SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.37: The Rising Flames

I was thinking, today, of what he said: to keep my metaphors straight. I called myself a 'great tree' earlier, said I was going to sprout from the core. But isn't that more of The Artist's thing? Plants and such? Maybe I could be a tree made of lightning. But that doesn't really make sense, does it? Or maybe it's more important that I plant a tree than try to be one. Nor do I think I should try to make her be one, just for themeing's sake... I think she's more about the flowers, anyway. Regardless, there's gonna be a tree, okay? Or maybe there already is one, like Yggdrasil the World Tree, and I just have to find it. Nurture its roots, perhaps... start its growth again. For as far as I can tell, there's a pox upon us at the stems of our world, and I'm not the only dragon who seeks to supple themselves. There's a difference: between a casual feeder, who licks up what's spare for their own as the world provides; and a gorger, a glutton, who rips up the tree's roots and squeezes the whole trunk dry for themselves – leaving a shell of twisted, sheared woody threads. That's what The Heathen called himself, The Glutton, and I half-think it should have stuck (if not for the raw innocence of the word, which implies his mistake was a simple matter of hunger... which it was absolutely not). It was psychotic of me to be thinking of trees in that moment, or maybe I was just laced with the drugs of my fungal treat from prior use. What kind of parasite remains only to feed unreality to its sickened victims, and crest off their emotions? And why did it stay for so long when it was clearly unwanted in the first place? Like when The Heathen killed my kindly, intelligent uncle (of about three and a half days). But The Heathen is not fungus, he's mud – as The Builder had previously said. I was faced with that fact while mired in it, realizing I had many problems accosting me and all of them demanding my immediate attention – yet only one at a time could be reached.
It was a hard truth that The Builder's employer, The Actor, had shared with me yesterday, when he said that "Nobody can manage more than one thing at a time – multitasking is an economic lie. This is why you're unable to kill our poultious bastard... you're still trying to save yourself, at the same time as you want to save everyone else."
Snake that he is, he's right, as snakes often are. Only when hard truths are denied does a serpent get called for a liar. And I, summoning into coarse scales and long claws in my blackened, transmorphed heart, was all-over serpentine.

"You son of a cunt," I hissed, angry with myself and yet angrier with him: The Heathen. He'd just killed my uncle, sort of, and the poor man's body lay back in my arms. Bloodied by hatchet, killed by a childish violator. I carried my dead friend to the stage, and let him lean against the stairs. Were I a stronger sort, I could lift him all the way up – but I was not.
"Woops," The Heathen laughed, still perched upon his ridiculous monument. "Was that me? Did I kill your friend? Looks like I'm not so cuddly after all, am I, Mystic?"
She looked up at him, and struggled against his boot. I was surprised he could even lift it for all the cuts I'd given him, unless they were only superficial, which I feared was the case. Looking up at them, I saw her try to speak, but her lungs were under pressure, too. I had to act fast. I walked around to the throne's staircase, and started climbing the steps, but he held out his palm at me.
He said slowly, "Not another step, Reaper, or I crush her guts in."
I froze. The townspeople around us were silent, but horrified. Seeing her for the maiden, they plea'd in prayer for a cat of sparks to save her from our latest antagonist; he was about to kill off one of their favourite characters. And I was not the Cat O' Sparks, not to them... I was the hound of Death. But perhaps I could be something else, to myself: like the Drake O' Flames. I walked down from the steps, and back to the stage, around the mud. My knees were caked in enough of it already, now starting to dry, flake, and fall off in chunks.
He chuckled low at me. "Are you running away, now? Just what do you think you're..." he trailed off.
I grabbed a torch. "Do you know why they use RIBBONS for all their effects, Heathen? When whale oil and thrown flame could impress and awe much more?"
He squinted, then his eyes went wide. "You wouldn't."
I called to the townspeople. "Run home, run now! Grab your knives, your pitchforks, your shovels if you have them! We're going hunting for BIRD."
He scoffed, as they followed my heed and bustled around... scattering as what might have looked like ants to him. Not because he was high-up, mind you, but because of his dumb, toxified brain.
"You're not gonna... come on! Me? You LOVE me, everybody- HEY, WHO WANTS TO HAVE A DRINKING CONTEST? HUH?"
He watched them pick up tools, implements, and scattered utensils, each sharper and longer than the last.
He began to sweat. "I'm sorry, okay? Everyone? I didn't mean to, I was just a little horny, and very drunk, okay? It was booze, and it was... childhood trauma, probably... I uh, I wasn't getting a lot of sleep... back then... but it's all over now! Right? No more raping! I'll stop now." He swallowed his throat's dryness, seeming scared.
They came back, now, from all over town to point their tools and edges at him, in hostility. To defend Catalite.
Almost whimpering, he kept trying to barter. "...okay, look, I think there's been a BIG misunderstanding..."
I found a skull mask, the birch kind, under the staircase of the stage as I descended, torch in hand. I almost put it on, for effect, but thought better of it. Not a smart risk to take, given what I was about to do. "You never answered my question. Do you know why we used ribbons, instead of flame?"
He begged. "Reaper, STOP, your maiden is HERE! Alright?! I'll give her back, you can all... forget about me! I'll just LEAVE, okay?! You can't-"
"It's because," I cut him off, "the stage burns... and so does your throne." Seeing the stray seed-bag, made of dry, woven straw, I used it for kindling with the torch and set it inside the cracks of his grand, planked struts... opposite the staircase but right underneath him. Grey, then black smoke trailed upwards. Luckily, the wood was just dry enough to catch. Seeing his safety go up in flames, The Heathen shook, and tried to leave by his stairway... but the crowd waited for him below, and crept up the steps. Silver points toward him. It was his greatest fear, if I remembered right, from what he said earlier. Sure, he was wearing armor, but one of them could still touch his un-helmed head. I know it's not kind of me to keep those kinds of tabs on people, nor to use their hurts against them... but he was standing on my lover up until about ten seconds ago. Was she the only one? Of course not. But she was one of mine all the same, for as much as she'd have me... I didn't assume myself the center of her life, nor anyone else's, the way our Fearful assumed himself with this town.
He shook his head, and laughed nervously, "Hahaha... okay, very funny. We'll go get some water, right? From the river? Put out the fire?"
But they crept ever closer, all afraid and ravaged by him at some point if not their own dear kin, but finally courageous enough to dare at him. They were seeing past their beer goggles, and their fanaticism for his brand.
But still he tried. "Let's all just relax, alright? With a nice, big mug..."
They came closer.
"...of fizzy, foamy, satisfying..."
They came closer.
He began to sweat harder. "Golden- augh!" He tripped stepping backwards, almost falling off his perch, and caught himself on the chair – where The Mystic still sat, looking smug at him. He shook his head. "...Golden Showers Brand..." he continued, panicking.
They crept further up, and he looked behind him... it was a long drop.
"PREMIUM PINEBERRY MEAD!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, but wasn't heard by a single ear. "O-or," he stuttered, "I guess it was... t-technically ale? We used some, uh, s-sweetener, it may have been... a b-bit of a misnomer," he grimaced.
But they were already at the top.
The Mystic smiled, eyes relaxed like a cat. "Looks like they're not thirsty today."
Then, finally cornered and at wit's end without a single purchasable defense, The Heathen did something truly brave... it was perhaps the most courageous thing I'd ever seen him do. But it was not as brave as letting the crowd have him, for his crimes. He jumped, off the side of his perch, and it was a good, long fall of twenty feet... much like a chicken, he couldn't fly. Unlike a chicken, he couldn't hover, either. He landed with a TONK! and a WHUMP! onto grass, his metal armor dinged and ringing out, and a SQUELCH as his face sunk into some mud. He spat out the muck, and screamed. "AAAUUGH!!"
We watched, giggled, and eventually laughed as he scrambled around, legs hurt from hitting dry land and face besmirched from the wet. He crawled to his feet. Miraculously, he'd managed to survive without any serious injury, probably because of his armor – but his right ankle looked twisted. The townies rescued The Mystic, their raven fair, from the burning throne. She still looked like a cat to me, however, finally feeling the petting and adoration of a large swath of people who suddenly knew her by name. As if by luck or simply misfortune (I'm not really sure which), it started to rain, and saved his obtuse chair from the flames by extinguishing them. Even the most blackened, scorched parts survived, hardly damaged for it. I gritted my teeth to see it, annoyed... but I remembered it was for the best. Had that fire spread, it could have consumed our stage, and the whole town with it. Just like the third play. The Heathen staggered upright, and started limping his way toward the woods. I knew exactly why, seeing that he was finally outnumbered, and jogged alongside him, backwards; it was something I'd practiced with the Knight for fun, The Huntress for sport, and The Captain for laughing and games.
"Where ya headed, stranger?" I teased.
He grumbled, "I know you're too weak to kill me... and so are they, liver-spotted and dreadful back there. You don't have the strength to end my life. So get out of my way, so I can make my way to your precious ranch, and correct your latest mistake."
I thought to myself. "No, I think leaving The Artist with that nice, jaggy couple was a brave thing to do, actually."
"I meant I'm gonna kill your child, you fucking idiot," he spat. It was gently drizzling now, letting up, but his hair was wet all over his face. It almost made him look sympathetic, if not for what he'd literally just said.
I nodded, and switched back to walking forward. "That's going to take you an hour, isn't it? I'll have time to grab my things, then."
He snickered. "Oh, just you TRY and stop me. I'm keeping all my armor on, and I know your scythe can't pierce it, nor claim my legs completely. Only scrape my mail, and shins. See this?" He lifted his bearded chin, still walking on one hurt foot, to show a metal collar welded to his chestplate. It was a single, solid piece. "You're useless against me, even when I'm wounded. The worst you can do is mutilate my face, for which I'll punish your common-wife and child by doing to them every bit what you do to me."
"I can do this," I said, and held onto his cape. But even with his bum leg, or perhaps his knee, I could still be dragged behind him like a cart on wheels against the slippery, rainy grass. Droplets spattered on my mask, making tiny little drum-beats. I let him go, unimpressed with myself, and let his pine-green cape billow in the soft breeze.
He laughed, hard. "You're useless against me, even when I'm wounded. I may be a chicken, but I armor like a rhino... call it the best of both worlds. You can't beat me, I'll always keep going, no matter what – I'm invincible to you, to your scythe, and to your silver tongue. I'll never let what happened to that slaver in Mauritania happen to me, not agai-" He stopped for a moment. "I'm not sure why I said that. I must be falling for one of your tricks, I bet. You've been feeding me some kind of subliminal... messages or something, right? In code, somewhere. Just like my family, whenever they wanted something from me. I'm just going to ignore you now – that's what I did to them, and unlike with them, it's going to WORK. Because I'm OLDER now, alright? And YOU can't HURT ME!" So he covered his ears, and kept limping. It was pitiful to see, but a lesson failed was more harmful than one yet to be learned... and that's exactly what he was. He let his ears go, and started to jog unevenly.
I rolled my eyes, and kept pace before diverting at my house, which was already on the way. He was right: my scythe was useless against him. So I grabbed my mask instead, strapped it around my face, and went back to find some folk. They were in the square, gathering around the smouldering chair, having sent The Mystic home to her father. He'd been sleeping off a long shift the whole time, plugs in his ears made of cork from an old wine bottle. I had no time to learn this, however, and would only come to know it after.
"He went for the ranch," I told them. "Run ahead, and FAST – he's wounded. We're going to lead him to the swamp."
"Why should we listen to you?" one asked. "Aren't you the one who brought us all this bad luck?"
"Yeah," said another, "you killed our beloved Author by Death's mask and calling!"
Another jeered, "You LEFT us to The Heathen Lord and LET him have his WAY!"
I frowned. "If that's what you think, why have you let me stay?"
One answered, "Because you're The Grim Reaper, aren't you? We didn't think you'd stay with us if you had a choice. We thought you'd have better things to do: like killing children with the plague."
"Yeah, move on! Let us have at him ourselves, the fat bastard!" one yelled. "We'll kill 'im just fine without you, good-fer-nothin' scrounger!"
"Bloody hound, piss off!" another cried.
One even picked up a rock, and threw it to bounce pointlessly against my father's skull. It chipped one of his teeth, though.
I flipped the mask up to show my own face. "Okay, one: please don't do that again."
The thrower sheepishly backed off, dropping their next one.
"Secondly:", I started again, "I'm not here to scare YOU, I'm here to scare HIM. And I'll have you know..." I thought for a moment. About showing them the letter, where The Author named me as his cat for real. But now wasn't the time, nor would it help... it could only stir more fervorous worship, like the voices of dreamers from across time and space. It was better to be modest. "...look, I'm just a kid, alright?" I pleaded. "I wear a mask and hood to make myself feel scary, so I can be safe among bigger, scarier threats. Some of those without, some of them within. And you KNOW he's invincible, or one of us would have plunged our blades into his heart already – the best chance any one of us had was The Mystic, and she's just a kid, too. She thought she could HEAL him, bless her heart."
They looked around at one another, swaying their heads a little. Unsure what to make of my speech.
"He's bigger than me, bigger than her, and bigger than any one of us! But together? We can STRIP his armor, PIERCE his flesh-"
"Yeah, let's rape him BACK!" cried a man.
"What?" I glared, eyes scrunched. "Dude, shut the FUCK up! We're GOING to KILL him! Now get your ASSES moving, or HE'S getting AWAY! Into the woods, towards the ranch, where he TOLD ME he plans to KILL my CHILD-"
"You have a child?"
I smacked my carapace'd forehead. "Yes, I seeded The Artist's-"
"I thought you was a gell!" said one. "Ain't yew always wearin' dresses and the like? Hairy one at that, I fink."
"I thought 'er brother fucked 'er," said another, and more of them started chattering.
"WOW!!" I yelped, to shut them all up at once. "Great theories, GOOD TALK, everyone! Let's shake off all the brain damage and evening stouts, shall we?! Or do you WANT him to WIN?!" I begged, waiting, pointing towards the trees.
It was enough, finally. They nodded, and started shuffling about, then jogging into the woods. Those who couldn't run began walking, a slow march into gaps between willow'd trees, with torches and pitchforks in hand. Orange light played upon the blue of shadows among them, and tall silhouettes stretched before them on the forest floor. They were the tallest I'd ever seen them, those people. I joined them soon, after finding myself a spare knife from my kitchen. It was a veritable hunt under cover of approaching night - not for misunderstood witches or desperate thieves, but against someone who truly deserved to be found... and burned.