look at her; my eyes began to sizzle in their sockets and melt, molten, down my face. The woman was too terrified to do much more than whimper, but by then she was merely a footnote in my mind. There was a cacophony of voices, screaming as I did, wailing their monstrous tune when I fell to my knees. Pressing my face to the cool stone of the floor offered no relief; I could feel grit sticking to the wet liquid trickling down my cheeks, mixing with the saliva drooling from my mouth. I was sightless, when I wished to be deaf. Xerxes coiled tightly around my soul. For a moment I could feel myself waver, incomplete and weak, at the periphery of something that for once I desired not to know. 

It stopped. I rose. Blinking, I could see the numb visage of the woman at my feet, frozen some feet away in the mud as if she had crawled backwards in terror. Though perhaps ‘see’ is too generous a word, for the world was distorted, in a colour scale I had never imagined. I moved my head, grinding my teeth, and suddenly the world was different again; but still, not normal.

What have you done, said the woman. What have you unleashed on this earth? And I said I didn’t know. But Lord, I did know. There was no decision I could not know, not any more. After a pause I told her this, then told her what she had done; described to her in some detail how rather than deterring me, her efforts to turn me off learning had only encouraged me. I told her that there were those in power in Niocur who had suspected what spell I had come across – and now that it was spoken, they would be eager to put before me their most difficult of decisions – that of war, of power, of money. But I am not human, not any more – perhaps not since I took on Xerxes, or bound to me a creature of the shadow realm. My moral judgement is not your own, I explained to her in earnest. And this is only the beginning of my path. Are you so remorseless? She asked me. So heartless? Who are you to preach to me, I retorted. She left, trust broken in me, though truth to be told I am not sure why she had any to begin with. Perhaps because I was a woman from a village similar to hers that I would listen. 

Power is not found in villages. And I have just unlocked the spell to more. 

Spell: Hallowing Judgement of Mirrors. Speaking the words of this spell harmonises the castor with the fabric of the world. Jarring voices underlie their own; their eyes shift with every twitch of their skull, one moment human, the next some other creature of the earth. The caster gains the ability to see for a split second the future when faced with difficult decisions, to better cast judgement on which to make. It comes at a curse of moral instability; the judgmental compass of a snake is not the same as a human’s, after all. Once cast, only death will rid the caster of its effects. 

It’s no exaggeration to say I changed fundamentally after the hallowed judgement. I was called on with some frequency to the halls of Niocur, though after some time I began to be more particular with whose calls I answered. My judgments fluctuated with what was asked of me – what is best for this community? What is best for the economy? What will secure me favour with the throne? Bal was called to sea, after I cast judgement on that last enquiry, and I have not seen them since. Distantly, I hope they live. Even more distantly, I worry that I am straying too far from my roots. But humane concerns pale so magnificently when I have the voices of the world whispering in my eyes, showing me visions of what is to come. My success has brought magic out of the shadows. Though I am avoided in the streets more than ever, those with the power to utilise my abilities have no qualms in serving me fragrant tea and piling me with riches. I am offered a tower, in the heart of Niocur – the opportunity to be the first in-residence wizard of the Niocur is too tempting to ignore. 

Koval at least delights in my new closeness. We spend nights together, pouring over textbooks. I even visit her bed-bound husband; he is pale, as fragile as old paper. When he shakes my hand and averts his eyes from my face, I almost fear he will pass away with fright. She never asks me what she should do; I honour her by not looking. Instead, I cast verdure on them both, and allow them the grace of half a day of health. But it dislodged something in her, for as the days following it trickled by, she grew restless. Uneasy with my presence. Although it hurt, I understood. I knew what was coming. She truly had forgotten what I was, I think, even as the blacked eyes of a shark peered out from my brow, and shadows danced in the corners of my room. Casting verdure was a reminder of what I could tell her. What I had, perhaps, held from her all along. When she asked me what the best path for her was, I already knew the answer. If guilt burned in my chest – if a strange anticipation curled my fingers in, dug furrows into the scars on my palms – if the best way forward was for her to sacrifice herself for my power well. Well. That’s just how it was. I told her the benefits of her sacrifice – a continuation of the last three decades of her life – and she barely flinched. Somehow, that assaged my guilt. If Koval expected this outcome herself, then I could hardly be accused of taking advantage of a vulnerable woman could I? I explained to her – to us both – how her life would fuel my power. Increase the reservoir on which I can pull miracles from. I swore to her that I would use it to heal her husband, and shook on our sweating hands. 

Killing her was almost anticlimactic if not for the blissful rush that seared through my veins. Xerxes purred in pleasure at my actions; rewarded me with a sudden flooding of power that thudded in my skull. Her blood coated my hands in thick, cooling clumps. The sight of her crumpled body filled me with a sickening horror, even as the voices overlapped in my ears to soothe me. What…had I done? What had you done, the voices echoed, what had you done, what had you done, what had you done.  Power – knowledge – sacrifice. You sacrificed, didn’t you? You gave, didn’t you? Are you human, still? Is that not sacrifice? Be grateful for what I’ve given – for what we’ve done. Be grateful, I told Koval’s husband as I fed him the apothecaries tincture. I am delivering on her promise. You shall suffer this fate no more. Move beyond your mortal capacities. Embrace what you have unlocked in us. 

My tower had 6 rooms. The top room was my favourite – it overlooked the entire city, tall enough that on foggy days it peaked through the clouds. The wall opposite the window bore a mirror, floor to ceiling, wide enough I could have stood with several companions all in frame. Looking in it was a strange experience – my face was not quite my own, anymore. Could I remember the colour my eyes once were? Did my hands always bear such a rusty tint? The purple-black hue of my veins stood in stark contrast to the sun-deficient hue of my skin. I used to spend hours in it. Pruning flowers. Planting bulbs. I wondered how my garden fared, at the cottage, and realised I could not remember the last time I tended to it, before moving. Had it truly been so long since I touched the earth? My breath was tight in my lungs, rasping on exhales and choking when I inhaled. The world spun around me – turning too fast caused a sickening bile to rise up my gullet. Such were the woes of nightshade poisoning, an unfortunate requirement for my latest spell. One of my patrons is particularly eager for me to deliver the results to her. However it is…worse than I imagined. The hot, burning flux of magic combined with the deadly nightshade – I felt as though I no longer remembered myself. The words of the spell emerged in a rasping croak from my mouth – the glimmering copper goblet felt like it took eons to materialise on my desk, every inch of pouring copper leeching away the nightshade poisoning. Staring at the goblet, I feel a little more myself – but not as I once was, not even after Koval. Mist lingers on the edges of my vision – Xerxes ever tightens – I never lose the swaying lurch of my poisoned gait. Perhaps part of my soul has been displaced. I’m sure Xerxes is delighted.

Spell: Feeble Denial of True Creation. This spell requires the castor to chew and swallow several nightshade berries. The poison must be allowed to work through the body for a day before the words are spoken. Successful casting will conjure a deep chalice that, when drunk from, will subject the drinker to a form of false death; on reawakening, they will be a blank slate. 

But this new stage of power…it fails to deliver. Even as I deliver conjured chalices, determine the fortune of the elite, infuse health to those who can afford it – I am hollow. I still yearn for more, but this time as I question it the voices remain silent. What have I done? What have I truly accomplished? Seeking guidance from myself offers no answers. The voices cannot judge themselves. The months seem to pass in a fog. I seek no further knowledge, though I still froth at the thought of knowing more – but is magic what I desire to know more of? Is this the game I desire to play? Koval’s death feels less and less gratifying the more time passes between my magical conquests. Eventually, Bal returns. They’re more hollow than they’ve ever been, and on pressing confined to me that their assignment had been private warfare of all things – a guerrilla campaign on the ocean, played out between two of my clients. I had not known Bal worked for them. It twinges something within me, something that I’d thought I’d lost. 

Was this what magic was for – the fleeting whims of the powerful? The more I thought about it, the more resolute I became. That’s what I’d become, anyway – a powerful figure, concerned with naught but their own enterprises. It did not take such a leap to my current plans: I am leaving. Leaving Niocur, perhaps the continent altogether. I am still no flower farm labourer, but I am no court’s arcane plaything either. Neither am I the plaything of arcane beings beyond my ken. I am changed by my actions – my eyes still shift; voices echo in my mind; the shadow beast is more of a sad companion than a threat – but my tether to this world has been cut in some way I do not think I can ever recover from. I do not wish to see it snipped before my time is truly over. There is so much for me to learn, beyond the greedy hands of the arcane. Bal has encouraged me to come with them on their next assignment – a research ship, to record the patterns of the tide. They have promised me terrible rations and boring academics. Truly, it sounds delightful – a change from my new, cold tower. A step back towards Cutter’s Cottage.

I leave at dawn. 

By the Sounding Sea Response

So, this is the absolute whopper of a 4k response I ended up typing a couple of weeks ago when I played the TTRPG ‘By the Sounding Sea’. I genuinely could not recommend this more – it’s got weird vibes, creative prompts, and a loose enough character creation scenario that you could mould it into pretty much anything you wanted (which of course meant I made it queer). I really ended up giving this a lot of thought when I was writing it, so I hope you enjoy it!

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Day 1. The carriage ride to the steps of this estate was long and lonely. I was just able to start a fire by myself and now sit before it, writing as I do. Despite the fingers I already feel tugging at my mind, I cannot bring myself to regret my actions. I was aware what sort of attention it would bring me, even from those closest. I can only hope to God that my dearest Elaine escaped before they caught her…whatever misfortune this mansion reaps unto me would be nothing compared to the terrors she would be subject to. Lord Harneck, in his bloodied disgrace, would feel most entitled to whatever his vile mind could envision.

I cannot say that disappointment does not course through me, however, nor
it’s sister siblings despair and maudlin manner. I held hopes – foolish in hindsight that my family would understand me. Or accept me anyway, if that was a stretch too far. To see me in all my vulnerable honestness, in my uncovered love for my Elaine, and open their arms to my queer nature.

For all that I find myself here. This outcome is more than I could have hoped for, more than my heart’s would be should she not have headed my warning and fled. The house is dusty and lonesome and large, and I saw no neighbours around for miles. Perhaps the peace and quiet is just what I need. At least there are many chores to keep me occupied.

—

Day 2. Lighting a fire was easier tonight. Perhaps, the only bright spot of my day, the first warm touch I have felt in what feels like months, though I only departed less than two days ago. Dearest journal, beloved pen; it is no wonder my aunt succumbed in such a manor as this. The walls close in like the ancient stone tombs of the hills. The ocean a constant rush in my mind, in the back of my throat. It screams for me, every second of the hour; even now.

Fool am I, says the joker. Fool you are, says I back to the mirror. Yesterevening, before the coach could depart again from his rest, I gave him a letter, scribbled frantically after I told you yesterday’s thoughts. In it, I unburdened all which plagued me on the journey here. My hopes, my fears, my apologies but firm denial of recanting my actions. My pleas for reconciliation; my despair of this home. A letter arrived in the afternoon, tossed at me before the driver flicked his reigns and the horses neighed like thunder. No rest, today. No hope, for me either dear journal. In the sharp tongues my mother yields so well, she tore me down. I am no longer welcome in my childhood home, in society, in their arms. I am to stay here, like my aunt before me. What I carry is a disease, she says to me. A cardinal sin that by refusing to take back I am damning myself and all I know into. A doctor’s best practise for rotting flesh is to cut it off, you know.

It’s timing was almost worse for what my morning was. A small garden lies to the west wing of the manor; fallow and dry, it’s long dead but salvable I believe. I’m no gardener, but surely I had a thumb green enough for a project this small. In it’s centre lies an untamed blackberry bush. Boarded by sea-smoothed stone, my aunt probably used it for small pleasures in the harvest months. The early spring cold has rendered it barren, and lack of care overgrown; but a caring hand, and it would feed my desserts for many weeks. Is this bush not worth the care? This garden not deserving of understanding, that it’s no fault of it’s own it had no-one to prune it? Am I not worth the attention, the love, the touch of my own family; of my other piece to my soul? To my mother, perish the thought.

Perhaps she is right. Perhaps this blackberry is truly belladonna; my botanical knowledge is pitiful. After the arrival of the letter, I fled to the basement in a fit of rage, discarding the letter and taking vicious joy in grinding my heel into it as I stepped o’er. I…barely managed to crawl my way back up the stairs I so confidently descended. A lesson in humility I will take to heart, but something dark in my soul still lingers. There is no light, in pit; no vision. Only the ceaseless hum of the ocean, pounding against the cliff this mansion is crumbling on. Over, and over, and over. A constant allure in my ears, feeding that which drags my soul down to hell.

Oh, Elaine. Even in that darkness, your face lingered in my mind. The way you touched my skin, took me apart button by button and kiss by kiss. There was never anything but the sweet heat of you; and now there is nothing but the damp cold of this damned ocean. It’s all I see with my eyes open, the white peaks of those fierce waves, but with my eyes closed all I see is the look of horror on your face as I told you we were caught.
Forgive me.

—

Day 3. I woke this morning with clothes on my mind. Gowns, and frocks, and reams of linen petticoats. Lacey corsets that sit atop my shift. What use have I, for those trappings? In this manor, above this grey ocean? If it took me, I could walk the halls naked. Feel the salt air crust on my skin, give my family something to truly shame over if they ever caught of it happening. I wouldn’t, of course. But it’s a scintillating thought, so startling and wonderful after my last night, that when I thought of it cleaning away my morning fire I burned my arm.

My body has never been my own, never sparked recognition when I caught a glimpse in burnished metal. Elaine, my love, grounded me when we were together. The brush of her fingers over my stomach made me feel connected, whole. The way she would glance her hands over my shoulders with fondness. I realised as I was dressing myself that I have no need for the same clothes my mother bound me in. I brought some riding clothes, and working trousers I stole from my older brothers; wearing those, feeling the rough cotton thread over my skin, I feel as though the muscles and sinews that build me up are truly
mine for the first time in my 20 years in this world. God help me; men’s clothes, another straw in the haystack of my sin.

My new strange pleasure carried me. Despite the rejection of my mother, I wrote to my older brother whose trousers I now don. I ventured into the basement – fool, is that you? – this time armed with more than brash anger; a candle, tall and yellow. I found a stuffy, small study with a carved fireplace that must have been my aunt’s retreat, and penned it there. It is nothing like what I wrote to my mother, much less leaden with my heavy thoughts. An inquiry into his health and own family. I’m hoping for a response – fool, there you are. The study, however, merits much more detail, dear journal. I say it must have been a retreat for it bore the most private of my aunt’s things and writings.
A crystal decanter full of now-moulded rum, and a shattered glass; pages full of my aunt’s scribbled despairs and waning health. The shelves on the walls were full of oddities and knick-knacks, brightly-shining sea shells and old dingy mint boxes. It startled me, to see books I had read, laying open on her desk. To be confronted with the fact that my estranged, mysterious aunt was as human as I was, as susceptible to hurt and love and longing. No wonder she kept it hidden, away from the manor that was a reminder of our families disdain. But it reminded me of happier days too, of reading those same novels curled up in front of my own fireplace. That is no longer possible but…perhaps I can create new memories in this manor.

In the evening I walked back to that small garden, to take my meal outside. The sea moved as ever below, but above a flock of stark white birds had flown overhead, vivid against the coastal sky. I wonder now, the moon shining in their place out my window, where they had gone. Where I would go given the chance. Would I stay here? Make this my home? Yesterday was work, but today gave me joys in ways I could not have before. Even the sound of the ocean seemed softer, welcoming me. Am I home?

—

Day 4. I never met my aunt, not properly. By the time I was ten she was already locked away in this place, her personal prison. I can’t help but wonder if she was lonely – did she, too, feel as though the manor was a place betwixt and between the real and the imaginary? Who was here when she eventually gave into herself – and who, I fear, will be here for me? I visited her study again, if you could not guess. This time I lit the fire, and sat in her chair, imagined the play of my fingers over her desk was her hand instead of mine. A longing for a connection I never had.

The light of the fire eventually alerted me to the discrepancy of the stone bricks on the right wall. Fool, fool; I never know when to keep to myself and when to prod. It had only took a few steady heaves to remove the false cover. What awaited me…it sends dread down my spine even now. Heavy manacles, weighted by metal balls, like the sort prisoners of the worst kind wear. Oh, where did my aunt get such a thing? I needed not to speculate on what they were for. Sand and salt crusted on the rusted metal, and the constant push and pull of the ocean calls every moment one spends in this house. What was welcoming yesterday is ominous today; is my aunt’s body somewhere in those endless depths?

And yet, still it appeals to some wicked part of me. I stood before the waves, after finding my aunt’s shameful secret, leaning into the sea winds over the cliffs. I spoke into it my own queerness; a vulnerability for a vulnerability. The way those currents churn and pound against the rock, relentless and energetic, is something I cannot deny to be marvellous. The sea is not human. It’s not bound to fallible emotions and petty, polite society desires. It physically cannot reject me, cannot toss out my body as I sink into it’s embrace. It would simply…hold me. Or drag me down, like it did my aunt, cradle her body and pull her to it’s soft, sandy bottom.

These are dangerous thoughts, my dear journal. As I write, I can see the light of a carriage pass on the cliff road, faint lanterns bobbing through the night mist. Do strangers think these things too? Or is this defect only relative to myself and my aunt, the queer daughters of a strong line. This driver will keep his secrets, in any case; it turned towards the town, away from this manor.

—

Day 5. There is illness in this house. From me or from those manacles I do not know, but it permeates every corner, poisoning my mind with the words of my mother, the look of terrified disgust from my father. It took me hours to arise this morning. The sun was high in the sky when I finally dragged my body from the dusty covers. I could not dress myself with a mirror; the sight of fading bruises from Elaine’s mouth only fills me with self-loathing and pity in equal measure.

I whiled my daylight hours with the old stable animals, instead. Their simple eyes cannot hold me in judgement of God’s love. The old chickens clucked around the folds of my clothes for seeds, and the creaking cow, too old for dairy now, simply lowered its head at my entrance. The gentle nature of its eyes reminded me of Elaine; how she would hold my cheeks in the palm of her hands and look at me with the sun itself warming her lovely brown eyes.

Until this malaise passes, I will spend my time with my animals, caring for them in the absence of my aunt. Their benevolence cures me.

—

Day 6. This house is filthy from neglect. Everywhere I look, grime coats the surface of the walls, the floor. Did my aunt not clean this manor? I spent the evening yesterday shovelling debris and excrement from the animals stall, and they looked far more content when I finished. I’m hoping I can apply the same method to my own home, these falsely elaborate trappings. If my aunt lived in squalor, then I will drag the memory of her up from the mud, even if the process leaves me bare to my own thoughts.

I cleaned the second floor bathroom, when I forced myself to arise in the early hours. It was a chore; dirt caked the walls implausibly thick, and every wet swipe of the cloth only spread it over my skin and clothes. How could she have lived like this? The dirt felt grainy and rough, like black sand. A constant reminder of the ocean. My aunt must have lugged it up by the bucketful and bathed in it – an odd holistic treatment. I didn’t bother to change when I left to visit my animals, trekking faint smudges of it down the foyer, and it almost felt as though a chill followed me, prying eyes tracking my movements. Asking me what am I doing, in her home?

Who am I, to clean up her despair to mask my own? I cannot imagine my aunt was a dull woman – I would consider myself quite sharp, and many of the books I read I can see echoed in her study. Surely she cleaned her home too, scrubbed at tiles until they gleamed and she was left with the gaunt reflection of her face. Already, my complexion wanes. Six days flies when you are with company, but alone here, abandoned to my thoughts and the tide, it feels like eons. Elaine never leaves my mind. Is she alive, well? Did she escape before she could be caught? It agonises me to not know her fate.

I don’t know why my aunt was exiled here. What atrocity she committed, to earn the ire of our line. In the end it doesn’t matter – she folded into herself until she was no more. How could I be any different than her, keep myself above the water, when this manor sings with such melancholy?

—

Day 7. The basement calls to me, for all that it offers such strange, conflicted emotions. I vowed to clean her study, tidy the shattered glass; sweep the evidence of her fragile state. She was not pleased, I suppose. In my weird eagerness to go there once again, be surrounded by this woman I’m connected to by blood and place, I ran down those slippery steps and fell. Twisted my ankle, and made a bloodied mess of my chin while I was at it. A lethargy seized me, lying on that cold floor; I have not shook it quite yet. I found myself thinking torturous thoughts, the darkness enabling those queer, shuddering urges I have repressed all my life until Elaine. She was my first love, my only love. A delicate tear in my defences, that allowed me to act on every thought I had about the curves of a woman.

Staring into that void, my ankle throbbing and copper slick filling my mouth: shameful secrets consumed me. Even writing this now feels forbidden, but God save me I could not help but bitterly think of a world where my love and lust was accepted. Where I could kiss the arch of a woman’s throat in the shadowed alcoves of our homes, offer her delicate flowers and warming poetry; what a world it would be, to be able to offer a woman the protection of my body.

I’m writing today in a small, weather-worn gazebo just a little jaunt away from the animals. Ginger tea, for my pain – my mother always swore by it. The cool evening sea breeze mixes oh-so-pleasantly with the sweet grass and spiced drink. I have brought that world into existence, I think. Not for every woman like me no, nor any man who feels as queerly as we. But for Elaine; for me, I have made that world. If only society wouldn’t hold us back so, and I would give her my entire self.

—

Day 8. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve read it. Fool, fool, fool – do I believe him? Do I dare hope for reconciliation, forgiveness for my helpless sin? My brother wrote me back. Impossibly, he has promised to visit, to bring with him my father and other brothers. His own wife and child too. I forgive you your sins, he says to me. You cannot help what faults God has written in you.

Mother will not come with them, is still stewing her anger but – I find I cannot
be stung by her rejection. Not with the salvation my sweet brother has offered. Hope, and family, and companionship in this lonely manor. Distraction from the sea and the shadow of my aunt.

It will be a while until they arrive; they must tie up their affairs before
departing for so long. But, oh – it doesn’t matter ! The thought of seeing my niece’s young face fills me with such joy. Is this how my aunt felt, seeing me before she was exiled here?

I swear – I swear, if I leave, I will not forget you too, will not put you through that humiliation a second time, my beloved Aunt.

—

Day 9. Waking this morning felt like dragging myself through tar. The crash after the elation the night before – did I truly believe that they had changed their mind so quickly? My aunt was stranded here for years of her short life. I was – I am – filthy, covered in the dirt and sweat of nine days without reprise. I had cleaned that bathroom and not thought to use it; the feel of oil and dried sweat on my skin felt strangely fitting in the morning hours. What puppet I was, what unfavoured courtly jester, to be so susceptible to the words of my brother.

I have no way of knowing their truth. It felt, to me, as though the filth of my skin echoed the sin of my mind. The black smudges on my hands eerily placed to where I had held Elaine’s soft body against my own. I wallowed in pity and disgust and shameful guilt until, journal, I realised: finally, I cannot hide who I am. Glancing in the mirror on my bedroom wall, I looked as queer as my inner thoughts were. As queer as the polite society at my old home now knows I am. This…this is something I do not have to hide anymore. There will be no cowering behind petite dresses and curtseys and plaintive smiles at noble land lords.

I have kissed a woman on her mouth. Felt the dry heat of her skin, the natural taste of her being. Of course I’m queer. I am not – bound by the ideals of the polite society my mother is slave to. I am free. The ocean cannot have me, this house cannot drag me down to it’s watery grave like it did my aunt. The moors are broad, behind the house. Expansive, purple with heather and so soft-rough against my naked skin.
I am no one’s pet, no one’s slave but my own.

—

Day 10. Elaine still tethers me to this world. I am not so sure that it is a good thing, anymore. Surely…surely if she was alive, if she loved me like I do her, she would have writ me. Everybody knows where I am, I’m sure. Everybody knew where my aunt had gone when she was hidden away like some shameful secret. Pacing the corridors around her study offer me no relief; the hallways seem to stretch endlessly, keeping me suspended in time. The memory of Elaine…oh, it is addictive. Grounding, but my heart bleeds each time I open my mind to see her playful smile.

My aunt bled too – another sordid tale for us to hold. The chair in the drawing room seemed soaked in the viscous red of it. When I stood from it, it coated my hands in phantom sympathy to my dilemma. If Elaine is not alive –

No.

There is a storm, now. I have found myself wondering what drew my aunt down in its watery debts, and I’ve concluded that it must be raw energy of it – how it makes us feel alive, in a way nothing else in this manor can. Breathing in the ozone soaked air, it sends shocking thrills down my spine.

I do wonder what it would feel like, to be surrounded by such fierce waters and winds. If it would clear my mind of thoughts of her.

—

Day 11. This house used to have a pulse. It’s been in the family for generations, and used to function as a holiday retreat, before cliffside residences went out of fashion. I have never experienced them, but I know the soirees it held were sickening in its opulence, catering for every noble family my own had their little fingers in. I entertained daydreams today, polishing cutlery and imagining myself in a svelte gentlemen’s tux, Elaine on my arm in a layered ballgown. I would dance her around the court, introducing her to all the noble men green with envy.

Silly notions. I find my mind wandering more than not, these days. There was a cracking, wet thud against the window that startled me out of those fantasies. Do you know, do you understand, the horror of finding a bird struggling frantically on the ground? Tiny heart pumping out precious red liquid with every flap of its crooked wings. It scalded my hand, when I snapped it’s neck. Stilling under my fingers, fragile and dead.

There was a deer, too, near my precious animals. Head crooked; long neck covered in viscera and puncture marks. I’m helpless to the darkened thoughts that plague me now; what would it be like, to be the vicious beast that rends? To corrupt, pervert the innocent around me into a queer rendition of themselves; unrecognisable from before my mark. There’s dirt under my fingernails. The memory is a black hole in my mind, but when I came too I had scrabbled uselessly at the ground surrounding the deer, digging a shallow hole around its rotting corpse.

What had I hoped to find? To achieve? My humility, humanity? I am a perversion of myself; I have killed my love through my queer, vile nature. There was never any hope for her, for me. The boiling, roiling sea below calls to me on this cliff.

I have missed my aunt so.