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Fantasy Tethered ( ellarose & Syntra. )

The horse, whose name certainly wasn’t Cornelius, proved to be a stubborn little fuck. “Come on,” Cyrra rolled her eyes, “just walk! What do I have to do, send you a fucking letter with the emperor’s seal?” Maybe that was exactly the case, though, because the animal refused to budge. If anything, it seemed that all of her efforts only led to it protesting that much harder. Ugh! Was every aspect of this journey going to be such a torture? The gods were testing her, truly-- they’d poured so much sand into her gears by now that the assassin wondered why she couldn’t hear the screeching. “You think you’re too precious to be replaced? Well, I’ve got news for you, because I will happily sell you to the nearest butcher. Horse meat is a fucking delicacy, I’ve heard. Do you want me to make sure of that?” Cyrra didn’t really think that the horse understood, and yet, curiously enough, she could spot a hint of fear in its big, brown eyes once those words left her mouth. Huh. Interesting. Fucking interesting, even. Threats could carry you reasonably far, she knew, but perhaps she’d been underutilizing them when it came to headstrong fucking animals. “That’s right,” she pulled at the harness, “and you can bet that I’ll find the meanest motherfucker to do it, too. With dull knives. Did you know that dull knives make it hurt worse? Because a sharp blade is a blessing, even if you can’t see it.”

Cyrra, on the other hand, could see things, and thus it wasn’t hard for her to notice that water in the river was… foul. Fucking foul, actually. (Was it water, even? The shade of the liquid hinted at a different answer-- it was green, though more than grass, it resembled food that had been left sitting on the table for far, far longer than it should have. For a few weeks, give or take? Yeah, that seemed to be just about right.) “By the gods,” the assassin sighed. “What is this shit?”

And when equally green, half-human, half-frog monstrosities began crawling out of the river, Cyrra… well, Cyrra would have loved to say that she wasn’t surprised. Later, she would say that she grabbed her short sword, ready to face whatever fate was cooking up for her. The reality of the situation, though? The assassin shrieked, taking a few steps backwards.

“W-what are you?”

***

Hmm. Was it just Faline, or did something akin to anger flash in the feathered woman’s eyes? You know, anger at the rejection? Oh no, it couldn’t have been that-- not when she smiled at her so sweetly, much like the candy that she’d previously offered. “I understand that. Expectations are a heavy, heavy thing, and it makes sense you wouldn’t want to sign yourself up for that which you cannot grasp. Don’t worry, though! Performing is fun. Exhilarating is a good word to describe that. Once you taste our trade… why, trust me, you will not want to ever stop. None of us have.”

“Just so, just so!” Ten or so heads nodded in unison, as if they had been waiting for that very opportunity. (Huh, curious. Had they all been listening to their conversation? It hadn’t seemed that way before-- they had all been dancing, or singing, or playing instruments so queer that Faline couldn’t even begin to guess their names. Well! Perhaps they just were exceptionally talented at the art of multitasking, then.) “It is exactly as Nyrea says.” One of them, a short woman with hair like wild flames, wrapped her arm around Faline’s waist. Strangely enough, the touch… stung? Much like thorns did, if you were stupid enough to overlook them. “We’ll show you, little one. Come, come inside, and then you’ll see for yourself what we mean exactly.”

The tent's canvas fluttered in response, like the wings of a butterfly. Was it trying to invite her, perhaps? Or dissuade her? Regardless of the entity's intents, Faline was grabbed by both hands and straight up dragged inside. "I can't wait to give you this gift," Nyrea giggled. "You know, that you refuse to join us doesn't mean that you cannot enjoy our hospitality for a while. Wouldn't you agree with that, Faline?" ...huh. How come that Nyrea knew her name? Had she introduced herself, perhaps? It was either that, or perhaps she was simply scarily good at guessing people's names! No need to judge, certainly. No need to panic, either, because someone calling her the way she wanted to be called was a Good Thing.

Whereas the outside of the tent was colorful, the inside of it... well, the inside of it seemed somewhat faded in comparison. Like a memory, sharply defined, but no longer entirely fresh in its owner's mind. “You’ll see that which you have never seen before, Faline,” Nyrea promised. “Feast your eyes upon it, because we don’t just sell out tickets to anyone. Oh no. In order to witness one of our performances, you have to be quite special.” And, indeed, the audience was special-- mainly because they were corpses, sitting in complete silence on the moth-eaten, dark-red chairs. “I hope our guests don’t make you feel uncomfortable?” the woman fluttered her long, long eye-lashes. “It isn’t their fault that they were, ah, too enthralled by our program. It is all too easy to get absorbed by it, I’m afraid. Still, they got their tickets fair and square, and so it isn’t our place to kick them out. Come, come. Make yourself at home! Here, the show is starting.”

It really seemed that Faline had chosen the exact right time, too, because the curtain was just rising. What wonders would she witness there, hmm? What kind of miracles? The answer was Cornelius, apparently. Yes, Cornelius! The horse on whose back she’d spent most of the day was standing on the white sands of the ring, neighing nervously. And, in its saddle? Sure enough, Cyrra was sitting there, her hands bound by a long garland of blue roses. "Hey, what the fuck?" the assassin shouted, with all of her signature tact.

"Tsk, tsk!" Nyrea raised her finger, disappointed beyond measure. "You're supposed to demonstrate to Faline that being a performer can be a lot of fun. No need to be so sour about it, Miss Murder. Now, Faline, what would you like her to do?" she turned back to the other girl, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "The sky is the limit! Here, in this tent, reality may just bend to your whims."
 
Faline wondered whether or not the woman was a mind-reader to have guessed her name the way she did. Perhaps one had to be that extraordinary to be a true performer? (She also wondered why they all insisted upon dragging her when she easily could have walked inside the tent herself. She did express that she was curious enough to walk on her own, did she not? Their overeagerness to shower her with attention... well, it was a bit strange to her. Although the same could be said for any sight she encountered outside of the cottage. So perhaps that was all it was? Getting granny to look her way could be a chore, and so the concept of having so many expectant pairs of eyes set upon her was unusual.) This strangeness was easily brushed aside as she stepped into the tent, her heart blooming like a rose with anticipation...

Only to wither upon seeing the rows upon rows of seats occupied by corpses. Goodness.

Faline had assumed she was walking into a much, much more exuberant place. This was nothing like... like what she imagined. (Then again, was anything?) Once again, her expectations and feelings were trampled over unceremoniously by some sharp turn of fate.There were no smiles, no laughter. Just a captive, lifeless audience of blank, glassy stares. Thinking of granny and then of auntie, her heart clenched painfully in her chest. Perhaps she had simply hoped that she would not encounter any corpses on her second day of freedom. As she told Cyrra the night before, she could not befriend or fall in love with a corpse.

"Oh. No... not uncomfortable." Faline mused softly. That was true. The corpses themselves did not make her uncomfortable. They were dead and death was perfectly natural. Instead of uncomfortable, it would be more apt to say that she was disappointed. The wonder that once sparked in her eyes had dimmed considerably at this point and she considered turning back to find Cyrra and Cornelius after all. The capital would be livelier than this, yes? Filled with people who would converse with her and tell her stories about the world. Like the inn. "I must be honest, I do not think that this is..." She hesitated, "What I mean to say is I do not think I want to--"

Faline did not want to watch the performance anymore. (This tent very much resembled the warped scenes from the other realm. It did not call to mind any of the images her books about the mortal world had to offer. And for that reason...? It was less than spectacular, really. The tree yesterday was also strange now that she thought about it. Could the two realms be merging somehow?) Unfortunately, her words were drowned out and rendered useless as the curtain rose and unveiled the very duo she would have left to seek out. What!?

"Cyrra!? And... Cornelius?" Faline blinked with newfound awe, bringing a hand to her cheek.Ah-- what a peculiar surprise this was! The assassin had sounded rather serious about keeping her distance from the tent, after all. The irresponsibility of their appearance on the sandy stage did not escape her, either. For they are on a long journey and their horse has been so good and reliable to them thus far. "Cyrra, I understand that you enjoy creating and spending time with corpses." That was what her occupation implied, after all. And she did not judge the other woman for that, either. There were a good many of her friends in the other realm who very much felt the same way. Even so! She furrowed her brow and placed her hands on her hips."But poor Cornelius needs to rest! Why did you bring him here to perform?"

Faline brushed the woman's hand from her shoulder, uncharacteristically irritated as she assesses Cyrra's confusion along with the woman's demands. With the exception of Endymion (who would insist they were not a real cat) the animals in this realm could not speak up to protect themselves. And so it was her responsibility to step in during these instances. She had done so many times herself when saving Hector from granny's mallet.

"Is that right? Well, I want Cyrra and Cornelius to go free. Right now." Faline said firmly, tapping her foot. "That is what I want. Besides, Cyrra is an honorable cheesecake assassin who hails from a doorless land. She is not a performer. Or at least I do not think she is." Her mismatched eyes flicked to Cyrra's across the tent for confirmation on this fact. Because if she was, then she did not share this information with her yet. And it seemed unlikely, given that Cyrra's first instinct was to throw her the day before when they danced. "You cannot force her to be something she does not wish to be."

"Go free?" Aghast, Nyrea practically wheezed at this turn of events. "Faline. Honey. Darling. You cannot possibly mean that." She gestured her long arms out to the corpses all around them. "We have an audience to entertain here! And the show must go on, as they say."

"They are corpses." Faline replied matter-of-factly. "They will not care." That was a simple truth, those aligned with the laws of the mortal realm. The corpses would not see, nor hear, nor smile or laugh. Because they were dead. That was why one had to appreciate the time they had, to appreciate every moment they had until it inevitably ran out.

"So long as they are present, the show must go on." Nyrea insisted.

Faline gazed at the 'audience'. She was not particularly thrilled to see corpses. But she did have friends who would be delighted to happen upon such a scene. Like Blunk, for instance, who had asked her if she had seen any corpses just yesterday. He would quite enjoy a feast of this size. And without an audience, the show would not have to go on. Was that right? She reached for the locket around her neck, feeling a zinging of energy in her fingertips. For Cyrra, for Cornelius...

"...In that case, I will be back." Faline nodded at Cyrra and snapped at the side of her locket, summoning an inky door from the ground. She swiftly dodged the woman's desperate attempt to yank her back and disappeared through it. The door itself vanished as well, as if to ensure she was not followed inside.

"Wh-- You!" Nyrea gasped and turned her anger on Cyrra. "You had one job! This is all your fault." And with that? The roses around her hissed and opened sharp-fanged little mouthes, poising themselves to feast on her skin like floral vipers.
 
Contrary to the popular opinion, Cyrra did not have to explain herself. The clothes she picked to wear? Her choice. The weapons she preferred? Again, her choice. The people she decided to kill? You guessed it, her fucking choice! (Well, not entirely, since it was mostly Father who gave out the assignments, but... yeah, you got the sentiment.) Still, when Faline assumed that it somehow had been her idea to join a creepy circus full of unhinged fucks? The need to explain did emerge from some forgotten corner of her mind, as suddenly as mist could fall over a sleepy morning. "The fucking horse? Seriously? That is what you care about here, instead of me? Might as well marry the stupid thing!" ...alright, so Cyrra's definition of 'explanation' might have been a little unorthodox, but so what? It worked! (It, uh, didn't. The implication that the witch should care about her well-being was a curious one as well, and the assassin decided to file it away as an interesting case of brain damage. It really would have been a problem had it meant something, except that it very much didn't! Haha. The gods just demanded her to deceive the whelp, and putting the mask on required... hmm, some suspension of disbelief on her part. The best actors, they said, believed in their fucking lines.)

"Where's that snake Atropos when you fucking need them?" the assassin muttered under her breath, fiddling with her hands. C'mon, just a little bit more! The thorns were biting deeper into her flesh at every hint of struggle, as if they meant to brand her for life, and Cyrra... well, Cyrra believed that. Not that she thought roses had a will of their own, but it was hard to deny the hunger, you know? The desperate, all-encompassing need to make her belong to them, in the same way stars belonged to the night sky. (The assassin could feel it, in the very core of her fucking being. The shackles kept tightening, with every beat of her damn heart, and if this went on? The thorns would shred her apart. Don't ask her how she knew, because she just did. Seemed like a foregone conclusion, to anyone with a working pair of eyes. And, speaking of things that were plain to see...)

"My fault?" the assassin shouted. "Sure, ordering her around is like herding fucking cats, but I am to blame if you don't know the one magical phrase that would make her obey. It's time to face the outcome of your own shitty decisions, eh?" Of course, Cyrra being Cyrra, her monologue did have a purpose to it. (What? Did you really think that she just loved to talk, talk and talk, and listen to her voice being repeated by the fucking echo? No. By then, she had already wiggled one hand free, more or less, at the cost of a) motherfucking agony, b) some of her fingers probably never ever being the same. Then again, she wasn't a fucking pianist, was she? For stabbing a bitch or a dozen, they would work just fine. Now, if only the assassin could get them to grab the... shit, ouch, ouch, ouch! Hey, what the actual fuck?!) Cyrra's eyes widened when the roses took a bite out of her, in a way that no fucking plant ever should have.

"That's right," Nyrea smirked. "Watch and wonder, you feeble human. Gods, I can't believe that you are the one who got to inherit the essence of the Kairos magic! The universe likes to play its little jokes on us, it seems. I have been waiting for such a long time, and then a nobody like you comes and ruins it all. Do you have any idea what it feels like, Cyrra? How frustrating it is?" And, under normal circumstances, the assassin might have been more inclined to discuss this with her. She would have pointed out that she cared for the magic about as much as people generally cared for the fucking tapeworm dwelling in their stomach, and suggested for her to just steal it. Two birds, one stone, right? Both would have been overjoyed! Except that, as a rule of thumb, Cyrra didn't negotiate with bitches who tried to feed her to fucking roses. Just, no.

"Fuck you," the assassin cursed, before throwing herself off the horse and trying to crush the roses with her own weight. It... sort of worked out? The razor-sharp petals stopped nibbling at her flesh, but the thorns were also driven that much deeper, making her shudder in pain. Ah. Ah, fuck. Strange fog darkened her vision, so she couldn't see, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't--

Ran. Ran, I'm sorry.

"You poor little thing," Nyrea pursed her lips. "Are you sure you don't want to return all those weapons to your beloved Father? Before you hurt yourself even further."

Weapons. Right. Cyrra still had those, didn't she? With her almost-free hand, the assassin reached for one of the knives, and threw it in the general direction of the annoying noises masquerading themselves as actual words. Splash! Oh, now that was music to her ears. Nothing like the sound of steel sinking into flesh, was there? Perhaps aside from witches begging for mercy-- the confrontation with their own mortality seemed to be a rude fucking awakening for most of them. Heh. "You were... saying something? Bitch."

***

Meanwhile, the portal Faline had opened led her to a... well, to a place. One might be more inclined to call it the product of an insane artist's mind, though, because everything about it was inverted-- the grass was blue, the sky green, and even the very shape of the door was wrong, given that she had come out of what seemed to be the doorknob. The strangest thing about all of that, though? Why, that had to be the doorman himself! He retained a vaguely humanoid shape, but his skin was inside out, with his organs pulsing to the rhythm of his heart.

"Ah, Miss Kairos," he greeted her, his voice kind and monotone. Really, if you were to judge from his tone alone, you might come to the conclusion that the two of them met at a tea party-- an occasion pleasant but a little boring, following all the social scripts in existence. "What brings you here this time? Then again, you need not answer. Your reasons are your own, as is my price. Now, what shall I ask for you?" The creature scratched his chin, only for some of his fingers to fall off in the process. Yikes. Maybe he was, uh, like the trees? In that he lost parts of himself in the fall and then regained them when a warmer, kinder season awakened the life in him again.

"I know!" the doorman exclaimed, rather triumphantly. "This world seems to lack the balance. Would you provide it? I know not how, for had I known, I would have taken care of it already."
 
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Faline could only stare, bewildered at the unusual sight awaiting beyond the door. For all of her life, the doorman had only ever been a disembodied voice, his identity always cast in a thick haze of mystery. She'd never known him to take a physical form. Let alone one like this, which was turned inside out. (If it was the doorman? She supposed that was.. well, anticlimactic. His voice had come from so high above that she had expected him to be something of a giant.) The 'doorman', if that was who this truly was, was losing fingers and her eyes tracked each one of them as they landed in the... grass? Hm. The scenery as well was not what she was accustomed to, either. The soft, cloudy platforms she had walked thousands of times before were replaced with grass, the starry skies replaced with an expanse of green overhead like the curious moss-covered lake she'd passed just yesterday on her travels. It was not even that one or two elements was out of place. This was a totally transformed setting altogether. And it troubled her greatly.

Her mind, despite being notorious for wandering, had been clear and set when she passed through the door. Just as she'd learned from Endymion when it came to entering this realm as a young girl. (Ever since she was eight she'd done this perfectly and her familiar often called her a smart little lady, which had always filled her with pride.) She ought to have gone precisely where she intended to go, for using the doors for years came with a certain level of mastery. It was one of the very few things that Faline considered herself truly good at. (Without her skill with magic, what was she even good for? She would not be suited to teach Cyrra the basics. She would appear as incompetent as the assassin no doubt thought she was.) And gazing upon this realm so visibly agitated...

Had Faline done something wrong? Perhaps auntie would have known. But auntie was not here. Endymion was not, either. They must have been busy attending to business elsewhere. They did have a life beyond being her familiar, after all. And so it was all up to her. The ninny of their small group of four.

"Oh drat." Faline mumbled quietly. Nothing was as it usually was. This place, aside from the cottage, was one of the few places she knew very, very well and... and an unknown something had changed it drastically. Usually it bent itself towards her intentions, towards her magic. And had it done that, it would have taken her nearer to Blunk's home and not here, before the 'doorman'. She shook her head. "...No. You mustn't trouble yourself. I do not need to pass through the door of time for what I intend to accomplish today." For she was not dabbling in affairs of life or death in the mortal world. Besides, she already owed the doorman a toll for saving Cyrra's life. A toll which she was to return to pay properly in seven day's time. Also? This doorman may have been an impostor, or perhaps another doorman altogether.Who knew where she would end up, crossing through another door at this juncture in her path?

There was nothing that could be done, was there? "I have no business here. Though I will let you know if I happen upon any fingers to replace the ones you've lost. I imagine it would be quite difficult to open doors without fingers." Faline offered kindly as she continued to walk by, thinking that perhaps the world would sort itself out accordingly the further she traveled within. Distractions were just distractions, Endymion had said once. Sometimes one had to move on to accomplish their goals.

And as Faline walked away, she sank deeply into her thoughts and pondered this strange development. She had been distracted lately, hadn't she? Her life was changing rapidly and she had so many new decisions to make. The numerous branching paths of her life might very well have reflected upon this realm in some way. Then again, she was just one person and it would be arrogant to presume that she might have so much sway over such a powerful realm on her own. (Perhaps she had simply wandered into unfamiliar territory? She was always warned against traveling the places she did not know well, as it was dangerous for a human. Although historically, she was not always inclined to listen to this advice when she craved a new adventure. But the thing was... she was not following that urge today.) While it was confusing, she did know this. This section of the realm was not what it once was. And she ached when she considered that she was nostalgic for the comforting familiarity of the place she traversed since childhood. She had left the cottage. This was the one place she trusted herself to know well and it was...

No. What was most important now was that Faline helped Cornelius. And yes-- Cyrra, too...

She wandered off the edge of the grassy platform without even realizing it until she was falling, falling, falling down into the darkest abyss and landed upon a giant hand?

"Blunk!" Faline exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. Ah! Nothing like seeing a friend to improve upon an otherwise dreary mood. She patted her ruffled skirts down after she landed in the creature's gigantic palm. "Hello there, my friend. I have discovered a place that will make you quite happy."

***

"You... you will not get away that easily, Miss Murder. I have been waiting for far too long to fall now." Nyrea let out a jagged, pained laugh. The knife had landed in her shoulder and she slowly brought herself to stand. The the motion of her good arm, the other 'performers' came forward to circle around Cyrra. Hunching their backs, they gradually transformed into the odd human-frog humanoids she had dealt with before. They croaked in the way a human voices might imitate croaks or shouted in the way a frog might imitate a human, as if to illustrate the duality of their nature, and they began closing in all around her...

Then the door Faline opened before rematerialized, this time much larger before, and it whooshed open with a grand flourish.

"Cyrra, Cornelius! Fear not. I have returned for you!" The frog-human things scattered and toppled like dominoes when Faline more or less sailed over them, riding on a monster's hand? Politely slipping through Blunk's claws, she attempted to help Cyrra with her rose restraints. (She smiled kindly at her. In the background right behind her? The monster she'd brought with her was sweeping his oversized hand through the audience, grabbing corpses by the handful and eagerly shoving them inside of the door. The tent's ceiling was gradually beginning to droop closer and closer towards them with each move the monster made, clearly bringing it on the verge of collapsing altogether.) At last, the roses fell limply to the sand at their ankles. "Oh Cyrra, you are bleeding! You best take care of that before Blunk smells it. I know you were not opposed to becoming the alligator's dinner before, but..."

"You!" Nyrea screamed. With the stomp of her foot, the fallen roses around them lunged upward and tied Cyrra and Faline together face-to-face, effectively dangling them from the now sinking ceiling. The woman approached them slowly, working at twisting the blade Cyrra had thrown free from her shoulder. "I will... I will claim what is rightfully mine. I will!"

"No. You cannot have Cornelius! He is our horse, our friend, and our loyal traveling companion." Faline said firmly. The horse seemed to neigh in agreement. Uh, yes. Clearly she knew exactly what was going on here. "Tell her, Cyrra!"
 
You know what the one thing worse than an annoying target was? An annoying target that refused to fucking die! Cyrra didn’t think that her expectations were that unreasonable-- ultimately, she just wanted for her heart to stop beating, for her lungs to stop filtering the air, and for her brain to… uh, stop doing its own thing. (Calling it thinking, she felt, would have been quite the fucking exaggeration here.) So, when Nyrea failed to do even that? The assassin was unhappy, though not necessarily surprised. Dammit, what do I have to do these days to kill someone? Ask them for their fucking permission?! Not to be a buzzkill about all of that, but she had the feeling that the impact of that on the assassination industry would be quite severe. “I… don’t know what you want… but I don’t care. You’re going down.” And, no, Cyrra didn’t usually inform her victims of that, but she also didn’t tend to fail with her first attempt. The precious moment of surprise, so favored by Father, was long gone. Why not engage in some good old conversation before that, then? (The human mind, she had learned, was like an anthill. Tall and complex, yes, with millions of tiny pathways leading throughout it, but ultimately, not all of those pathways intersected. Once you chose your route, it could be hard to deviate from it, too. Conversation was one such pathway-- often, people were too distracted by what you were saying to, you know, actually fucking act. Not that Cyrra believed for a moment that Nyrea would forget about her unhinged goal, but every little advantage counted! If she acted a second later than she normally would have, then that was one more second she could use to cut her artery. Now, the assassin only had to reach another knife, another opportunity, another, another--

--oof. The good news? The good news was that mist obscuring her sight was lifted, and the assassin could see more than just rough shapes. The bad news, of course, revolved around what it was that she was seeing. (Had she had the time to do that, Cyrra would have assured herself that everything, everything was the gods’ plan. If they intended to throw sand in her gears, then there was a lesson to be learned from all of this-- a new path to victory, hidden from her sight. Learning through pain was the greatest gift there was, wasn’t it? Because while you could forget words, you never forgot how the sweet kiss of the whip tasted. Never. The problem with all of that, though? Cyrra didn’t have enough time for introspection. Or, to be honest, for pretty much anything. Hard to get lost in thoughts when a monster from another world was ravaging the circus!)

“Faline,” she growled, instinctively understanding that this was, in fact, the whelp’s fault. (Everything always was. Witches attracted bad luck, that much was known, but what the assassin hadn’t understood before was that they apparently also attracted man-eating monstrosities.) “Faline, I swear I could--" What? Cut her tongue out? Feed her her own entrails? Force her to carve ‘I’m sorry’ into her pretty, pretty skin? All enticing options, but kind of incompatible with the idea of, you know, charming her. Ugh! “--kiss you,” her brain supplied, oh so helpfully. “I-if you want,” she added, remembering the girl’s weird qualms. (Again, it was camouflage! It wasn’t that Cyrra’s mind jumped to it because she had been flirting with the idea, or because the actual kiss they’d shared had been… uhh, not the worst. Kind of nice, if you stretched the definition of that word. No, the gods themselves had sent her the answer! Ask them what they meant by it, for Cyrra herself was only an obedient vessel.)

“Can’t Blunk fucking restrain himself for once?” the assassin grumbled. “There are more than enough corpses for him to have breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If he keeps eating like this, his stomach will fucking explode.” As always, though, it would have been naïve to believe that magic would actually solve anything. Laughably naïve, even. Magic was a black hole, and just like it, it sucked everything inside-- sucked it inside and twisted it, similarly to how the First Ancestors had been twisted. So, in short? They found themselves hanging from the ceiling, Cyrra’s face uncomfortably close to that of Faline. (Unprompted, her mind replayed the memory. Which one, you ask? Well, the memory. Of her getting even closer, and pressing her lips against hers, and-- ugh, no! Cyrra could analyze that event later, once Nyrea was dreaming the eternal fucking dream. Which, make no mistake, it was an analysis! An analysis of, uh, her nemesis’ most glaring weaknesses. If intimate contact was what it took to destroy her, then the assassin was bound by honor to deliver on that front. Heh.)

“Fuck off,” she recommended to Nyrea, in the tone usually reserved for cockroaches. “And you, stop with the Cornelius nonsense before I fucking draft the wedding invitations. Come on, we need to…” Explanations required brainpower, though, and Cyrra didn’t feel like spending an hour on a useless fucking lecture. Instead, she kicked the air, putting all of her weight into the motion. Once, and twice, and thrice…! Again, they were just roses, weren’t they? Not steel ropes, designed to hold great burdens. It shouldn’t take too much for them to snap, and once that happened, they could--

--they could do something, Cyrra supposed. In theory. The practice tended to differ from those ideas quite drastically, though, and so, instead of the roses acting like the stupid flowers they were, they… strengthened their grip? That, and they also started talking. Oh, fucking hell! “Aw, trying to run away from us so soon? That breaks our fragile little hearts. Do you truly believe that you can erase our existence so easily? Because, hmm, we don’t think so.” The thorns surrounding the blossoms? They grew, as quickly as the assassin’s anxiety, and suddenly, they were surrounded by a sharp, impenetrable cage. “The punishment for trying to leave, of course, is becoming one of us. Would you like to be a little rose, Faline? You may even pick the color.” And, oh, the walls were closing in on them, ready to smash them, ready to tear them apart--

“You have had your choice,” Nyrea said, from a great distance. “And you’ve squandered it. I will get what I want regardless. You don't really need to retain your form! Bye.”
 
"Are you concerned, Cyrra? Of course he will not explode! Blunk is storing them in his cave for later. After all, they've nothing to do here but rot. Corpses cannot enjoy performances." Faline explained with a little nod, as if she were simply explaining how she made her tea and didn't just sic a gigantic monster on a tent. "And without an audience, the show does not need to go on... and neither you or Cornelius would need to perform anymore. I was trying to help--" Or at least that would have been the answer had this been a problem in the other realm. The fact that these oddities were occurring in the mortal realm was unusual. She knew that, even never having left her cottage, that this sort of thing was not normal. Especially as the roses wrapped around them. Endymion was her teacher in this subject and they taught her well. Magic took a subtle guise in the mortal world, it snuck elusively in the shadows. So the concept that it was beginning to leak out beneath the cracks of the doors now, taking the form of vibrant circuses. (Which was not subtle-- not even in the slightest!) Hm.

...And then they were tied together and swinging in the air. Oh. Wow. With her boots dangling above the ground, she fancied that it felt sort of like flying. Sort of. The roses snaring around her waist and the way she was pressed so, so very close to Cyrra was quite distracting though. Faline's heart did that curious leap it often did when she found herself in such a position (which was not an uncommon one, ever since she and the assassin met) it hopped like a little frog against her ribcage and she couldn't help but watch Cyrra's lips while she talked. Ah. Words. She was saying words. What was she saying?

"Wedding invitations? Goodness. Are you sure you do not want to marry me, Cyrra? You seem to want to kiss me all the time, and--" Faline yipped with surprise when the other woman began to kick, swinging them back and forth. She couldn't help but wear a small smile as she watched the chaos in the tent below from above. Now this truly felt like flying. How fun! It might have been her imagination, but the roses gripped her tighter and reminded her of what she'd been saying before her own shock interrupted her. "You marry the person you want to kiss, yes? However, you don't need to marry someone to care for their wellbeing! Cornelius carried us on his back for hours and he's my friend--"

Faline was once again interrupted when the roses around them turned into a cage. And she might have had commentary on this development as well if her head had not begun pounding the way that it did. Like horse hooves against the path, striking her skull one by one. Heat unlike the fluttering, anxious heat she'd felt before scorched through her. In contrast, this was a painful heat, the kind that left burns and caused her to crumple into a feverish little heap in the cage. Instinctively she rested her head in Cyrra's lap. (It was the softest place to rest her head was all.) Sweat was forming at her brow and the world was swallowed up in a haze. "Bother. I think my headache has come back..." She mused, her eyes glazing over. "No. This is not the same... this is something else... something... something..."

The plants began talking and Faline was under the impression that it was happening in her head. Hallucinations, Endymion had told her. They occurred often when she had these feverish spells as a little girl.

"No thank you... I do not want to be a weed..." Faline rasped out weakly.

"Fa-- Faline!" The roses, scandalized by this insinuation, gasped and stopped closing in on them long enough to make an argument. The one at the center fluffed their white petals up, much like a vain chicken in the coop might fluff their feathers. (Ah, what a nice thought. She missed the chickens dearly.) "You sweet, stupid little darling. We are roses, not weeds. We are the beauties of the garden!" The rose draped one of its leaves to its steam in a hand to chest kind of gesture. "A weed. Why, that's blasphemous! Shall we sing you a song to teach you all the splendors of being a rose? A little birdie told me that you love singing songs."

"No thank you." Faline mumbled again, hiding her face in Cyrra's lap. It was true. She loved songs. But she feared the word 'stupid' would be in the song and she did not wish to hear it again. (Yes, it might have been true in reference to her... but that did not mean it didn't hurt her feelings when she heard it.) Her eyes stung and she resolved not to cry over it. If she cried every time she had been called such a name, she would have created an endless ocean of tears. She still wanted to see the ocean someday, but she did not want to see it now. Because she would be unworthy until she learned to swim. And she would never learn to swim if she turned into a rose. "I do not want to be a... a fucking rose either."

"A fu... language! Where did you learn such a word!?" The roses turned their wrath on Cyrra and began to close in around them once again. "It was you, wasn't it!? You've been a terrible, terrible influence on her."
 
M-marry her?! Preposterous! Just to be clear, such a thought had never fucking crossed Cyrra Eiréal’s mind. (Other thoughts of related-ish nature might have, but so what? Thoughts weren’t words, and thus they were allowed to stay in the privacy of her mind. Everyone knew that what you were thinking didn’t actually have any bearing on anything-- the brain offered them randomly, in the same way a cat sometimes brought dead birds to its beloved owner. That, too, was the gods’ doing. No, really! Often, they just… put those strange, blasphemous ideas into your head. Most likely to test the depth of your faith? Because, if you followed them, you proved yourself to be a weakling. Just meat for the grinder, to be crushed into fucking powder.) “What?! I’d rather marry my own fucking shoes!” the assassin protested. “They might not have such soft lips,” what, “but, um, they’re reliable. And they can swim. Throw them into the fucking water, and they’ll float. A pretty good marriage match, I’d say.” Again, what the fuck? What the fucking fuck? The acknowledgment that her lips were soft was not needed, and… uh, correct her if she was wrong, but insults did little to pave the route to a girl’s heart. So, in essence, she had just failed in two different ways at once! Extremely effective, though not in the direction Cyrra hoped it to be.

“I mean, nothing against you,” the assassin set out to salvage the situation, with her usual grace. (If asked about it, she would compare it to the grace of an antelope. Literally everyone else, though? They would have chosen a different simile, most likely involving words such as ‘boulder,’ ‘heavy plate armor’ or ‘a fifty-year-old drunkard.’) “It’s just that I’ve spent a really, really long time with my shoes now. We’ve got a strong fucking emotional bond. But, uh, after my shoes, you’re the second strongest candidate!” Was that how you charmed people? Please, tell her that that was how you charmed people! (Cyrra wasn’t even terrible in that department, all things considered. At least usually. Sure, sure, she preferred the straightforwardness of a blade, but from time to time, you just… didn’t get that luxury. Certain targets had been blessed with coin, and coins were the seed of paranoia. Just, you try to get into the stabbing range of someone who never stepped outside without their bodyguards! A shrewd assassin knew how to work around that, of course. She had to, because going back to Father and being like ‘boo hoo, but the task is so hard’ would lead to… hmm, interesting results. Interesting, as in fucking painful. Carefully, over the years, she’d crafted all those pretty little scenarios, to help her spin her pretty little lies. The problem with that, though? The problem with that was that Faline took all of them, and ripped them to fucking shreds.)

“Hey,” Cyrra shook Faline’s shoulder unceremoniously. “This isn’t the time to be fucking sleeping. We, uh…” We what? ‘We have to escape from this thorny cage before the roses cannibalize us?’ Not a sentence that she’d ever expected anyone to form, but here they fucking were! Truly, the gods were testing her in ways Cyrra had previously thought to be impossible. “…we gotta bolt.” And they had to do it fast, before the roses had the chance to fulfil their creepy fucking recruitment dreams. How to get out of here, though? Steel did nothing against those walls, and they were getting closer, closer, closer-- “Yeah?” the assassin shouted, despite wanting nothing more than to curl up and disappear. To silence the crazy staccato that her heartbeat had turned into, somehow. (Whenever that impulse reared its ugly fucking head, you had to push against it! Otherwise, Ran would… Ran would…) “I guess that, if I cared about your shit opinions, this would have been fucking heartbreaking. Aren’t roses supposed to be seen, and not heard?”

“Pfft!” the flowers snorted. “You know nothing about this world, Cyrra Eiréal. Nothing that isn’t tied to your precious temple, founded on a lie. Everything you’ve ever known is just a reflection-- an image a of the real thing, distorted beyond recognition. But, rejoice! You’re going to find out what the truth is very, very soon. Few get that privilege.”

“Cy-rra,” Atropos’ voice reached her ears, strangely muffled. “Cy-rra, where are you? I can’t… take my hand…”

“You don’t even have hands, you stupid snake!”

“A metaphor… dummy…”

And, even if the familiar had asked her, it didn’t feel like she had a choice there. Not really. Something within her reached for it automatically, like a child yearning to meet their parent for the very first time, and… uh. The events started unfolding before her eyes again? The birth of those damn thorns, accompanied by the cancerous growth. Their involuntary stay in that cramped fucking cell. Again, and again, and again, Cyrra witnessed that cycle! (What the fuck? This was wrong, and nonsensical, and the gods had surely cursed her for becoming such twisted magic’s vessel. When something happened, it couldn’t unhappen-- not without tearing the fucking fabric of reality apart.)

“Well, don’t just watch! Can’t you see?”

The window of opportunity. The sole weak point. Back when those thorns had been formed, they’d grown around something, right? A source of energy, previously shrouded in shadows. How Cyrra knew, she couldn’t say, yet she very much did-- just like she knew where to strike now. Guided by that instinct, her hand sought out the place…!

“No,” the roses whispered. “No, don’t. You can’t. You--” But, oh, the assassin could, and so she did. Without hesitation, too. And, upon her touch? Upon her touch, their prison exploded, covering them in myriads of petals. Idyllic, right? Except that something fucking exploded behind her eyes as well, plunging her into darkness. Oh, damn. “Ouch!” Cyrra whined. “What’s… what’s happening? Why can’t I see shit?”
 
When their rosy prison shattered, Faline landed flat on her face. She groaned softly and remained on the ground in a heap, unmoving and swimming (or perhaps drowning) in a sea of her own thoughts. Her expectations of joyful and wondrous circuses, poor Cornelius, the talking roses... the fact that Cyrra shared a strong enough emotional bond with her own shoes to want to marry and presumably even kiss them. (Oh, goodness. She hoped the assassin did not kiss her shoes before kissing her. Then again, she might have tasted that if she had... for her tongue was practically in her throat.) Along with everything that happened since obtaining her freedom, her mind was stuffed with one too many thoughts, like those days she'd tried to clean the cottage by stuffing everything into the closet to capacity... to the point that when granny opened the door, an avalanche of household items landed upon her. Faline typically did not go back in time to erase little mistakes, as mistakes were a vital part of learning and her hold over time should not be abused in such ways, but that was indeed a massive mistake that she had made an exception for. With her lesson learned, she did the responsible thing and cleaned properly. Anyway. She had thought that thought would bring her to some conclusion about the situation that she found herself in now. Perhaps the morale to clean the house instead of looking for a shortcut would guide her like a compass. However, it did not. Instead, it was just another thought to add to her overflowing closet of thoughts. Perhaps she needed to take them out, talk about them, in order to put them where they belonged? Maybe that way her head would not hurt this much.

"Shoes. Shoes...? Oh, nothing against you," Faline giggled deliriously, quoting the precise words Cyrra had spoken to her earlier. "But you must admit that is fucking weird."

It was so weird. So weird that she continued to pick apart at the thought until it completely unravelled. Why would Cyrra get upset that she cared about Cornelius purely as a horse (because Cornelius was indeed a horse and not a marriage candidate), only to put Faline herself second to shoes in such a way? Was this just an extravagant way of implying that she was equivalent to the dirt beneath her shoes? Or instead, perhaps it was a more poetic way of implying that she grounded her in some way, like the supportive earth beneath her shoes. (No, no. That couldn't possibly be it.) If she could compare herself to an element it would not be earth. Perhaps the winds. No, that wasn't quite right either. Rather she aspired to be the winds. She craved it. They were so free, were they not? And Faline had always been trapped, much like water in a pail. Water that was so blue and could be drowned in. Ah... she could not escape the water, could she? Or drowning, for that matter. And shoes floated in water while she sank. So of course Cyrra did not see her as someone worthy of affection. Because of this, she was not worthy to see the sea, either.

Faline did not want to get up. Then again, she was not sure she could accomplish such a task even if she set out to. It sounded as though someone had stuffed chicken feathers into her ears, muffling everything. Each noise had an echo attached, which waved and warped the way water did to beams of light. She was burning, becoming slick with her own sweat. (For the first time since leaving, she wished for a warm bath and her bed back in the cottage. Then she could drift safely to sleep, lost in the aroma of lavender. Imagining a peaceful lavender field, stretching out all around her as the clouds sailed overhead. Perhaps that could be her new dream? She would not drown in a field of lavender, after all.) She might have asked Cyrra what she thought of that idea had she not been in that feverish haze.

"Aw... poor little assassin. Did you get thorns in your eyes? Perhaps you will live out the rest of your life blind as a bat for toying with the very magic you claim to hate so much. If it brings you any comfort, perhaps you can tell yourself your fictional gods doled out the proper punishment." Nyrea taunted, clutching her shoulder as she made her way towards the two. With the two of them in such a state, it was easy for her to lift Faline from the ground by the arm with her unwounded side. "Meanwhile, I've been waiting. Waiting for longer than either of you know." She pulled her closer, staring at her. "You. Where have you been hiding all of this time?"

"Oh..." Faline hung limply in the woman's grasp. If she could use one word to describe the way she was feeling, it'd be foggy. Technically that counted as water on some level as well, right? "I have never played... hide and seek before..." She sighed, "There were never any... other children to play it with..." Then she slurred out a giggle. "No wait. I did...! Once... in my castle, the cat butlers... they tried, but did not understand... the rules and..."

"Poor thing. You're so... so lost." Nyrea tutted. She said the word 'lost' as if she were trying to find the kindest word for what she really thought about this development. "And to think you're the most powerful Kairos heiress to date. How about this." She supplied the contract once again. "If you sign the contract, I will play hide and seek with you for as long as you like! I know the rules, you see."

"How fun..." Faline mumbled. Unfortunately, holding a pen in her current state was quite difficult. "I want to play with Cyrra and Cornelius, too... Cyrra, do you want to play hide and seek with us?"
 
So, the thing about villainous monologues? Cyrra loved them. Adored them, even. They were a timeless fucking classic, and one of the few joys an assassin such as herself could indulge in. No, really! (Those not blessed by the Temple often had... hmm, pretty fucking warped ideas of what the job entailed. In their stupid, empty heads, assassins spent most of their days fighting for their very lives, the adrenaline of it all pushing them to greater heights. In reality, though? In reality, an assassin like that was a poor one indeed. A waste of training. Ideally, you wouldn't even see their face before you glimpsed the steel! ...and then, only then, should they ever gloat. Not while their victims were still, you know, fucking breathing.) "My gods?" Cyrra rasped. "Don't even fucking utter their names with your filthy mouth." Just, hahaha, what? Was she hoping to scare her? To put her faith to a test, like those evil witches from fairytales? Well, such primitive methods weren't fucking going to work! (...they did exist. Cyrra knew that, oh so intimately, just like every child who had grown up in the temple. Hadn't she tasted their power, every time the lash had kissed her skin? Every time they'd taken, taken and taken, everything she'd been willing to give and beyond? Even water had burned like fire then, leaving marks everywhere it had touched her. ...heh. Gods existing and them being on your side were two different things, though. Very different things. The magic had tainted her, filled her veins with rot, and now... now she was fucking worthless. An empty vessel. A knife whose blade had snapped. Ah, her eyes, her eyes!)

"Cyrra," Atropos hissed, strangely muted. "Cyrra, listen. Interference... sign... paradox... must... not..." Ugh! Was that stupid snake chewing on cotton?! Because it sure as hell did feel as if their mouth was full of something that distinctly should not have been there.

Come on, the assassin told herself, you can't fucking give up like this. Do something! Move! Because, yeah, the gods might have forsaken her, but that didn't mean that she had to hand Nyrea her 'Cyrra killer' award. Not a chance. So what if fear was growing in her chest, like a parasite sucking out her blood? If she could still see fuck all? She was Cyrra Eiréal, and killing was what she did! All the assassin had to do was follow that instinct-- to trace its outline with a sharp, sharp blade. If her personality wanted to fucking fall apart, it had to do so later. A knife. Where's my knife? A knife, you see, was a certainty. A wordless assurance that there were still lives to sever, flesh to cut, things to do. As long as Cyrra had that, she... she wasn't a victim. Never fucking would be, either. Finally, her fingers wrapped around an object, but... it, uh, dragged her somewhere? And she could feel herself following a familiar trajectory, as natural to her as breathing. "Cyrra Eiréal," she wrote.

"See?" Nyrea exclaimed triumphantly. (Somehow, Cyrra didn't have a good feeling about this. 'Thoroughly fucked over' would be one way of describing the situation.) "She does want to play hide and seek with us. Now, Faline, sign it as well. Sign, sign, sign! Don't you want to spend the enternity with Cornelius and your stupid friend?"

"Cornelius and your stupid friend?"

"Cornelius and your stupid friend?"

"Cornelius and your stupid friend?"

Time flowed strangely, not forwards or backwards, but in a cycle-- Nyrea, too, seemed stuck in it, and each repetition broke down her mask a little more. Yes, a mask! What was her face if not that, after all? Because the human facade cracked, revealing bird-like features beneath. (...huh. So, were those cyan feathers actually hers? Since her bird self did have the exact same coloring.) "Silly little Faline," she sang out, nudging her closer to the document. "Don't you see? You are ours more than theirs. There's barely anything human inside of you, child. Why do you think you were attracted to our circus in the first place, hmm? Why you are to save us,"

"save us--"

"--save us"

"save us--"

"from that nasty seal. You want to do that, don't you? Then we will accept you under our wing, and teach you all there is to be taught. About everything."

Seal? A fucking seal? There was only one kind of seal the Temple used, and it was... gods, it was used to banish demons. Cyrra's own thoughts were a haze, a writhing mass of concepts, but the recognition cut through it, like a sword through paper! "Faline," she whispered, feeling as if her lips were on fire. "Faline, you have to..."

Except that Faline was no longer there. Dressed like one of those bird-like creatures, she... appeared in the middle of the stage? With a bunch of clowns surrounding her, clapping in a strange rhythm. "Hide and seek, hide and seek, hide and seek!"

"That's right," Nyrea nodded. "That was what you wanted, didn't you? I'm being nice and giving it to you, just so you know who you are dealing with. Find Cyrra, and you will get your happily ever after. Don't, and... well, let's just say that things will become interesting." ...which, fucking what? How was that any challenge? Cyrra hadn't even gone anywhere! (Little did she know, though, that she'd been turned into one of those corpses. Featureless, paralyzed, rotting corpses, that Blunk was still feasting on in the background. Oopsie.)
 
"...Oh. But I would have been more attracted to a human circus, to be honest. I quite dislike this place." Faline pondered matter-of-factly. "I wanted to leave the moment I stepped foot inside, really." And as she pondered the offer for a while longer, she frowned. Stupid friend? (Were they friends, though? The assassin might not appreciate that insinuation at all. And even then-- even if they weren't friends-- she did not think that Cyrra was stupid.) It was apparent that she needed to revise her stance on playing this game. The decision came to her instantly. And it was the firmest of nos. She factored in the truth that Cyrra did not answer, nor did Cornelius. (Well, of course Cornelius did not. Because Cornelius was a horse.) Nevertheless, neither of them sounded particularly enthused to play a game of hide and seek. It was understandable. She did not want to play with, befriend, or fall beneath the wing of anyone who used such insults. The roses were rude, Nyrea was rude, and she no longer wanted to spend time with them. Now that she had left the cottage behind, she was free to decide who to spend her time with. Free to come when she felt welcome, free to go when she did not. (...The only exception to that rule being Cyrra with their magical tether intact, anyway.) Somehow, call it intuition, she had an inkling that this woman would not understand the rules of hide and seek either. Hide and seek did not involve saving anyone, for one. And the idea that anyone was waiting on her of all people for rescue was plain silly.

"No. I didn't hear Cyrra say she wanted to play. We cannot force her if she does not want to. And she is not stupid, either... even if she wants to marry her shoes." Faline quickly found that her intuition was correct. Nyrea did not understand how hide and seek worked. The participants of hide and seek actually needed to hide, rather than don clown make up and participate in a strange chanting circle. The flashy costume change was completely unnecessary as well. Instead of marveling at the magic-- which aligned more with the realm she was familiar with than the mortal one she longed to learn about-- she felt nothing but that pang in her chest, having to lose her favorite dress again at someone else's whim. For so long, she had been a captive of magic. And so these instances where she was forced to wear clothes which she did not want to wear and to stand where she did not want to stand... they were... frustrating. Her cheeks heated and flushed with it. That was just it. She was frustrated.

"Why must everyone steal my clothes?" Faline balled her hands into fists, her eyes flashing with unfamiliar anger. The first time it had made her sad. This time... okay, it still made her sad but with a little extra spice sprinkled in. (In that moment, perhaps she could understand Cyrra's bond to her shoes. Faline did not want to go as far as to marry her dress, but she did want to continue wearing it. She put it on that morning precisely for that reason!) What gave them the right to take it from her? If all of these entities they encountered insisted upon using their magic to steal her clothes, she might as well use her own magic to steal it back. "You are making assumptions and telling me this is what I wanted. But this is not what I wanted." Clicking her locket, the tent grayed out and and unravelled the assortment of silver threads.

Faline took the thread indicating this timeline into her hands and began to pull on it, determinedly yanking it closer to her as it spooled on the ground by her feet.

"Gnitseretni emoceb lliw sgniht taht yas tsuj s'tel, llew... dna, t'nod. Retfa reve ylippah ruoy teg lliw uoy dna, arryc dnif, htiw gnilaed era uoy ohw wonk uoy os tsuj, uoy ot ti gnivig dna ecin gnieb m'I? Uoy t'ndid, detnaw uoy tahw saw taht." Nyrea spoke the same words as before, even if it didn't sound like it. She repeated them backwards, following the new flow of time. As Faline pulled harder on the thread, each word was spoken quicker than the last until they blended into an incomprehensible jumble. (Ah, thank goodness. Before long she rightfully reclaimed her dress as well.) Still, she did not stop there. Prompted by her desire to get far away from Nyrea, she kept pulling at the thread and the flow of time continued to change around her, the whirlwind of backwards sequences moving faster and faster until the magical tent disassembled entirely around them, leaving herself and Cyrra and Cornelius standing in a grassy clearing beside the path they'd been traveling previously.

Unfortunately, just because they were standing in a clearing did not mean they were in the clear. The earth shook, the tiny pebbles beside her boots rattling. The trees groaned and cracked as a large, tent-shaped monster with a bird's beak began dragging itself towards them!

"O-oh." Faline observed, tilting her head. Then she looked at Cyrra. "Does this normally happen?" Again, her intuition (which sounded very much like Endymion) spoke and told her no. No, probably not.
 
The Veil Guardians, they were called. Cyrra didn’t remember much from her comprehensive studies, but that order had always stood out in her mind-- a large, black fucking stain on an otherwise pristine background, smiling at the world with its scarred edges. (An order of women, dressed in grey tatters. Around their necks, they wore their own dry, shriveled up tongues. Their hands? Those had been cut off at their wrists as well, so that they couldn’t hold a quill. A mere vow wasn’t enough, you see? Not when the secrets you could sell to the enemy could bury the existence itself, deep beneath layers of filth. Not just the mortal realm, but also the realm in which the gods themselves resided! The Veil Guardians did much and more, but from what Cyrra understood… well, sealing demons was one of the routine jobs for them. Where the assassins were Father’s hands, The Veil Guardians were his eyes-- those who could peer beyond the façade of normalcy, and slay the lies lurking beneath. Seals, she thought, frantically. What do I know about the fucking seals? What do I need? The time around her was twisting, its very fabric threatening to snap at the seams, and yet, yet the assassin felt curiously calm. Was it the peace of a prisoner walking to the gallows, maybe? Someone who knew she was about to fucking die, and had cast all caution aside? …that, or her mind had been corrupted already. Conditioned to accept that which was unacceptable, like a dog whose master had praised for eating human flesh. Heh! What a lovely fucking analogy. Father would have appreciated it, she was sure.)

The darkness behind her eyelids? It, too, writhed, as if it was a living thing-- a worm that had burrowed in her brain, into the deepest, most private folds. Shit, thinking was a goddamn chore! And yet, despite that, the assassin reached into her memories. A… conductor? Yes, her teacher had mentioned something like that. (‘What the Veil Guardians practice,’ the ancient, stern woman had said, ‘isn’t magic. It is quite close to that, however. What? Don’t look at me like that, little Cyrra. As you now know, context is everything. It is the very reason why, when you brandish your blade, you deliver justice. When a drunken brute does the same, on the other hand? It is a crime. Something to be punished. Remember, little one, that it is the circumstances that determine virtue. Not the nature of your actions itself.’ Blah blah blah, more fucking nonsense about ethics. Let priests ponder over that-- those men in expensive robes, with their soft, soft hands. With an aura of innocence surrounding them, too. They were there for thinking, not her! Cyrra was there to cut, cut and cut, for as long as there was flesh to rend. For as long as the gods demanded it of her, and the human hearts were full of filth.)

Laboriously, the assassin dragged herself back to her feet. Some part of her was shocked that her body even collaborated, although… why wouldn’t it? That her limbs did what she wanted them to do was kind of the basis of her entire fucking career! An assassin whose hands went ‘wait, nooo, I don’t wanna’ before a kill wouldn’t last a second. They would be thrown to the wolves, before they could so much as utter the phrase ‘suddenly growing a conscience is a fucking problem.’ Still, when her sight came back? Cyrra almost wished that it fucking didn’t, because at least she wouldn’t have had to see that. “A demon,” the assassin whispered, something suspiciously similar to fear coloring her voice. But, haha, that couldn’t be true, right? Because Cyrra was Cyrra, and being afraid wasn’t in her personal fucking vocabulary. Not at all. All the cold sweat she was bathing in was… uhh, a sudden onset of some doubtlessly deadly illness!

“Don’t want to join us? But you will, oh, you will!” the monster thundered. (Blue roses wrapped around its shell protectively, the thorns glinting in the sunlight. And, hey, what the fuck was that? Were they somehow covered with blood?) “I will devour you both if I have to, you sad little creatures.” Honestly? Cyrra wanted to complain, scream and blame Faline all at once, but now wasn’t the time. “The tether,” she blurted out. “A conductor. It can be a fucking conductor, I mean. I need you to… run in circles. You can run in circles, right?” The shape wasn’t all that fucking complex, but when it came to Faline and the surprisingly specific gaps in her knowledge, Cyrra just couldn’t be sure. “Around that little bitch. We need to bind it. Afterwards, I will… perform the ritual. I know how to do it.” Well, kind of. Heh. Shit, shit, shit, they were so screwed! And to think that none of this would have happened had Faline followed the simple fucking advice of, you know, minding her own goddamn business. (Once all hope was officially lost? The assassin would strangle her before the tent monster ever got to them. That little joy she could indulge in. And, speaking of which…) “Have you ever heard about restricting the flow of energy in someone’s body? ‘Cause we’ll need to do that, too.” Say no, some part of her wished. Say no, so that I have the excuse to fucking end you right here.
 
"Of course I can, Cyrra!" Faline smiled, contentedly clapping her hands together beneath her chin as she rose to her tip-toes and twirled around. (If she was concerned about the tent creature's threats, she was doing a wonderful job of hiding it.) While she could not swim, running in circles was certainly a task she was capable of. Had Cyrra already forgotten the way she ran in circles around the well just the day before? And she had done so while singing her fun new song about wells, too! Although she was not quite as tired yesterday as she was now, nor had her head been pounding quite so hard. There was a feasible risk that she might get dizzy and then get sick... but her companion seemed quite serious about this. Cyrra was also the expert in dealings in the mortal realm.Their roles were now reversed, with the assassin as the teacher, and complying with her instructions was certainly the best course of action now. "Oh! Shall I sing another song, too?" Those words were barely out of her mouth before she began to hum a soft tune. Then she quietly started deliberating lyrics under her breath. "Feet upon the ground... I will run around..."

It was imperative that Faline think of more words that rhymed with around in order to bring the song to life. Unfortunately, she did not have the time to list such words or compose a satisfying beginning for her new song when Cyrra asked her yet another question and drew her attention elsewhere.

"Restricting the flow of energy. Like a binding, perhaps?" Faline mused thoughtfully, tugging on her braid. Binding, binding, binding. Her mismatched eyes lit up with recognition as she popped a fist to her hand with great enthusiasm. Aha! What a miraculous epiphany! "...Ah! Bound. That will work, too. Thank you, Cyrra." That would work. For her song! Of course, she does not articulate her thought process on the subject any further. Best not to spoil all of her lyrics before she actually began to sing, right? Feet upon the ground, I will run around... that which will be bound?

Faline supposed she was nearly ready to begin, although she was not as confident about the concept for this song compared to her simply extraordinary song about wishing wells. (There was no agony quite as great as headaches impeding her creativity. Confound it all!) Perhaps it was also due to her headache, but there was one particular aspect of Cyrra's instructions that she did not fully understand either. Where was the little bitch? She looked around confusedly, leaning at exaggerated angles as if to peer behind the massive tent creature.

"...I'm afraid I do not see a little dog to run around, though." She observed belatedly. Because obviously she thought that Cyrra meant to say that the circus demon was endeared to dogs. What else could she have meant by bitch? It sounded perfectly understandable to Faline to stop in the middle of a murderous rampage in order to pet a cute dog. There was no flaw in that logic. None whatsoever. She had never met a dog before, but she did understand that their cuteness was legendary. Legendary. "Hm. Should I consult the silver threads for a timeline where we discover the small dog you are referring to? Or perhaps you've already seen one in our future?" Why didn't she think of it before! Of course the assassin could predict the future. As evidenced the day before when Faline had seen Cyrra do so firsthand. Like when they'd nearly been eaten and she predicted her great embarrassment in the-- ah. Well, some stones were better left untouched.

"I believe that she was referring to the massive anomaly, Miss Kairos." Endymion explained out of nowhere, materializing out of the ground. The cat swept their tail affectionately against her calves. "The..." They hissed with distaste as they gazed up at it. "The bird tent. As if birds weren't horrific enough already!"

"Endymion!" Faline cheered, giving her familiar a pet behind the ears. What a pleasant surprise to see them again. Genuinely, it always pained her to be apart from them for extended periods of time. "All right. I suppose I should get started, then?"

"Yes, yes. See to it that you do." Endymion encouraged as they leered at the encroaching tent monster. "Be careful."

"Are you ready, Cornelius?" Faline mounted the horse, steering the reins with intent to ride in circles around the tent. This would keep their dear friend out of the tent's path. (That and she was quite spent. Riding would make it easier to do an efficient job. Although she did feel for their horse, who also deserved a moment to breathe.) "I promise we will let you rest when this is through."

"...Cornelius?" Endymion scrunched their face judgmentally as they watched Faline ride off. There wasn't much time for them to comment further on that, though, when silver threads from Faline's locket attached themselves to the top of the monstrous tent, circling around it on the ground like ribbons around a maypole. Evidently it was doing something. "Now... are you sure that you can handle this, Cyrra?"
 
Perhaps, if the gods were good, her suffering would finally fucking end. The odds of that happening seemed pretty decent to the assassin, too. Faline would know nothing, because, duh! That the girl only wore her head to shield her throat from the rain was pretty damn obvious, and Cyrra looked forward to receiving yet another piece of evidence for that. Indeed, looked forward. Death was but a gate-- a pathway leading to the future, and to their true forms as well. To the sacred heritage that they’d been promised. What should she be afraid of, then? Of having some good fucking time? …and, besides, perishing here would be the cleanest outcome by far. No, really. The witch’s corpse would nourish the earth, and Father… well, at least Father wouldn’t have to worry his pretty little head about how, exactly, he was going to stab one of his best people in the back. Heh! (No, Cyrra wasn’t sure whether he’d do it. She also wasn’t sure that he wouldn’t do it, though, and that meant that it may as well have happened already. After all, what should one do with a broken tool? With a sword that now had a fucking self-destruct mechanism built into its hilt, about as stable as gunpowder? Destroying it only made sense. And since it was a beloved sword, it was better to… hmm, maybe pretend that it had broken while defeating a great evil. Certainly better than admitting that it had actually joined the enemy’s side, at least. Still, how could a dog not return to its master? …oh, death would be the only excuse. She’ll still die first, though. I’ll look her in the eye, give her my best smile, and carve something pretty on her chest. My signature, maybe? In that way, the girl would forever be hers, which... uh, wasn’t something Cyrra actually fucking wanted. Just a random thought, randomly poofing into existence! Happened all the fucking time, really. Hahaha. Suppressed desires were a fucking scam, designed solely to make you think that you needed things that you absolutely had no interest in.)

So, the fantasy she was spinning here? It was enticing, smelling sweetly of wine and blood, but also rather fragile. Touch-it-and-the-bubble-bursts level of fragile, actually. “You… know what I’m referring to?” The assassin appeared to be flabbergasted, as if Faline had just announced to her that she was learning the cat language and planning to speak in it exclusively for the rest of her pathetic life. (Actually, scratch that fucking comparison. No, that wouldn’t have been weird for her at all! What truly would have shocked her would be… uhh, her growing some damn common sense. Her having the decency to die when she was fucking supposed to, too.) “Good, then go. See you when we’re done with this.” Or, alternatively: ‘See you when we die and are judged at the gates of death.’ At this point, the assassin had no fucking idea what would be the better outcome-- whether to live and repent, or die while her good deeds were still fresh in the gods’ memory. As Faline rode off, not into the sunset but into the monster’s embrace, Atropos crawled out of… somewhere. Some other dimension? Cyrra didn’t know, and gave zero fucks.

“Indeed, that is a good question. Do you truly think you can handle this?”

“No,” the assassin deadpanned. “But it’s not like we have other fucking options here. Or what, you sitting on some convenient demon removal method?”

“Well, no, but--”

“Then shut up.”

Classic fiends, really. Instead of actually fucking helping, they appeared in the least opportune of times to remind her of her ‘limitations’ and ‘gaps in knowledge.’ Well, you know what? Cyrra Eiréal had been aware of that from the very start, so they could keep their shit observations to themselves! The Veil Guardians work with the threads, don’t they? Not in the same profane way Faline did, but she couldn’t deny that there were certain similarities-- parallels that one shouldn’t draw, unless they really wanted to lose their fucking head. Heh. The positioning. There was something about the positioning, I’m pretty fucking sure. What, though? Oh, how Cyrra would have loved to return back in time and kick her younger self in the ass for not really paying attention!

Fortunately, the answer couldn’t have been more obvious if it tried-- a big arrowhead could have pointed at the correct solution, and it still wouldn’t have been clearer. Their tether, the single golden thread among all those silver ribbons? It got tangled in between, like a glittering spider’s web. Pieces of it were missing, though, and other parts… other parts weren’t visible at all, given that they were being blocked by the monster’s humongous body. “Faline! Lure it to the left!” the assassin demanded, before approaching one of those empty spots. Before you asked, no, she had no idea what she was going to do. Apparently something about what she was doing hit the right spot, though, because, when she moved closer? A mirror spawned in the emptiness, reflecting a lake. A lake, wide and deep, with the moon itself drowning in these depths. Pretty, Cyrra guessed, but so fucking what? And then, as if to react to that unspoken complaint, a cyan-colored bird flew down from the sky. The little thing fluttered its wings, before, uh, before spreading them and transforming into a woman. Nyrea, the assassin realized. Nyrea, who let the cold water embrace her slender form. With bated breath, Cyrra watched the events unfold, except… well, except that they fucking didn’t. The frame remained frozen, like a picture on someone’s wall. “Faline!” she shouted. “From your angle, what can you see? I… I see Nyrea bathing in a lake. Any idea how that continues?”

Meanwhile, of course, the monster did not give up on feeding itself. “Faline, Faline, Faline,” it sang out. “Come closer, and we will play a game. Oh, how I yearn for you!”
 
"Nearly drowned... now I'm riding around... and you're spellbound?" Faline murmured new lyrics to herself as she rode off on Cornelius, her skirts and braid whipping freely in the air behind her as she went. There was a bit of resistance on the reins as they steered closer to the tent anomaly, distracting her briefly from her creative process. Sensing the horse's concern in regards to the direction they were headed in, she clucked her tongue and gently ran her fingers through his mane in attempt to keep him calm. Ah, if only she could think of her lyrics faster! There was nothing like a calming song to ease a troubled spirit. However, she was in a pickle when it came to finding the proper inspiration. Perhaps it was the disturbance of her usual schedule? While the change of scenery should have done wonders for her creativity, the changes and firsts piling one on top of the other could be rather challenging to keep up with. "What do you think, Cornelius?" She thought about what Endymion might say if they were there with her just then and then sighed. "But of course, you think nothing of my song. Because you are a horse." And a horse could not be anything but a horse in the grand scheme of things.

Faline paid very little mind to the threads as they rode around. They were commonplace for her to encounter, existing the same way that motes of dust floated in sunbeams within the cottage. The threads of time served as her companions far longer than other people ever had. (Perhaps that also applied for sentient creatures in general-- whether they be human or monsters.) When Cyrra told her to move to the left, though, she did precisely what was asked for her and awaited further instruction. When she was asked to pay attention, she did so as well.

...Water. Yes, indeed. Faline saw the lake that Cyrra was referring to. She took sharp breath at the sight and guardedly clutched onto Cornelius's reins. Nearly drowned. She nearly drowned and now she found herself staring upon one of the most beautiful bodies of water she had ever seen in her life. It was not an exaggeration. The glow of the moon swirling in the ripples of water upon the surface, the woman's bare back speckled with droplets. It was so beautiful it could easily move her to tears... and also so frightening it was also capable of causing the very same outcome. (Ah. Was this the same duality between screaming from fright or alternatively screaming for love?) Breathtaking, truly. Faline might have commented that it was breathtaking if it wasn't so breathtaking... because she was at a loss for breath and therefore could not produce those words.

"Closer?" Faline whispered in response to the voice that called her name. She was not easily frightened. When it came to drowning, however, with her fright from yesterday so fresh in her mind, fresher than a fresh-baked pie... "You mean you want me to play in the water? But I cannot swim. I do not want to... drown." Within the span of a second, though, she was suddenly standing at the lake's edge. Close enough to see her reflection in the water. Outside of the vision, her eyes had turned the silver of the threads... to the point that they resembled mirrors themselves.

The woman, Nyrea, was splashing about playfully in the lake and humming to herself. Meanwhile, a hand snaked out of the water as if to snatch Faline's ankle. Before it could do so, however, everyone present within the vision froze as they were distracted by the sound of heavy boots striking upon the ground. The rustling of leaves and deep, deep voices. "Are you sure you saw her around here?" One voice said. "Yes, sir." Replied another.

"No." The voice broke, sounding gravely wounded. Terrified. Instead of asking her to play this time, it pleaded with her. "No, no, no. It never should have happened this way!Turn it back. Let me fly away."

Faline understood that she was not a part of the reality she was seeing. Not truly. She did not belong there, the same way that a chicken did not belong in the ocean. Turning back time within a world such as this would do nothing but prolong the inevitable, for it was already irrevocably written in this history. Explaining her entire process-- along with the fact that it was not possible-- in simple terms would not be an easy feat. She'd never had to explain it to anyone before. That the voice claimed to desire her help and her magic was such a staggering concept that she could not find the proper words to reply with. But there was nothing she could do about those men. If she was to bring any solace to the voice's plight, she supposed she would need to continue assisting Cyrra. What's going to happen to her, I wonder...?

"She's been startled, Cyrra. It would appear that some men have shown up... and they were searching for her?" Faline explained, sighing sympathetically. "She seems quite unhappy. I am there with her now. Do you see me?"
 
Empathy, Cyrra knew, was an obstacle-- something that most people had cultivated because the society had brainwashed them into it, following the old ‘one hand washes the other’ rule. Big ideals? Lofty principles? Pfft, don’t fucking make her laugh! Nobody would think to accuse a pack of wild dogs of being honorable, and yet, when humans acted in accordance with the fucking mechanism, it was suddenly a proof of their inherent goodness. Laughable, once you really thought of it. (Thankfully, she didn’t suffer from such an affliction. The Temple education tended to be really good at… hmm, at removing all the weeds, you know? All those parasites that came with the human fucking condition, inherited from the generations past. Depending on who you asked, their names varied, but the essence, the core of the weakness, remained the same. Always, always it related to not minding your own fucking business! …to thinking that the gods had erred in their judgment, and that, somehow, you knew better than them what their subjects deserved. A foolish conviction, yet also one that many held onto with great fucking glee. Was it worth it, hmm? The eternal damnation, and having your very soul torn to shreds? Cyrra couldn’t imagine it being true, not in any version of their reality, but… well. Let’s just say that seeing Nyrea like that, all innocent and playing in the water, did summon some questionable feelings. Feelings that were suspiciously, blasphemously distant from hatred.)

Somehow, the assassin could tell how this tale was going to end. It wasn’t that she had pulled the woman’s story from some ancient fucking well of knowledge, but she had witnessed it play out before-- not with her, but with many others, again and again and again. (With herself, too. To an extent. It was always the same fucking story, wasn’t it? A memory flashed in front of her mind’s eye, juxtaposed against the current scene, and, for a moment, the assassin saw neither Nyrea nor the lake. So, what did she see? A house that she had once called her home, being swallowed by a fiery inferno. The sparks were touching the blushing sky, caressing it, almost, and all of that would have been stunningly beautiful had her tears not stung so much. “Come on, girl,” a rough voice called out, and it felt like a slap. “Wanna burn with them? ‘Cause if that is what your little heart desires, then I can leave you here. Little whelps like you are dime a dozen.” And, yeah, maybe Cyrra didn’t have to grasp the extended hand. She could have shaken her head, crawled back into the house, and let it become her coffin-- let all of it end before it had truly begun, which, in hindsight, would have been the fucking mark of wisdom. The thing was, she hadn’t been smart enough then. Probably still wasn’t. The assassin blinked a few times, and obediently, the lake one again rose to the forefront. Strangely enough, Faline’s voice… may have played some sort of role in that? Eh, hearing it probably pissed her off hard enough for her to snap back into reality! Being more annoying than the fucking mosquito buzzing around your ear had its advantages, it turned out.)

“Nah, can’t see shit,” the assassin complained. “Although… wait.” Faline continued to speak, and it was as if she was painting it into existence-- in front of her eyes, the picture jolted into motion, with colors and sounds and everything. It did so slowly, like a carriage stuck in mud, but move it did! Again, what the actual fuck? What twisted logic was this realm following, and how to unravel it?

With the kind of desperation only ever found in prey, Nyrea ran out of the lake. Clearly, she had some sort of goal in mind-- despite the obvious panic, Cyrra could see that she was moving with purpose, in a steady direction. Her getaway route? But, if she could turn into a fucking bird, why hadn’t she done it yet? Don’t get her wrong, the assassin wasn’t an expert on running from battle, but one would have assumed that wings were better than legs. You know, kind of by default! So, she can’t transform? “I think our demon is fucked,” the assassin announced, loudly enough for Faline to hear it. (They were both getting different parts of the story, that much she had grasped. Why not put the pieces together? No, there was no guarantee that it would result in anything but frustration, but it sure as fuck beat sitting and twiddling her thumbs.)

So, Nyrea’s desperate attempt to get away? It might have worked out better had she not run straight into one of her pursuers’ arms. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he laughed, in that disgusting fucking way that basically screamed victory. “That eager to explore the world, hun? Don’t worry, you’ll get to do a lot of that with us.”

“No, please, just let me go! I need to return. I… the others are waiting for me, and…”

“That’s too bad, then.”

The memory twisted, like a piece of fabric from which someone was trying to wring out the last droplets of water, and, once the assassin had relayed the information to Faline? A new scene emerged in front of her, this time centered around a large, rusty cage. It probably wouldn’t shock anyone that Nyrea was inside, dressed in pitiful tatters. Her skin was covered in bruises, blue and purple and black, and… could she actually see Faline? Because it certainly seemed that she was looking straight at her. “Release me,” the demon begged. “Please. Have you no heart? Why have you come, if not to end my suffering?”
 
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"...Fucked?" Faline repeated, tilting her head inquisitively at the frozen vision she stood within. Fucked, fucked, fucked. As much as she tried, that term did not paint a particularly descriptive picture for her. She parted her lips, prepared to ask Cyrra to elaborate on what she saw in order to coax the scene to move again. Before she could do so, however, the world warped around her even so. It cast her into the moonless darkness before a cage. The air was ripe and the sight immediately struck her as odd. Odd and wrong, like an abrupt slap to the face. It was... People were not meant for cages. (No, she reminded herself, Nyrrea was not a person but a demon. Even so, demons were not suited to cages either. Nor were monsters or familiars.) She could profess from the very bottom of her heart that she knew this from experience, but-- that'd be silly, right? Heh. She had never lived in a cage! For as long as she could remember, she lived in the cottage. The cottage had never been a cage. Just like a horse could not give advice on her song because it was a horse, a cottage could not be a cage because it was a cottage. That logic was perfectly sound, was it not?

Strangely, the thoughts in Faline's head rapidly grew quieter and darker than the tent she found herself in. They ceased to venture any further down the beaten path lined with thorns and vipers that whispered promises of danger and heartache. If she stopped there, then there would be nothing left to find. Nothing to cry over. For the cottage was just a cottage. A simple place, surrounded by beautiful trees and flowers and animals and... and wasn't she so lucky? Within her mind, the colors grew more vivid and the softest sounds crisper in her ears. And they embraced her the way she imagined a good friend would. Ah, yes. She was so lucky. Grateful for that creaky old door that faithfully bid her a good morning when she set off on her daily chores. Grateful whether she walked under the dapples of sunlight through the trees or felt the touch of rain upon her skin! And of course she could not neglect to mention the ducks and the chickens, which pecked at everything in sight like adorable dinosaurs.

Have you no heart? Little did Nyrrea know that those very words squeezed Faline's heart in the tightest of fists.

"I would release you if I were truly here to do so." Faline said. And she meant every word, because her heart ached as it demanded it. Before Nyrrea could ask her what she meant by that, she reached to grab her hand... and as she did so? Her fingers phased right through the rusted bars of the cage as if she were no more than a ghost. As expected. "You see?"

"So you cannot save me?" Nyrrea whispered, her voice low. Her expression wavered between hurt, sorrow and rage. "But I have heard tales of the Kairos magic. They possess the power to change fate."

Faline retracted her hand as though she'd been burnt, gripping her braid and tugging on it in such a way that anyone watching might have felt a twinge of sympathy for her scalp. Kairos. Fate. Change. Candlelight against the walls, figures, whispers, and then screams... No.

"This is your past, not your future." Faline mused, sweeping her thoughts away the way one might do to cobwebs and dust. She was more than her family magic. She could find some other way to help Nyrrea. "Time may have hands but they cannot hold onto you. Rather, it seems to me that you are the one holding onto it." Then her eyes flickered brightly. "Ah!"

"Do you know what to do?"

"You have a form without hands, do you not? A little bird with the loveliest cyan wings... you could slip through these bars and fly away. So why don't you try?" Faline smiled. It didn't last, dimming when she noticed the embittered expression on Nyrrea's face. "What is it?"

"If I could change back, I would have by now!" The woman hid her face in her arms. "I have not been able to change since my capture. They beat me black and blue because I cannot. They believe me stubborn... and that is not the case."

Faline clutched her hands tightly in her skirts and bowed her head with sorrow. Before she could allow herself to wallow in the strange sensation of helplessness that came over her, she vaugely felt the threads moving all around her. The threads. Attuned to them, she heard one singing softly for her attention... like a bird. Birds would not sing while captive. But there was once a time Nyrrea was free, once a time when she did. And she had the power to reach for that time, did she not?

"Cyrra! Will you please find the first thread for me? The beginning of Nyrrea's memory by the lake." Faline asked with the poise of a seamstress preparing to work on a brand new dress. "Do so quickly and throw one end to me." There was no way of knowing whether or not this would work... but if she gave the thread to Nyrrea, it was perhaps she could briefly become the version of the self she was before her capture. Perhaps it would allow her to fly away, or at least change her for long enough to give her the opportunity to escape from her cage.

"You will stay here forever!" Outside of the vision, the tent creature began to scream and thrash. Ropes lashed from the sides of it like angry arms, striking down on the ground among the threads and near Cyrra. "You will perform!"
 
Oh, gods. Why did the thing have to remember her existence now?! Cyrra had been this close to admitting that Faline acted as fine enough monster bait, but of course that reality had to slap her hard across the face for that. Just, ugh. Was she allergic to being useful? Would she break out in fucking hives if the words ‘good job, Faline’ ever reached her delicate, delicate ears? (No, the assassin wasn’t being unfair here. Not at all. Everyone could see that this had been the whelp’s fault all along-- it had been her curiosity that had gotten them into this mess, and so it should have been her blood that was meant for spilling. It was called balance, you idiots! So why, then, was the monster heading towards her? Towards her innocent self, who had nothing at all to do with Faline’s whims?!) With the eye of an experienced fighter, Cyrra looked the creature up and down. She noted its strangle physiology, the way it towered over her, and the apparent lack of any weak points-- the mindless dedication, too, usually associated with machines rather than living fucking beings. The conclusion was obvious. And, you know what it was? Why, to run as fast as your feet would carry you! Fuck. Fuck, shit, fuck. Fucking shit? As Cyrra ran, recapitulating all the insults she had ever heard in her mind, Faline’s request cut through the air. She… was meant to search for a thread? One specific fucking thread, in the sea of silver? Yeah, why not! Might as well cook a five-course menu while she was at it, because clearly, running for her goddamn life just wasn't that pressing. No big deal. "Not sure if you fucking noticed," she shot back at Faline, "but I happen to be busy." And if that wasn't the perfect showcase of the strength of her will, then the assassin didn't know what fucking was. You know how much willpower it had cost her to say that, and not one of the million death threats that so wanted to spill from her lips?!

"Don't be such a spoilsport, Cyrra," Atropos hissed. "You've been waiting for the opportunity to prove yourself--"

"I haven't--"

"--for the opportunity to prove yourself," the familiar insisted, "and now it has come. A great assassin such as yourself for sure can split her attention in enough directions. Or are you saying that they didn't train you adequately at that temple of yours?" At that, Cyrra almost, almost considered stopping in her tracks and choking the fuck out of the stupid beast, but thankfully, her sense of self-preservation won out. (Her pride? Currently beaten up and bloodied, sitting sullenly on the ground.)

"Yeah, but for killing people! Not for... for whatever the fuck this is."

But despite the glaring injustice, Cyrra could see pretty clearly that excuses would, in fact, get her absolutely fucking nowhere. As always. Fine, fine, the assassin grumbled internally. Where is that cursed thread? No other way to find it than to touch everything that lay in her way, she supposed. (Scenes flooded her vision, with the urgency of a waterfall. They were disjointed, only connected by the thinnest of associations, and yet, somehow, Cyrra knew exactly what had happened. Wasn’t fucking hard to figure out, you see? Nyrea locked in a silver cage; her being pushed onto the stage; her being pushed off a cliff, in what she assumed had to be an idiotic attempt to make her grow wings. Which, what the actual fuck? Why hadn’t they jumped off a cliff, if they’d thought that that was enough to teach a person to fly? Against her will, Cyrra felt… well, something. Something that was better left undescribed, because delving too deep might have revealed interesting things. And, by ‘interesting’, the assassin actually meant ‘heretical.’)

Shit, where is it? I could fucking swear that I saw it somewhere around… ah. This one! Cyrra grabbed the thread and threw it in Faline’s general direction, praying to all the known and unknown gods that it didn’t get swayed by the wind. And, for once in in her miserable life? The prayer was, indeed, answered! (In hindsight, that should have been a warning sign. You see, the gods didn’t grant the wishes of Cyrra Eiréal easily-- each favor was bought with tears, each deal sealed with blood. There must have been some very good reasons for that, of course, but that was the truth of the matter. So, when they suddenly showered her with their grace? Instead of taking the bait, the assassin should have stopped and thought, really thought, about what that might mean for her. Should have, but didn’t. Oh well! Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad…?)

As if guided by some magnetic power, the thread bypassed Faline and landed straight in Nyrea’s lap. Her large, blue eyes grew even larger as she wrapped her fingers around it, and then? With a loud snap, the demon really did turn into her bird form! …well, kind of. Before, Nyrea hadn’t been the size of a whale, had she? But now she distinctly was, and no, the cage hadn’t taken it well. (Metal or not, it couldn’t have withstood the transformation. The pieces of it lay on the ground now, twisted and broken and pitiful-- much like Nyrea herself, back before they’d set her free.) “Thank you, Kairos girl,” she thundered. “I am not what I once was, though I suppose that that cannot be helped. After all, my stay in your world did change me.” Not necessarily for the better, one could assume. And, before Faline could do just about anything? She grabbed her with her beak and put her on her back, along with the (heavily protesting) Cyrra. “Hey, hey, hey! What the fuck? We’ve given you what you wanted, you ridiculous, oversized chicken! Let go!”

“Oh?” Nyrea grinned. “But this is your reward, Cyrra. You are going to help me seize my revenge, and I won’t eat you in return. Sounds like a good deal, doesn’t it?” The tent monster flickered, as if it suddenly couldn’t decide whether it was real or not, but the assassin didn’t have much time to pay attention to that-- not when, you know, the bird took to the skies. Way fucking faster than it had any right to, too. “Gods,” Cyrra groaned and closed her eyes, fighting the nausea burning in her belly. (She grabbed onto the closest solid object, and yes, it was Faline’s hand. Don’t judge!)

“Don’t be so dramatic about it,” the bird-demon recommended. “What we are going to do is find those bastards who did that to me, and murder them. I was under the impression that you enjoyed murder…? Now, Kairos girl, follow those precious threads of yours. Find them for me!”
 
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Faline gasped, her eyes growing quite wide in tandem with Nyrrea's transformation, aglitter with the wonder of a mystical grove full of fairy lights. Only two words occupied her attention and her mind. Giant. Bird. Giant bird! Had she ever seen a sight so splendid before in her whole entire life!? (No. The answer was no. Not outside the bounds of her own imagination, that was.) For once she was at a loss for words, enough to enlighten herself to the meaning of the word speechless. Bouncing on her toes, she clasped her hands together delightedly beneath her chin. Excitement was a palpable thing, buzzing like a honey bee in her chest as Nyrrea lifted her in her beak and set down her upon her back. Brushing her fingers gently against the large cyan feathers, she leaned forward and hugged the bird affectionately. Well, she'd be jitterbugged! She could be struck dead at this moment and die a happy lady. (Well, not really. Once the fact of her death sunk in, her spirit would be quite sorrowful for there were still a great many things she wanted to experience. Like dancing at a festival! Buying fresh bread in the market, riding on a cart, and she very much wanted to meet a monkey.) For now, though? Everything else she wanted to do could wait. For now she was sitting on a giant bird and she could not possibly be happier.

"No, thank you." Faline whispered when Nyrrea thanked her. "You are the most marvelous bird I have ever laid eyes on."

Nyrrea preened at the compliment and then fetched Cyrra to share in this exciting, life changing experience. Faline's joy had taken her to heights where she could not hear the other woman's grumblings. Rather, she was nearly shaking with anticipation when they began to lift off the ground and take to the skies. Was she dreaming? She knew she was not, and yet...

"Oh, wow! I don't believe I've ever been happier!" Faline giggled, peering at the ground as the trees turned into little speckles of green beneath them as they flew higher and higher. "How about you, Cyrra?" She would have lifted her arms to imitate having wings herself if not for the assassin, who held tightly to her hand and by doing so reminded her that she also needed to hold on to ensure that she did not fall off of Nyrrea's back herself. (Falling off of things in the other realm did not typically lead to broken bones... but in the mortal realm? Let's just say she had learned about gravity the hard way by falling out of one too many trees around the cottage.) Although it would have been truly freeing to wave her arms about, she would have to settle for feeling the gentle caress of the wind in her hair to make sure that she did not fall to her death. "Look at the trees. They were so tall and now they are so small. Like cute little ladybugs." She continued to observe the world beneath them. "And look at that! Those people own sentient clouds, Cyrra! Are we going to stop to meet them on the way to the capital? Are we?" Sentient clouds...? No, those were... sheep. But to be fair, Faline had never met a real sheep before.

"Your excitement is delightful to see, truly. But remember, we have important business to attend to!" Nyrrea nudged her with the reminder. "Where should I turn?"

"Oh, the murder part! Right." Faline nodded as if they were running a simple errand in town and not plotting revenge. Her eyes took on that strange mirror sheen again as the silver threads of time twined themselves into a a spindly, oversized tunnel around them. "I need to reach out now. Please make sure I do not fall." And then trusting both Nyrrea and Cyrra to do so, she did just that. Reaching out, she closed her eyes and brushed her fingertips along the threads swirling around them. Each one turned a different color at her touch and a swarm of images flooded her mind. Eventually, she saw a new tent. It was larger than the first one, as if the circus had found great success and upgraded since Nyrrea was abandoned. Performers were practicing... but the performers themselves were not responsible for her bird friend's plight. Hm. Then she noticed a portrait hanging up near the entrance. Two businesslike men with shrewd expressions on their grave, mustached faces. Once their faces were imprinted in her mind? Finding the duo was quite simple. They were lazing about, drinking in a nearby establishment while their acts worked hard to prepare for the night's performance. "Ah. There they are."

The second that Faline found them, a blinding light appeared at the end of the threaded tunnel and raced at full-speed towards them! It ate them up and then spat them out right outside of the very establishment where she had seen them.

"They..." Faline's head spun from the effort, much like the tunnel had. She flopped woozily against Nyrrea's back. "They are inside this place. Drinking wine... to appease the gods, I suppose."
 
Heights. Just, fucking... heights. Had the gods wanted them to soar the skies, wouldn't they have granted them wings? Wings instead of legs, designed for walking? Walking, which, by the way, didn't fucking work without the ground beneath your feet! Cyrra had lots and lots of feelings about the whole 'being abducted by a demonic bird' thing, but most of it could summarized as 'shit, shit, shit, we're gonna die.' (We? When had 'she' turned into 'we'? The assassin would have thought about this linguistic peculiarity harder had she, you know, not been scared to death. The wind was so sharp, and the bird didn't have any saddle, and, and, and!!! Expecting to fall to her unceremonious death, Cyrra closed her eyes shut. She could see Father's reaction already-- the signature smirk, maybe a shrug of his wide shoulders. 'Oh well! I had such high hopes for the poor, poor stupid girl. Turns out that even the gods are mistaken from time to time.' As if that wasn't enough to pour oil into the fire of her anger, Faline just... wouldn't shut up. Duh. Cyrra had learned to live with that, more or less, the same way you learned to live with the occasional hailstorm, but you know what did surprise her? That, instead of going on inane fucking tangents, Faline was able to stick to a topic! The same topic that she was actively trying to avoid. Kind of hard to sink into the comfortable denial when you were being confronted with reality constantly, you see?)

All the blood had drained from her face, and Cyrra bit her lip. Control yourself. Control yourself. Control yourself! Don't fucking threaten her with death yet. But, ah, the release would be so spectacular! Except that it would also send all of her plans into the dark abyss of failure, and the assassin wasn't ready to sacrifice it at the altar of her vanity. Not when so much was at stake! "Faline," she said instead, her voice uncharacteristically weak. "Faline, I'm fucking allergic to heights. Can you please stop? You'll get your own sentient cloud," whatever the fuck it was, "if you stop reminding me what's happening." Bypassing all of her conscious thought processes, her hand squeezed that of Faline's more tightly, and... it was nice, kind of. To had that anchor.

"Awww," Atropos mocked. "Cyrra, the great assassin, is afraid of heights? My, my, what great blackmail material to have."

"Do your ears not fucking work? I said I'm allergic to them. That's completely unrelated."

"Sure." For some reason, Atropos did not sound convinced. "That is not why I came, though. Cyrra, Miss Kairos, are you certain that you want to do this? Right now... well, this is neither the past nor the present. You're somewhere in between, and the balance is precarious. If you disrupt the flow of events, who knows what will happen? I advise you to take greater caution."

"And I advise you to shut the fuck up!" If Cyrra had had a shred of patience left before, she surely had lost it by that point. Time this, time that-- who the hell cared? Surely not her, the simple assassin, whose only job was to bring the girl to Father. Presumably, he would take care of any complications... right? Heh! And, besides, if she had to pick between space-time terrorism and being eaten by a large bird, the decision was rather obvious. (If that made her a sinner, then so be it.)

Finally, after what seemed to be a motherfucking eternity, the bird landed. As in, on the ground. Cyrra could cry tears of joy, but her stomach chose a... hmm, a different course of action. Unceremoniously, the assassin hurled herself off the creature and vomited. Yeah, yeah, not the most dignified landing, but so what? She was alive. She was alive, and that was all that mattered.

"Pathetic," Nyrea smirked, cleaning her cyan plumage. "I hope you are a better killer than you are a rider."

"Why don't you take care of it?" Cyrra pursed her lips, after wiping the vomit off. (Bleugh, disgusting.) "Since you're a large demon bird... thing. Can't you just devour them?"

"That's complicated. I don't exactly exist in the same realm, seeing as I'm simultaneously a tent and also kind of dead. I can eat you, though, because you're a special case. Somehow, you are able to exist in all of those realities at once." Well, who would have guessed? Magic, introducing more issues into their lives since its cursed conception! Cyrra was totally, absolutely shocked.

"So, is it your hobby to get totally fucked over by your magic?" she turned to Faline. "Seems to me like that's the pattern so far." Ah, dammit! It may have been true, but the truth, as the assassin had learned, didn't earn you any friends. In fact, it often repelled them. Shit, shit, shit! How to get her back on the track? How to not waste all those hours she'd spent on treating her like an actual person? Eh, a pointless romantic gesture would probably do! Looking around, Cyrra noticed a single white flower growing... uh, near the spot she'd covered in her vomit. Without considering it twice, she plucked it, and put it in Faline's hair. "There you go, almost as pretty as yourself. Now, Faline, I'm about to give you a very important mission. Lure those guys outside for me, will ya?" Dimension-related fuckery or not, Cyrra wasn't about to waltz into an unknown establishment, potentially full of armed enemies, and pick a fight. Just, nah. The assassins who wanted to survive didn't tend to do that. "I'm sure they won't be able to resist, seeing as you're so beautiful. I don't know, you can promise them a kiss. Tell them you're a harlot for all I care."
 
"My." Faline exhaled gently as she watched Cyrra hurry off of the bird's back and... proceed to get sick in the grass. Oh no! Poor thing. Before she could comment on her admittedly strange allergy, the assassin was already up on her feet and exchanging words with Nyrrea. Ah, what a relief! It seemed she was back to her usual self. Perhaps she felt better after the fact, then? That was very often the case when she was sick in such a way, so she supposed that there was nothing to worry about. In the meantime, she silently pondered Atropos's warning about the precarious nature of the balance. However, it seemed to her that they were helping Nyrrea after she had suffered so very much. If she proceeded onward with good intentions, then she was confident she would not come to regret her actions later. If the balance was upset then they would do what they could to right it when the time came to do so. One step at a time, yes?

"Fucked over...? I don't understand." Faline blinked. When the assassin used the word 'fucked' before it had led her to the devastating scene of Nyrrea in the cage. Were the implications that her magic led to ruin, then? (There was nothing about the situation they were in now that led her to believe it was quite as bad as that, however.) Although if she hadn't been born with the Kairos name and magic, then perhaps... ah. No. There was no point in thinking about what might have been, was there? Faline was Faline and could be no one else but Faline. Just like Nyrrea could not change her own past, Faline could not change hers either. Not to that extent. (Cyrra acted repulsed by her nature when they met, the way she had called her a witch... although she could not help what she was. It made her wonder if she would have liked her better, had she been anyone other than Faline Kairos.) Before she can explore these thoughts in any further depth, however, Cyrra went on to... put a pretty flower in her hair? Not only that, but to call her pretty as well!?

"A-ah. Do you really mean that?" The song in Faline's heart was confronted with a peculiar sense of dissonance when it came to Cyrra. Lost in the feelings equivalent of limbo where she constantly picked petals off daisies in a game of loves me, loves me not. One moment she called her a whelp and the next she'd go on to brush the tears from her cheeks. One moment she stole her first kiss and the next she offered to grant her wishes. Beautiful. She called her beautiful. It startled her so thoroughly that time ceased to pass in her mind. Instead her thoughts were fixed upon a reel, chugging along in a time loop which repeated the sound of the word on Cyrra's lips. Beautiful. Really!? The color pink made a home in her cheeks as she tugged anxiously at her braid. She laughed nervously. That was Cyrra's cue to supply the punchline, correct? To call her a ninny for blushing? But that never happened and she was left with only the fact that she had called her beautiful. Thoughtfully, she brought her hand to the flower the other woman had put in her hair. What was this feeling?

It took Faline a moment to recognize that Cyrra was suggesting that she offer her affections to those horrible, horrible men in the same breath.

"Oh, w-wait... but what if I do not want to kiss them? One of the men has a mustache that reminds me ever so much of a dead rat. It is truly dreadful." Faline made a face. The concept of men who grew hair on their faces had always sounded like a rather revolting concept to her to begin with. It was often described as scratchy in the books she read. To her, there was nothing romantic about the word scratchy. It brought to mind brambles and mosquito bites in the summertime. Reading about the softness of a woman's face had always appealed to her much, much more. "I would rather kiss you again than kiss one of those men."

"Ahem. I'm not sure what exactly is happening between you two, but..." Nyrrea said pointedly, looking between them interestedly before settling upon Faline. "Fret not, sweet girl. You will not have to kiss those terrible men. Cyrra is only suggesting that you say so to convince them to come outside with you. And then we shall take care of the rest."

"...Why would I make a promise I cannot keep?" Faline's dark brows furrowed. "Then it would not be a promise."

"No, no, no. We are asking you to lie!" Nyrrea continued as kindly as possible. The giant bird was much better at masking her impatience under an air of understanding, perhaps endeared to Faline by her earlier compliments. (Or perhaps knowing that she is her only hope of revenge.) "You don't need to promise those scoundrels anything. Just... act. Imply it. If it makes you feel better, just treat it like a game of make believe!"

"Oh. Well, I do love playing make believe. In fact, it is one of my favorite things to do." Faline grinned and saluted, eager to please. "All right! I will do my best."

"Yes. Off you go, then!" Nyrrea encouraged, nudging the small of her back with a giant wing.

"Miss Kairos, please..." Endymion tried to protest, but Faline was already skipping obliviously on through the doors of the pub. The cat shot a suspicious glare at Cyrra, keeping their opinion to themselves as they strode inside after their mistress-- no doubt to keep an eye on her when no one else would.

There were a great many new smells, things and people that Faline wished very much to investigate upon entering the pub. But she diligently ignored her whims and went about her task instead, not wanting to disappoint her (potential) friends waiting outside. Upon finding the mustached men nursing their glasses of wine, she approached them unhesitatingly.

"Good day, gentlemen. My name is Faline. I cannot swim and I would like to die in my sleep of old age." Faline recited her newly practiced greeting, feeling quite proud of herself for remembering Cyrra's advice. She dipped down into a polite little curtsey. "How do you do?"

"Eh?" One of the men slurred confusedly, prying himself away from his drink to look her up and down. Finally, his gaze settled on her mismatched eyes. (Anyone other than Faline might have seen a rain of golden coins flashing in his own eyes, reflecting his narrow, profit-hungry imagination.) "Well, well, well. What do we have here? Say, you got any special talents, sweetheart?" He grinned. "We're businessmen, you see. Always on the lookout for new talent. But you oughta know that not just anyone catches our eye. You, though... you've got a certain star quality about you."

"O-oh. I suppose that I can sing and dance." Faline instinctively began with an honest answer. Then she belatedly recalled what Nyrrea had said about make believe. Oh, cheese and crackers! Ninny Faline. She had to act. Had to imply that... she wanted to kiss them. Ah. Somehow, it was not as easy to play pretend when the subject of her fantasies was not what she wanted them to be. She fidgeted shyly with her braid. "...I am also very generous with my affections. One might even call me a harlot."
 
“Yes,” Cyrra lied through her teeth. “As much as I have ever meant anything in my life.” Technically speaking, that wasn’t even untrue-- the assassin spoke the language of lies, the language of half-truths. How was it her fault if naïve whelps took her seriously? That was like thinking that the hungry lion wouldn’t eat your sheep if asked it to, pretty please, leave them alone! No, the gods fucking wanted such cretins to fail. They feasted on their tears, and collected the pieces of their shattered souls. (Privately, however, Cyrra had to admit that Faline did look rather pretty with the flower. Soft and delicate, if you happened to be into that kind of thing. Which, hahaha, she sure as fuck wasn’t! Being delicate was like writing on your forehead, in big fucking letters: ‘Hurt me. Do it now, and don’t hold back.’ …Cyrra knew how true that was, to an extent much greater than she would have liked. Ran was even more familiar with it. Ran, who had--)

“Oh, but moustaches are rats,” the assassin latched onto the first distraction that offered itself. (If nothing else, the whelp was good at providing those. Conversation topics were bouncing off the walls of her empty fucking brain like rubber balls, and sometimes… well, sometimes, Cyrra didn’t mind catching one. Regardless, it meant nothing. A broken fucking clock was right twice a day, you see? So, occasionally, even Faline could say something that didn’t sound as if it had just emerged from some nonsensical nightmare. Something that sounded vaguely funny, too. Given the sheer volume of words the witch produced, it was mathematically impossible for her to be totally wrong all the fucking time!) “Don’t you ever wonder why men grow them and women don’t? It’s because men never fucking wash their faces. When a rat dies there, they just keep it. Knowing them, they probably think it’s good for the fucking skin.” …what? Filling Faline’s head with even more nonsense was one of the few joys still left to the assassin, and she was going to take every fucking opportunity to do so. More than likely, it was for the girl’s own damn good-- suddenly telling her shit that actually made sense would have been a deadly shock to her organism. (Hmm. Could she maybe kill her like that? That theory, Cyrra thought, ought to be tested one day.)

That she’d rather kiss her, though? Well, well, well, if the whelp wasn’t responsive! More than a person, she seemed to be a fucking machine: adjust some setting here, pour the right kind of fuel in there, and, voila, shit worked. No problem! (Quite clearly, Cyrra had been pushing the right buttons before. It was the fuel that had been wrong-- the explosive, volatile kind, where one spark was enough to set your veins on fire. You know, her own favorite brand. The witch, however? The witch seemed to prefer the one smelling of flowers, chocolates, and sweet nothings. Heh. Did she think that, with this seemingly weaker type, she wouldn’t be reduced to ashes? Oh, how little Faline understood these things! The fire that was too stubborn to burn properly at first… fuck, that was the one to be afraid of. The one that, in the end, sealed your fate.) “Well,” Cyrra winked at her, “you just might get to do that. You know, I can make it feel real nice. I will, if you ever let me.” And, as if to illustrate that, the assassin licked her lips. (A pretty effective way of drawing attention to them, wasn’t it? The way they glistened in the light of the torches was… appetizing, to say the least.)

“What’s with the sudden change of mind?” Atropos asked, once the door closed behind Faline.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t believe you’ve had any romantic interest in Miss Kairos before. For some reason, this strikes me as rather concerning.”

“What, you suddenly an expert on my heart? Feel free to fuck right off.”

***

Meanwhile, the two men were eyeing Faline with great interest. Come to think of it, ‘interest’ might have not have been the best word to describe it-- hunger would have been better, for one might look similarly at a piece of juicy steak.

“Truly?” one of them tilted his head aside. “I have to say, you don’t seem the type.”

“No, she does not,” his companion agreed. “I like that, though. Makes it feel more genuine.”

The duo exchanged a quick glance-- no other words were said, but some kind of understanding was probably reached. "Alright, Miss... Faline," one of them rubbed his hands together. "I don't think that I can help you with the dying of old age thing, but the rest sounds interesting. Have you rented a room already? And what are your rates?" ...rates? For love? Some sort of mistake must have colored their judgment, but both men were looking at her with what seemed to be great confidence. The taller of the two, with a moustache that indeed resembled a dead rat, even grabbed her by the wrist! "You may ask for anything, sweet girl. See, your straightforwardness... is appealing. I like it when a woman knows what she is. If you perform well enough, we may even keep you. Others dream of such a life, I assure you!" ...well, Nyrea hadn't. At least judging by, you know, the whole 'dedicating her existence to revenge' thing.

While the pair seemed rather pleased with everything Faline-related, the older gentleman sitting alone by the bar... didn't. In fact, his face resembled a beetroot in shade-- a beetroot, or perhaps a boiling pot that was just about to overflow. And, judging by the look in his eyes? The explosion was imminent. "A harlot?" he rose from his chair. "Ah, I shall not suffer such an insult. Not so close to the holy city! Have you no shame, woman?! I..." he reached into his backpack, pulling out a strange, metallic rod, "challenge you to a duel. Repent, and you may not have to taste my wrath!"
 
"Keep me?" Faline echoed uncertainly. Her gaze flickered between the men's expressions and then settled upon the man's hand. It was fastened around her, fastened tightly, and while he only held her wrist he might as well have taken her throat into his grasp. The way he looked at her felt all wrong, like the discomfort of wearing her right boot on her left foot. Worst of all, there was no one in sight for her to turn to, to ask whether or not she was performing her role correctly. (All alone in an unfamiliar place, with unfamiliar men. Unwelcome panic fluttered like a little bird in her chest and it occurred to her just how silly it was for Cyrra and Nyrea to entrust such an important task to her. Her, the ninny who had only just learned the proper way to introduce herself the day before! Conversing with anyone at all was new for her-- but especially when it came to men. And these men with their sharp features, ratty mustaches, slimy smiles and firm grips did not provoke anything particularly inspiring in her. They way they stared at her like an apple tart made her want to disappear before they could devour her whole, like an alligator or perhaps the deep lake water. Not to mention that she had no earthly idea what they were talking about, when they began speaking of rates and... keeping her, the way one might keep a beloved pet. Or a captive.) "You do not mean to keep me in a cage, do you? Because if that is the case..."

It was not such a far-fetched assumption, was it? After all, Nyrea...

Before either of the men could comment on this (or laugh in her face) an entirely different man began to speak. Actually, 'speak' was a gentle depiction of what was actually happening. Shouting would be the appropriate term. With a face as red as a tomato (Mm, tomatoes... vegetable soup still sounded rather delightful, didn't it?) he shouted about harlots, insults, holy cities and shame. And just about all of it sounded like senseless gibberish to Faline. Why... the blasphemy! Had this man no heart? Why would he dedicate his life's purpose to challenging women with affectionate hearts to duels?

"You are not a very nice old man!" Faline accused, deigning to shout right back at him. "There is no fault in being generous with one's affections!" That was what a harlot was, wasn't it? Because that was how Atropos had described it to her. And why would Cyrra tell her to use the term if it was not for her benefit? If this was a facet of her very important mission, then she needed to commit to it. To show that she was loyal and a worthy friend. Indeed! So clearly she needed to defend her stance with the most vehement passion.

"Miss Kairos..." Endymion said through their teeth, tugging at the hem of her skirt to usher her away from the bar. "Let's get out of here!"

"Yeah! There ain't nothing wrong with that. Listen to her you old coot." The taller of the mustached men sounded greatly amused. Instead of offering to fight the duel in her honor, though, he released her and stepped back when the man with the metal pipe began to approach them.

"Shameless little witch!" The pipe-wielding man's face grew redder if it all possible. "Even brought a cat in here! The barkeep don't allow cats!" He swung, Faline ducked with a squeak and Endymion hissed. The metal pipe smashed into the mustached men's glasses of wine instead of her, spraying broken glass everywhere with a 'crash'!

"He rather reminds me of granny with her mallet." Faline observed to Endymion as they sprinted across the bar. Goodness. Was this how Hector always felt when he was chased about the cottage? Poor, poor Hector. Every time granny had taken his head, she traveled through time to resurrect him. And the chicken was now free to do whatever business he might have liked upon granny's grave in the gardens. Thankfully she was not a chicken and had hands with which to defend herself. She grabbed a broom in the corner in brandished it like a sword, very much in the way she used to pretend to be a dashing knight with her broom in the cottage.

Faline twirled the broom and wielded it with a strange sort of grace. Despite the fact that it was a broom and not a sword. She loved to pretend... but she had only ever played swords by herself, without a proper partner. So to say that she was a fighting expert? Well, that would have been a boldfaced lie. She swung the broom haphazardly against the man's assault with his metal pipe. And she actually fared well enough defending herself to garner an interested crowd. The bar patrons whispered excitedly amongst themselves at all the commotion, the mustached men among those watching with curious eyes.

Unfortunately, wood struck repeatedly against metal could only last for so long. With a 'craaaack', the metal pipe came down harder than before and Faline's broom snapped in half. She stumbled backwards, the hem of her skirt catching a spark from the fireplace behind her and lighting up. Oh. Oh no!

"That's right! Burn like the witch you are!" The man shook his fist in the air.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no!" Faline fretted as she took the wisest course of action and ran away as fast as she could from her pursuer. She burst out of the bar doors with a broken broom in her hands and her skirt alight with flames. Immediately, she threw herself behind Cyrra to hide from the man who was no doubt following her outside. "Cyrra! I tried my best, I did, but..."

"And stay out!" The man shouted out the doorway, poking his metal pipe at them. His eyes narrowed when they found Cyrra. "What do we have here? You a harlot, too? Then get! Crawl back into whatever gutter you came from, you hear?"
 
If one was foolish enough to look for an underlying logic behind Cyrra's decision to send Faline in there alone, then the that hypothetical person would not be impressed. Not at all. The closest to that was the good old 'what could possibly go wrong?,' and even the assassin herself knew that that wasn't the best basis to form her plan on. Still, why the fuck should she be always expected to come up with things? She'd just vomited out her entire stomach! If the whelp wanted to be respected, she should prove that she could perform one (1) task to completion without setting herself on fire.

"I still think that was cruel of you, Cyrra," Atropos sighed. "Why must you be so prickly? I assure you, no rose is so precious that it is loved along with its thorns." Uh, what the hell was this? Did she look as if she wanted to be loved? 'Cause the assassin would rather swallow live frogs before admit... err, wanting such a stupid thing. (Love made one weak, Cyrra had learned. A sitting fucking duck. Had Ran not loved her, she would have still--)

"Oh? And by what fucking authority do you claim to know that? 'Cause I haven't noticed a crowd of reptilian admirers following you, you asshole."

Amazingly enough, Atropos blushed at that. ('Could fiends from hell blush?' Another mystery that had been bothering the humankind for ages solved! Too bad that she, you know, didn't care for stupid bullshit like that.) "W-well! Our mating rituals are of no concern to you, Cyrra. Don't even try to pretend that you understand them. Still, I will have you know that I am actually a very sought out partner."

"Sounds like something a fucking loser would say."

Speaking of fucking losers, though? Faline emerged from the inn, looking like a goddess of... revenge? No, certainly not. For revenge, one had Bad apologies, then? (And as for why Cyrra's mind jumped to 'goddess' on its own... nope, nope, nope, not even going to touch that. Again, none of that meant anything! It especially wasn't referring to the fact that, in her disheveled state, Faline... uh, didn't look half as annoying. It was because the sight didn't come with the association of Certain Things that also led to people getting disheveled, and, all in all, Cyrra was thinking very clearly! Just like always.)

"Are you... on fire?" the assassin stammered out, perhaps a little uselessly. Everyone with a working pair of eyes could fucking see that! Once that piece of information connected with the relevant center in her brain and Cyrra realized that, indeed, her being burned alive would be bad, she tackled Faline, sending her on the ground. "Gods," she groaned. "Are you this fucking averse to your own survival? Roll like your life depends on it, because it does!"

"I can't believe I'm about to say it," Atropos hissed, "but Cyrra is right. Miss Kairos, humans are extremely flammable! And, um, you don't want to burn." An insightful fucking analysis, indeed! Remind her to ask the snake for more hard-hitting truths later, because that shit was life-changing.

The lunatic, meanwhile, was ranting in the background, much like they always did. (With the tiny sector of her attention that wasn't dedicated to making sure Faline didn't burn alive, Cyrra could make out phrases such as 'harlot', 'don't need you here' and 'burn in hellfire, nasty women.' Honestly? That the idiot still had a tongue was an insult to the gods' very existence, and had the assassin been just a little less busy, she would have rectified it. Later, she said to herself. This just got him on my fucking list!)

"Cyrra," Nyrea looked up from her feathers. Something in her voice sounded urgent enough for her to lift her head immediately-- the hint of panic, perhaps, or the pinch of fear. Maybe both of those. "Cyrra, pay attention. See those two standing near the door? That's them. The ones who... who did that thing to me."

Indeed, the bastards were standing there, and seemed to have a mighty good time. "You think they will let us watch?" the tall one asked his companion. "I mean, the blondie does look as if she is about to..." Fortunately enough for the rest of the world, nobody was ever going to hear the ending of that sentence. How come? Why, you had Cyrra Eiréal to thank! Cyrra Eiréal and her scarily good knife skills. It only took her a second to aim, and another second to throw-- the blades landed right in the fuckers' eyes, piercing the brain. That's what you get for wanting to watch.)

"See?" Cyrra tilted her head aside, ignoring the way the onlookers erupted into panic. (Pfft, civilians and their reservations about murder! Did they not know death was a natural fucking part of life?) "There you go, two fucking corpses. Just as you ordered. Can we be on our merry way now?"

And maybe they could have been, had spiders not begun to crawl out of the victims' hollow eye sockets-- spiders that were originally spider-sized, but grew to the size of a small horse once they touched the ground. Oh, gods. Gods, what the fuck?!"Error, error," they bleeped, their numerous eyes shining like blood rubies. "Time-space continuum disrupted. Prepare for the consequences."
 
"Ah, yes. I suppose I am." That was true. Faline was, in fact, on fire. But goodness. How very embarrassing! Shameful, even. Because not only had she failed her important mission-- she'd failed it quite spectacularly at that. She could not get those men to leave with her, broke a broom and even lit herself on fire. Blushing, she hardly had the time to explain-- let alone blink-- before Cyrra tackled her to the ground. Yelping with surprise, she found herself wondering if the assassin was going to kill her now for proving herself useless. (Yes, she had just put a flower in her hair and called her beautiful. But this was the same woman who also threatened to feed her her own entrails when they first met. It was possible she had disappointed her so thoroughly that the time had finally come for her to--) Instead, though, the other woman suggested... that she roll around? Like her life depended on it? Oh. So she was concerned about her, then? And she was not going to kill her after all? (Atropos went on to confirm for her that yes, that was indeed the case.) Ah. Well, that was a relief! It was such a relief that a borderline hysteric giggle bubbled out of her as she began to roll about on the ground to smother the flames, as per Cyrra's instruction.

Back and forth, back and forth. Faline focused all of her energy on rolling around while Cyrra busied herself with attending to the men at Nyrea's request. Rolling, rolling, rolling. She might as well do this one thing right. And rolling around was something she could do well! A true over achiever, she continued to roll around even after the flames eating the hem of her skirt were whittled down to nothing. "Miss Kairos..." Endymion sighed. "You can stop now. The flames are out." But no, she did no such thing. Not yet! Although at this point, she was continuing mostly because it was all in good fun to roll around. And she was so busy rolling that she did not catch the moment that Cyrra's knives landed in the mens eyes.

Faline did notice the shouts thereafter, though. Finally sitting upright, she brought her hands to the side of her head as if to hold the world steady as it spun around her. (When she did so, she felt around her ears and noticed that her flower was missing. The white one that Cyrra had given her, just before she went inside the inn. Oh no! This was a travesty.) "My flower! Where did it go...?"

"Spiders. Great." Endymion hissed, exchanging a knowing glance with Atropos. "This is precisely what we were concerned about."

The spiders marched forward on their long legs and spat webs of silky thread at Faline and Cyrra's wrists, binding them. The ruby eyes on one glowed as it looked them up and down, scanning them for their identities.

"Faline Kairos...? No. That can't be right! The girl shouldn't be here." One of the spiders gasped. The others behind it repeated the word Kairos, over and over like an incantation. "The boundary is supposed to keep her..."

Faline stiffened like a statue in a graveyard. (Uninvited, her scars tingled at the mention of the boundary.) Auntie was not around to mentor her. The possibility had occurred to her, that there might be a condition where she would have to go back to the cottage if auntie was not around to guide her. Would they take her back to--? No. No, they couldn't! She quickly forgot the fun of rolling around and also forgot about her misplaced flower. Desperately, she blasted the threads around herself and Cyrra away in an unexpected show of strength.

"Cyrra, run!" Faline cried out, turning to take off in the other direction. As she did so, she clicked her locket to find a thread to pull them someplace safe. Perhaps... perhaps if she could use Cornelius as an anchor? Taking the assassin's hand with one hand, she reached for the thread with the other. "I'm sorry!"

Snaaaaap!

Traveling at a breakneck speed through space and time, the two stumbled into the grass where they had stopped to rest.

"I... I am sorry, Cyrra. I know you do not like it when I travel." Faline gasped into the grass, exhausted from the effort. She could not look Cyrra in the eyes... maybe because her own eyes were beginning to sting. How many mistakes had she made in the last couple of minutes alone? Not to mention that she was shaken to her core with fear over the prospect of... "I am also sorry that I failed my important mission. And... and that I lost the flower you gave me, too." She had never been gifted flowers before, either. It was truly special... she meant to keep it. Perhaps to press it and preserve its beauty in her little song book. Now, however? Now that would not be possible. It was all her fault. She curled her legs to her chest and hid her face against her thighs. "I really am a whelp, aren't I?"
 
Precisely what they were concerned about...? Precisely, as in that they had expected this shit? Because Cyrra Eiréal would genuinely love to know what kind of world they lived in that they found giant spiders to be a common occurrence-- you know, solely so that she could never step a foot in that cursed place. That, or maybe set it on fire. (The blood in the assassin's veins? It had turned to ice, to stone, to fucking marble. No, it wasn't fear! Cyrra was just... uh, visualizing all those fun, fun ways in which those long, sharp fangs could deliver deadly venom into her body. Analyzing the situation, it was called. You know, maybe you could try it sometimes? So that you didn't look like a goddamn fool all the fucking time! Gods. The assassin wasn't afraid of death, knowing it was a necessary step, but... well, couldn't the divine hand have picked a more dignified ending for her? She'd been a faithful servant, peeling the skin off their enemies like a good caretaker might do with apples! And for all of that, she'd received spiders. Spiders, with their hairy legs, bloodshot eyes, and almost mechanic-sounding voices. Horror crawled in their footsteps, bringing with them the true meaning of... wait. Wait a fucking second. Voices? That wasn't a common feature. Actually, it was something that would send most people into blind panic, but since meeting the whelp, Cyrra had upgraded her standards for that sort of thing. Wouldn't do any wonders for her reputation if she broke down every other day, you see?)

Somehow, they knew Faline as well. Of fucking course. (At this point, the assassin was seriously wondering whether the Kairos girl wasn't the monster equivalent of catnip-- it just seemed increasingly more likely that she'd only been locked up in that cottage because releasing her into the wild would be like leaving a pot of honey in a forest full bears. In short: not a good idea. Not a good fucking idea at all. The bears did not come in peace, Cyrra could assure you. And, really, weren't young girls the standard sacrifices? Always, they were expected to give, give and give, all those pieces of themselves, to undeserving fucking swine. The law of the world, they called it. Complete bullshit, she called it. Eh! Just a minor difference in opinion.)

Having found a way to blame it all on the ridiculous whelp, the assassin could relax. Die she might, but at least her soul wouldn't be lost-- her consciousness wouldn't wander, in search of the reason behind her demise. With certainty, she could point at Faline: "It's that idiot's fault! Not my fucking problem that she's a trouble magnet. Leave me out of this." And, at that, a great sense of peace would fill her chest. Responsibility, that heavy fucking burden, would be given to someone else, and--

--and, apparently not? Or not yet, at least. (To her great displeasure, Cyrra also had to admit that Faline's plan wasn't the worst. When facing certain defeat, running away did look like a solid choice! She preferred to name it 'strategic retreat,' but they would have time to argue semantics when spiders weren't about to eat their fucking faces. Just, priorities. Where to run, though? There was no guarantee that more spiders weren't waiting for them behind the corner, and--)

"Thank you," Nyrea whispered, her voice echoing through the folds of time. (It was fading, like a picture left too long in the sunlight. Like a childhood memory, too.) "Your kindness won't be forgotten, Cyrra and Faline." The winds of change wrapped them in their embrace, and she could feel it, the tether stuck in her chest, pulling her... somewhere. Away from the spiders, presumably. Eh, well! Her hands were already stained with magic, so it might as well do something useful for her now.

And, fuck, wasn't it the best when they emerged in a blessedly spider-free meadow? Except that Faline, being Faline, resorted to fucking whining. (Ugh! What was the girl's problem? Wait, no, scratch that. Cyrra didn't want to know-- what she wanted was to be there for her, mostly because people thought care = love. To feed her her favorite poison, she had to put in the effort! ...to cook it, from her own tears. From that sweet, sweet trust, unspoiled, like freshly fallen snow. Heh! Time for the performance of her fucking life.)

"Faline," Cyrra took her face into her hands, and wiped the tears away. "I don't fucking care. There are a thousand flowers like that, but only one Faline. As long as you're here with me, I can give you more of them. And don't call yourself whelp," she said, with passion so hot it might as well have burned. "You asked me to call you Faline once. Wanna fucking go back on that? Because I won't. As an assassin, I have my honor." ...yeah, honor that related to fulfilling her contracts. Still, the whelp didn't need to worry her pretty little head over that, hmm?

Oh so gently, Cyrra touched Faline's lips, and... uh, ignored the spark of electricity running down her spine. Again, this totally didn't mean anything! Aside from the fact that her bed had been achingly empty for too long. "Promise me to never speak that way about yourself again. Now," she tilted her head aside, "what can I do to bring that smile to your lips again? It's just so fucking pretty."
 
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