In an alternate slice of reality, your sims live on the edge. Once you upload them to the gallery, they are no longer safely in your hands. They are in the hands of others. Others who may not share your vision…
Background:
The "pic of your sim-self" thread went a little off the rails. This was mainly due to the color yellow and had nothing at all to do with me. Honest.
@Captain_NXR7 was naturally involved, much to no one’s surprise.
The situation quickly escalated when @Simminggal donned "Kill Bill" yellow instead of the mustard yellow suggested. (Vlad was not amused.) When it was said that mustard yellow might have made a difference, Simmingal pointed out that it was strange there was any yellow in her closet at all. It was at this point that I had to set the record straight –
In an alternate slice of reality, Simmingal did indeed have more yellow in her closet that anyone could have ever imagined. Even so, those shades of yellow paled before her ebullient nature. Yellow. Yards and yards of yellow. And not just any yellow, she had Dior, https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52999128665_e4be59820f_z.jpg and silks, https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52998159742_1d742d2a15_z.jpg and a radiance that shamed even the sun. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/52998907454_9585240fa4_z.jpg Yes, in this little slice of an alternate reality, she was, unexpectedly, the banisher of the night.
Your sims aren’t safe in the alternate slices of reality. You never really know what might happen. Does it ever cross your mind? Or do you toss them to the gallery and never consider it again?
"Nate_Whiplash1;c-18293638" wrote: How about only slightly charred biscuits from a middle-aged American man who doesn't know how to cook either? I'm afraid that's the best I can do....
Are you trying to bribe my scoundrel away from having an argument with me by offering slightly charred biscuits to him? How is it that you assume my cooking skills are so poor as to know that your biscuits are the better offer? Yeah, on second thought, I don't want to know the answer to that second question. Skip it. Really. Just pretend I never brought it up.
Or are you trying to entice me into an argument with you by offering me a bit of food? No. Surely not. Even you would never intentionally start a quarrel with an unreasonable and currently ill-tempered Southern woman who's had too much chocolate milk for breakfast.
S Poirot has been thinking. He went for a small vacation, to rest his little grey cells, in Henford on Bagley. It's been difficult for him, however, to let his little grey cells rest. Thinking is the manner of his being, and he cannot help but think. Sadly, there is no newspaper in Henford, and the television, though with good reception, seems to display a certain sameness all of the time. Poirot has turned to the interweb to entertain his little grey cells. He takes Hastings for long walks to discuss what he is finding there.
"There is a curious thing occurring," mused S Poirot to Hastings. "It is unfolding as a story. And it begins, I think, with a Gothic Romance writer named Tallulah La Rue, and a couple who tango on Sundays."
Hastings knew better than to interrupt his great friend's musings and was content to say nothing in return and simply watch for squirrels.
This idea, thought S Poirot, of entanglement flowing freely throughout Slices of Reality, connecting all of its inhabitants, was an interesting one. Tallulah had many interesting ideas. Her assertion that quantum physics and passionate expression combined together to form the building blocks of life was radical, and unfortunately not well received in the world of academia, where self-proclaimed experts had no time for the ideas of youth and truth. In her opinion, the birthing of life was a result of the completed expression of love. That is to say life begins when love is expressed. And until love is expressed, one is simply not alive. And this love, Tallulah believed, permeated everything. It was an energy that entangled everyone and everything. The result of this, was that everything was intrinsically connected, and everything that happened had an effect upon everything else.
And so, this is what we have, thought S Poirot. Firstly, the introduction to Tallulah. We are not told so much about her, not even her name. No, we are told only this: She is someone who wears yellow in this slice of reality. This action is so shocking as to be the beginning of the story, although we do not yet realize it is the beginning. Why is this shocking? Because it is not expected, mon ami. Tallulah is, in other realities, a wearer of not yellow things.
We see here, in this reality, that Tallulah has a part of her that is unexpected. It is not what we expected. It is not even what she expected, as we are told that she is shocked to even have found the slightest bit of yellow in any of her wardrobe. And yet here we are, confronted by the fact that in this reality, she is fashionably in yellow. What is this representative of then? What aspect of Tallulah is hidden from everyone at this point of the story? I suggest it is joy. The brightest of emotion. The yellow that is connected to the passionate embrace of all creation and subsequently to life itself. In this reality, at this point of the story, Tallulah is the expressive connection to joy; A representation of the joy of living. Also at this point of the story, which I remind you, Hastings, is the beginning, this appears to be hidden from Tallulah, or perhaps is a thing not yet realized. Because youth, though vigorous, is also not so aware of the deepness it carries inside.
Two individuals that are so overwhelmed with passion that they cannot even speak of it. This is the beginning of a relationship, yes, Hastings. But it is also the end of a relationship. This is the passion, the physical expression of new love. The yearning, the desire, the need for no words. But it is also the end of a relationship because there is no lasting communion, no attempt at communication. There is, in truth, the desperate need for words. There is a disconnect after the physical expression of love. And subsequently, there is sorrow. There is the hope that the next time the physical connection is made, on the following Sunday, the physical will be enough. We see it is not. Over and over. There is only a physical expression and not any communion or communication. This is the physical expression of passionate love without the joy of communion or the joy of intimacy. Satisfying for but a moment, while waiting for the true revelation yet to come.
It was at this time that Hastings barked. All this musing was very good, but a dog does need to be fed after a while.
We met in a bar, he and I, the imposter that I had mistaken for the scoundrel. He looked like the scoundrel from my story, but he was not him. I’d gotten a telegram from the real scoundrel. He was on his way to conquer the mountain but had gotten waylaid by bitterness.
Happens to the best of them.
I made a note to handle that issue, once I’d dealt with this imposter.
"You attempted to impersonate the real scoundrel but have now been caught. Now you must reveal who you are working for," I demanded strongly.
"I’m not working for anyone," he retorted.
"Yes, you are," was my reply.
"No, I’m not."
"Yes, you are. I know who you are. You are the loss of identity that happens after a bitter break-up, you are the happy façade put on to cover real pain. You are an identity thief. And Identity thieves are low level pawns. You only go where you are told to go, and you constantly need direction, because you don’t have your own identity. You are constantly becoming someone else. Low level player. Needing directions. Who are you working for?"
"This is not an argument," he said.
"It most certainly is an argument," I stressed. "And I changed it to an accusation anyway. Perfectly acceptable by all ruse guidelines and all rules governing arguments with women. Women are allowed to change the rules of the argument at all times. And it is expected that her opponent have no idea what it going on. I think that all applies here."
"No, an argument is a fight," was his reply. On this he refused to budge.
"An argument," I explained, "can also be a series of statements or facts that supports an established point of view. This is well documented in various legal proceedings."
"No, it’s just a fight," he said.
"No, it isn’t," I insisted.
"Yes, it is," he turned and smiled.
"No, it isn’t."
"Yes, it is." He had a big smile now and looked wildly amused.
"That’s contradiction," I coldly pointed out.
He grinned broadly; "You told me that you knew about Monty Python. I assumed that you knew what you were getting into here." He took a long, slow drink while the bartender eyed a nearby patron.
I groaned out loud, took a deep breath and continued. "Now listen, there’s a wonderful bit of Noir inspired poetry that’s at the beginning of this story and I would like to remind you of it."
In an alternate slice of reality, there's a path where the yellow light shines. And I have chosen to go. I have decided that yellow shall be my color now. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53018193539_4edfe513d0_z.jpg
Can't it at least be red? I have a killer pair of shoes. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53018030911_ea26217a78_z.jpg
Red shoes? No. I am tired of your drama. Why not wear black and match the color of your heart? https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53018193579_41229d24ee_z.jpg
Been there. Done that. Or don't you remember? https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53018030991_e9982927ba_z.jpg
I remember. And I am close to being free. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53018514308_438af974bf_z.jpg
There is a path where the yellow light shines, and in the distance, there is a great mountain. I shall conquer the mountain and turn my face to the sun, breathe in and take a bite from the sky. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53018514363_b80867bbd4_z.jpg
"It’s a gorgeously done piece of art. One of my best, in fact," I said softly. "It’s a tight work that encompasses the dark emotions and heartbreak felt when relationships don’t work out."
"It does this," I smiled," while also cleverly pointing out the ups and downs of all relationships and the need to conquer the complex emotional landscape in order to get a better view of the matter, so that one may move on."
"Bit proud of yourself about that one, eh?" He said softly, blinking slowly. "Pride is a terrible monster. You sure you want to start down that path?" He took another drink and gave me a rather approving once over.
"No comment on that," I gritted my teeth and felt my spine stiffen involuntarily.
He flashed his eyes and gave a lopsided grin. "Ah, love, I’ll put you down for the bloodbath review. You know, one of those internal assessments where you try to analyze why no one will date you." His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. 'Because I am guessing no one will date you."
He smacked his lips and took a drink. And for some reason took a long, long look at my shoes.
"Time to move on," I spat the words out tightly and continued, "not long after the scoundrel left, you showed up, pretending to be him which of course you are not. You made me believe that the scoundrel has given up on conquering his mountain. You hung around bars, chatting up women, and ignored my pleas to complete your mission."
"No, I didn’t."
"Yes, you did." I was rather cross now. "You tricked me. I thought you were the scoundrel, and I spent a lot of time and energy trying to motivate you to go on a grand adventure and conquer the mountain while you were busy chatting up women in bars."
"Same thing." He said, taking another drink.
"No. It isn’t." I tightly replied.
"Yes, it is," his voice was smoothing like honey, and slowing in its delivery speed.
"No. It. Wasn't." I gave him a deathly stare.
He frowned and softened his presence. "Do you ever actually talk to men? I mean do you even know any?" He asked. Another bar patron looked on and tossed back a drink. The bartender looked away.
"I know one and that is plenty." My voice was a wall of fire.
"Listen," he said, softly leaning in with a grin, "I can take you to dinner if you like. I know a great place on a quiet beach in Sulani. You, me, and a gorgeous sunset." He raised both eyebrows knowingly and continued his smooth reply, "Warm sand. Hot nights. Cool jazz." Big smile now. " You and me. You like that idea, don’t you? Very, very cool jazz." He looked down at my shoes again before flashing his tempting eyes. "You wouldn't need those shoes on the beaches of Sulani."
I forgot who I was. I began dreaming of Sulani beaches and hot sand, and the cool ocean lapping up around my neck during a moonlit swim. And oh, my goodness, jazz was playing in the background. I was drowning in those eyes for a moment, before shaking myself free.
"No!" I yelled, "I remember who I am, and you will not steal my identity!"
"We are at an impasse then," He stated coolly. "Those shoes would be useless in Sulani." He used his wicked smile.
"Not really." I pursed my lips and my eyes narrowed, as I leaned into his face. "They're pretty useful when kicking the seat of a pair of pants, regardless of where one stands."
"Listen, the problem with heartbreak, besides the obvious breaking of the heart, is that it creates fractures in the soul that lead to identity theft. People forget who they are because of their hurt. So, they submerge themselves, put on a brave face to cover their pain from others and pretend to be ok while the real person on the inside is still actually on the journey to recovery and are still having the struggle." "You are nothing more than the fake persona creating a distraction. And here is what happens, if one is not careful, the fake persona begins to take up more and more room, creating more and more distance between the real person and their real identity. Pretty soon you have someone still hurting on the inside who is unable to express that because the fake persona has become too big to fight against and they don’t really remember who they are. They don’t remember who they are. They just forget it all. Go toss it in a lake and forget about it all. "
He smacked his lips, "is that it then?"
"No."
"Oh, bubblegum!" he exclaimed, "just get on with it then!"
I continued my discourse; "The fake persona is a pawn. A low value player. Sent by someone, or something else. Creating a distraction, making a mess, taking out other low value players, And on and on and on. Just pawn and pawn and pawn."
"But this time, a telegram got through. You were probably supposed to be monitoring the mail. Identity theft always interferes with the lines of communication. Victims are better victims when kept in isolation, after all. You were probably supposed to be monitoring the mail but got distracted by the distractions - women or the money, or both. Identity thieves are very prone to getting distracted by distractions. It’s the DNA they carry. But at any rate a telegram got through and turns out the scoundrel is still on his mission and has been assaulted by a higher player. Communication wasn’t cut off in this case. He’s still on the way to the mountaintop, provided the battle goes well."
"Identity theft," I continued, "is a pawn working for a higher player. You are a pawn creating pawns. Your purpose is to create a false identity that can be used to shield against getting close to anyone else every again. But having thus been exposed, you are now seen clearly as not being the truth, but a lie. Everyone knows you are a lie."
"You are the lie that attacks identity. Identity is the first thing attacked when we feel we are not loved."
He coldly stared at me in silence.
"Once you are revealed, you no longer have the ability to succeed. The lie is now always understood to be a lie."
Silence.
"Tell me," I prodded, "who are you working for? At this point in a break-up, it is usually bitterness. Higher level player and capable of multiple roles. In this case, is bitterness a bishop or is bitterness the Queen? I doubt it’s the queen this time, and I’ll tell you why. The queen is usually not in play so early. But there is always the unexpected. Is bitterness the bishop here or is bitterness the Queen?"
He turned his head to slowly face me, and with cold dead eyes he stared. "I’ve upheld my end of the bargain. I’ll take that cheat code now," he said grimly. "And the biscuits and gravy, unless they’re cold. In which case..." He leaned in close to my face and whispered right against my ear, "You’re next on the menu." He rubbed his cheek against mine before pulling away.
He cast his eyes down and took one more long look at my shoes before turning to leave.
"Oh, the biscuits are still plenty hot, " my eyes narrowing in reply. "Come thief, and dine at my table." I taunted him coldly, "You’ll find that I am no longer playing with the pawns. I am removing them from the board."
At this point, he took his meager winnings and headed for another reality, having lost the battle in mine.
Well then, I thought. One mess has been sorted. Time to sort another.
I stripped everything from my current state off when I first waded into the lake. It was hot and I was bored, and well, I thought that I was alone. And now, following my hasty retreat from the clutches of the watery past and from the king that I now remember, I find myself alone in the woods without a thing to wear.
There should be nothing here but woods. But there is a mirror.
Traversing the way requires a mirror. It always requires reflection. And this next trip was going to cost plenty.
How did the mirror come to be in this place? This place in the woods with the lake of the past? Hello with a faded o. The mirror always leaves a sign. You never know what the sign will say. But it will always say exactly the right thing. Hello with a faded o. I’m going to need some paint, to paint over that faded o.
The answer of course, to the mirror being here, is that I placed it here before. This was not my first time, in this place. And if I had traveled this way before and if I had placed the mirror, then of course, I had placed some clothes. Foresight and hindsight are exactly the same thing. It just depends on the direction that you are traveling and the way you look down the road.
There are players on the board. The king is waiting for his dinner. The mad, mad queen is coming. On the edge of a wooded mountain, a bitter battle is waged. It’s sliding along a strange angle. And something is not quite right. A knight is in danger of falling. This reality should not be ignored. But the day grows late, and the players distracted. One bishop is distracted. Will she arrive on time? Will Tallulah arrive on time?
Now I am alone, and I consider the rook. Well, there is no place like home I think, and I smile a clever smile. The pawns are being removed. And that leads me to a question. Where is the knight? The remaining knight. Ah yes, I remember him now.
There is no time between the walls of reality. He could have just left, or it could have been days. There was always a smell about him, living or dead. One would never know. He was old and knew war games well. The Queen's knight. He destroyed men for her amusement. He set fires at weddings to the Queen's delight. He filled graves with water during the funeral itself, all to please his Queen. Everyone feared him. Everyone except for me.
He gave me little gifts when I was young. Silk threads, and lace fabric remains. He would pull the stuffing out of other children's bears and give it to me so my bears would stay plump. As I grew older, his gifts became more elaborate: a mosaic mirror, a tea kettle, a bishop's heart cut right in two. He told me what tree to hide it under and made me promise never to tell anyone. Two days later, the Queen's bishop was discovered standing upright and dead near the back of a run down hotel. The Queen could not revive the bishop because his heart was missing. I never told anyone. I never uttered a word. The Queen was forced to appoint a new bishop. She was not amused.
Once, in an avenue of time, when the moon was full and the fruit trees laden with heavy, ripe fruit, he took me aside. It was late at night, when the world was at slumber and the winds had died to nothing. He motioned silently for me to follow, and I followed his weavings through the trees of the deep forest. At the edge of the grand rock, he stopped, and glancing from left to right and back to left again, leaned over to my still youthful ear and whispered, " He fancies you and will kiss you soon. And then you will belong to him." He pulled back and took a deep breath, exhaling with surprising force. Then glancing around again, he motioned for me to lean toward him. I did so. He whispered so lightly, that I could almost not hear him. " The King fancies you and intends to make you his wife." Startled, I pulled away abruptly. There was an expression of panic on the knight's face.
"How is that possible!" I blurted out. "Shhh!" was the terrified reply. The knight looked from left to right and back to left again. Seeing no one, his panic began to subside.
" He has seen you from his walkings in the mirror", he whispered, " and he has decided that he will have you as a wife."
I stared silently at him, fear grabbing my knees and weakening them. " The Queen will not allow him to be so bold."
" The Queen is to become tethered to the Lake. She will not rise again. She will be as one who is no longer living. But having no death, she cannot be rescued. The Queen has been sentenced. She will be given over to the judgement of the Lake. " His eyes grew damp and his expression pained. " I shall miss her greatly." His voice was mournful and full of regret.
I remember the panic and the smell of him. Like death already encompassed him. I remember the argument and my adamant denial that I would ever be bound to the King. He shushed me at one point and called me a fool. I had already been marked and there was no escaping of destiny. There is no evidence of such a thing, I proclaimed angrily. That is when he pulled a long and narrow box from within his sleeved arm and gave it to me. Tears filled his eyes. This is yours, he wept as he handed me the box. I opened it and found that within the box were 3 strands of the Queen's hair. They glowed in the moonlight. And I began to hear the singing. At first it was low and tickled only my ear. But soon it became heavy like the fruit in the trees. I listened more eagerly then, feeling intoxicated and my lower spine cracked of it's own accord. That is when he shut the box and ended the song. And I became aware. I was marked. The King had already marked me and I was unaware it had been done.
" How do I escape this?", I asked anxiously, " how do I escape this?"
"You don't." was his distant reply. "You will only resist as much as he desires it. It is your destiny."
" I will run away." My mind found corridors and avenues that it never knew existed. I would rebel against the King.
" You can run away and you can pretend. But it will not change anything."
" You are old and foolish," I countered bitterly, "and I have more determination than you know. I have more inside of me that you know."
He looked at me. He looked straight through me. He looked at my core. And I shivered.
"This advice I give you, since you are, who you are. See that you heed it. " His lips were tight with grimace.
"Never bury something that isn't dead."
He turned to walk away, but then stopped abruptly, and looked hard at me. " Including the King," he said, " Including also, how you feel about him, in every reality of your being. Never bury something that isn't dead."
I had run away. And I had buried it deep. And the Queen had buried it deeper, when we last had met. Maybe it was yesterday, maybe it was years. There is no time between the walls of reality.
It had been buried. It had all been buried. But I didn't remember if it was dead. I only remembered how warmly terrifying it was to look into his eyes.
My father was not a good man, but he did love me. He murdered my mother on the day of my birth, chopping her body into 12 pieces and sinking them into the edge of the 12 springs on the far side of the woods. Love, he said, was the reason.
When I turned 9, he took me to the woods, and introduced me to my mother. The 12 springs, at this time, had become a lake.
“This,” he said,” is the Lake of your being and it is what remains of your mother.”
When I told him that it was just a lake, he replied that it was not so, as my mother’s blood now filled the foundations of the lake and flowed with the water which bubbled up from the springs. She had died a violent death brought on by the choices of her own wickedness, he explained. Her magick mingled with the ground and fed the roots of all the plant life surrounding the lake, and it also flowed into the springs which filled the lake. The lake had swallowed my mother’s essence and melded with it. Everything that my mother had been, was now contained in the lake. Her memories, her voice, her desires, her fears, her wants, her needs. Her magick. Everything. The lake had consumed her and had become her. The lake was my mother. So, there we knelt, at the edge of the lake. And I said hello to the woman who birthed me.
After the time of silence had faded, he told me my history. For himself, he was knighted a legend, one of the foundlings who bore the marks and scars of the Rampage War. He was older than anyone knew. He didn’t remember being a child as it had been so very long ago. He had watched the mountains grow tall and the valleys sink low. He had seen the stars burst and night sky grow dim at the shifting of time. His uncle had been King of the First Tribe in the Earliest Days. But his uncle had died an early death and left no heir. As the only living relative, he had been offered the Kingship but he had turned it down. When I asked him why, he said it was because he knew the truth. What is the truth? I wanted to know.
“The truth is that very few kings will live a very long life,” he had said. “Most find an early grave. There are too many kings and not enough planners. I have a gift for planning. So, the Council agreed with my abdication, and gave Kingship to another household.”
He sighed while he smiled, “I am a Planner, and I have planned well. Someday, everything that I have shall be yours. Everything.” He smiled a very satisfied smile.
He continued on,” For thousands of years, my family bore sons. It is the way now. The Rampage War settled it. “
“I have had many sons,” he proclaimed, looking at me sideways and gauging my reaction. I asked him how many sons. He stopped and broadly smiled at me. My father rarely smiled so large, and I was taken aback by this. It did not suit his face at all.
“I am very old” he replied, “and I have had many, many, wives. “
And then quite proudly he pronounced that he had 1,999 sons. He grabbed a strand of my hair.
“You are the Aberration”, he said. It was a word I did not know, so I asked about it. He told me that it meant I was odd but I was not to worry about it. He told me that his time was now short, and that he would have no more children. I was the last one. He smiled.
“You are both my favorite and my least favorite. No trouble at all and yet the most troublesome one, ever.” I had smiled at this as it was absolutely true and that pleased me.
After that, he motioned me to kneel again, and having done so, he sang a brief song of lament. The words were complex and woven together like fabric. It made the air a bit tricky to breathe. Then a mist rose up from the lake and settled upon the dock, taking shape and form.
His voice became grim and he whispered rather raspy. "Don't be afraid. She was dead when I buried her, and dead she shall remain."
It was rather terrifying to see her form standing there. This was my mother, but I felt nothing for her at all. I just felt afraid. I did not reach out for my father’s hand. He would have slapped it away. He was not beyond offering comfort. But it could never be requested.
She stood there, staring at the lake, then abruptly turned to face us and scowled. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I was unsure of what would happen next. But my father did not seem worried, and I found that calming. The air still felt thick and woven. I had trouble breathing at first, but this passed as I focused on the future possibilities. She stood silently and then everything became motionless.
“Mind that you never forget who you are,” said my father quietly. “Your mother’s voice shall become like a noose, if you ever forget who you are.”
“Watch her and listen to me,” he said, “and I will tell her story.”
I kept my eyes on the figure on the dock as I listened to my father’s now whispering voice. The form began to move. https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/53145257572_6897b6b794_c.jpg
“Your mother’s people were the watchers in the woods. They were the people who saw the spans of time and the spans of other dimensions. They were the ones who learned to walk beyond the borders of their realities, and travel into the possibilities of all things. They were the people who carried traveling magick in their blood. Your mother was born into a set of triples. The third borne. Not destined to be Queen but destined to hold a high rank. It is the way with her people. For all the generations of her tribe, the Queen has always borne 3 daughters, at a single time: One for the future, one for the present, and one for the past. “
“The Queen’s line has never been broken or mottled. The Queen has always born 3 daughters, arriving together. For as long as records have been kept, and perhaps longer still. The remaining sisters also only bare daughters, but to them, the daughters come one at a time. They only ever have one daughter. And that one daughter never has children. It is the way of the magick, so not to dilute. Single daughters never carried the magick. Only the triples.”
He smiled again and patted my hand. When I protested that this statement was not true and that I also carried the magick and I was not a triple, he shushed me and reminded me that I was an aberration. He then stressed that no one else needed to know that I carried any magick, and it would be better if I never mentioned again. I held my tongue, and the form grew closer.
Father told me that my mother’s gifting had been to traverse into the pathways of the past. She could see the strands and shift them. She could change the course of history. Not by changing the now moments which existed in the past, but rather, by changing the flow of what those now moments became.
“This is how the Lake became the past. It is full of your mother and her magick. It is bound with the past. People who swim in the lake become obsessed with their past and forget that they have a future. You must always take caution when dealing with the lake.”
I asked him what had happened to my mother. He sighed and told me that she had tried to kill me on the day of my birth because I was an aberration. His marriage to her had been an arrangement, he said. She had not loved my father, nor did he love her. It was an attempt to give the Queen’s line a son at birth, to strengthen the lineage. The Queen’s family were unhappy with their power. They wanted the Kingship. My father went along with their attempt. When I asked why, he said it was because he loved the Queen instead of my mother. And the Queen had promised him things if he helped with their plan. I wanted to know what things, but father said I was too young to understand the things. He said when I was older it would make better sense.
The attempt was made. The Queen’s family had tried to gain a son and had failed. A single daughter was borne instead. My mother was furious. Father said that she asked the cook to boil me and give her my heart to eat. The cook refused because it was an insane request and ran to tell my father. My father hurried to the nursery to find my mother with her hands wrapped around my neck, in the very act of killing me. Father said that he would spare me the gory details but that he had managed to pull me away from my mother and had handed me off to the cook, who had followed him to the nursery. The cook carried me out into the rainy night while my mother and father fought. That was when he killed her. He killed her, he said, because he loved me, and he did not love my mother.
My father made a motion with his hand. And the spectre of my mother came down to where we knelt. She scowled at me and I heard a voice within my boundaries.
Well, well. What have we here? Looks like a little bit of a thing that is not a son. Just a kind of girl thing. How utterly disappointing you are.
I waved and said hello. Because I was just that kind of girl. You know, the kind who didn’t really think it was strange at all to try and provoke a dead enemy. After all, that’s what she was. An enemy. And father said she would stay dead, so I decided there was nothing to fear. In all honesty, I felt fear. But I decided that feeling fear didn’t mean I was afraid. It meant she was trying to scare me. And that made me angry. And I was a bit of a monster when I was angry.
She stood up and hissed at me. I am the keeper of the lake. I will eat your mind and rattle your bones and I will take you to an early grave. I will destroy your paths and make you fodder for the sharks.
I yelled back at her. “You are a dead and buried woman who doesn’t even have the power to rise up and haunt anyone unless someone else brings you up! I claim the right of justice!”
She recoiled far more than I expected. I hadn’t known what to say, but I had remembered some stories that father had told me. It seemed a proper time to recite some of my favorite parts. My mother was suddenly livid and shrieked at my father. It was a ringing sound that came from inside her mind. Her mouth opened but the sound was more than her mouth could make.
What is this abomination?! What have you done?! She yelled at my father. My father remained silent. You are a useless fool who could not keep your word! You failure! You liar! What have you created?!
I was furious and could keep silent no longer. I stood up and stood between the two of them. “Leave my father alone!”
I stood my ground and was defiant before her. “I am my father’s child and I claim the right of justice. I claim the right to your position and your power. The Queen has yet to bare the new triples. I take my right to your place in the hierarchy. You tried to kill a member of the Queen’s tribe and I have a right to justice! I claim the right to your magick. It is the way of justice. “
My father laughed , a dark and sadistic laugh.
Take your demands to the King then for I will not willingly give anything to you! she was livid and stormed back to the lake. It boiled as she entered the water.
I was very cross and hot with anger. Father chuckled and remarked how he thought it went rather well. He would take my position before the King. “ Mind you,” he said, “ I shall only ask for the authority your mother carried. The Queen carries it at this time. But it may be that the King strips it from her. Or he may not. But it will cause a panic nonetheless.” He chuckled.
“Will the Queen be angry with you?” I asked.
“I suspect so. But it is not like I can control your tongue." He chuckled again. “Remember, if anyone asks, anyone at all, you do not carry any magick whatsoever. See that you keep it hidden.”
“I thought to go to the mountains. But I ended up near a river in the middle of the woods.”
“Going the wrong place is not a failure,” he said, with still narrow eyes. It is just a different adventure than you intended. What did you do at this river?”
“Nothing. ” I lied.
“Nothing? You traveled all that way and did nothing? That doesn’t sound like the daughter I know,” said my father. “ Would you like to answer that one again?”
I knew my father well enough to know that I would have to answer him truthfully this time. “I put my feet in the water, and my hands. It was very cold, and very clear.”
“And what else?”
“I could see possibilities in the water.”
My father inhaled sharply. “Hmmmm... And what else?” Father’s voice took a harder tone.
“There was a groaning from someone nearby. So I went looking. I didn’t see anyone at first. But then I saw a man, lying on the ground.”
“Continue,” said father, his voice was unreadable to me.
“He was hurting. So I took a handful of water and gave it to him.”
“Did you now? Did you just give him water or did you give him possibilities?”
“I just thought to give him water. To make him feel better.“ I bit my lip and looked at father with a caring look. “I didn’t think to give him possibilities.” I lied.
“What happened then?” Father did not seem to notice the lie.
Then a fancy woman in a hat came down the path. I hid. She helped the man up and talked with him a while. I couldn’t hear what they said.” I lied. “ Then they walked away together, up the path.” I swallowed hard.
Father wanted to know if anything else happened. I lied and said that there was nothing else that happened.
“And your other adventures, what were they like?” My father asked.
“I went to the sea and I saw a man arguing with a woman on the docks. They did not seem to like one another." “And I went to a city where I saw a man arguing with a woman on the street. They did not seem to like one another either.” I lied.
“Anything else?”
“No.” I lied.
“What was the reality of your adventures? Was it in the present time or in the past?”
“They were all the present time, as near as I am able to tell.” I lied.
Hnmmm... Father was thoughtful for a moment. “Have you ever traveled without the mirror?”
“You can travel without the mirror? “ I avoided the question. “ I didn’t know that. How does that work?” I asked, pretending not to know.
“It doesn’t work,“ said father, “you can splinter if you travel without a mirror.”
I felt a small jolt of alarm, but played calm as I asked what he meant.
“When you use the mirror to travel, you cast a reflection and it is the reflection that bears the brunt of the trauma. Without a mirror, your mind bears too great a burden. Parts of your mind can splinter and create new versions of yourself. Splinter too much and you will go mad because you will have lost your mind. “
“Oh.” I said slowly, and a little sickening feeling began to creep into my belly. “And how long does it take to go mad?” I looked at him intently.
“Hopefully, we shall never find out,” said my father, and he stared at me long and cold and hard.
