#dycefic
Two identical infants lay in the cradle. “One you bore, the other is a Changeling. Choose wisely,” the Fae’s voice echoed from the shadows. “I’m taking both my children,” the mother said defiantly.
Once upon a time there was a peasant woman who was unhappy because she had no children. She was happy in all other things – her husband was kind and loving, and they owned their farm and had food and money enough. But she longed for children.
She went to church and prayed for a child every Sunday, but no child came. She went to every midwife and wise woman for miles around, and followed all their advice, but no child came.
So at last, though she knew of the dangers, she drew her brown woolen shawl over her head and on Midsummer’s Eve she went out to the forest, to a certain clearing, and dropped a copper penny and a lock of her hair into the old well there, and she wished for a child.
“You know,” a voice said behind her, a low and cunning voice, a voice that had a coax and a wheedle and a sly laugh all mixed up in it together, “that there will be a price to pay later.”
She did not turn to look at the creature. She knew better. “I know it,” she said, still staring into the well. “And I also know that I may set conditions.”
“That is true,” the creature said, after a moment, and there was less laugh in its voice now. It wasn’t pleased that she knew that. “What condition do you set? A boy child? A lucky one?”
“That the child will come to no harm,” she said, lifting her head to stare into the woods. “Whether I succeed in paying your price, or passing your test, or not, the child will not suffer. It will not die, or be hurt, or cursed with ill luck or any other thing. No harm of any kind.”
“Ahhhhh.” The sound was long and low, between a sigh and a hum. “Yes. That is a fair condition. Whatever price there is, whatever test there is, it will be for you and you alone.” A long, slender hand extended into her sight, almost human save for the skin, as pale a green as a new leaf. The hand held a pear, ripe and sweet, though the pears were nowhere ripe yet. “Eat this,” the voice said, and she trembled with the effort of keeping her eyes straight ahead. “All of it, on your way home. Before you enter your own gate, plant the core of it beside the gate, where the ground is soft and rich. You will have what you ask for.”
You look around the lecture hall and notice all the other students have fallen asleep. You look towards the lecturer, who has now stopped talking and is staring straight at you. “I don’t know how you’re still awake, but I guess we do this the hard way.” He says before pulling out a sword.
Warning for gore, death, bad magic, and a lot of language.
#
It honestly didn’t surprise me, when I looked at the boy in front of me and noticed that he was slumped over his desk in sleep. Professor Chilperic is really boring. I mean, the man is boring. And Statistics isn’t a thrilling class to start with.
So I just kept taking notes, forcing myself to stay awake, fiddling with the charms on my bracelet for the sensory stimulation.
I think we were halfway through when I heard snoring behind me, and turned to look while the Professor was busy writing on the board. Two rows behind me, a girl was leaning back in her chair, snorting softly. The guy next to her was straight up sawing logs, rasping away like a cartoon, going ‘hrrrrrk-woooo’ in a way I’d never heard an actual person do.
And that was when I realized that everyone was asleep. Everyone but me. Slumped over on the small desks that folded out of their seats, or leaning back, or even down on the floor. Every single person was asleep, and asleep hard. The loud snoring wasn’t disturbing them at all.
When I turned back, Professor Chilperic was staring at me. “I don’t know how you’re still awake,” he said slowly, and the usually monotone, slightly nasal voice was deeper and richer now, “but I guess we’re going to have to do this the hard way.” He reached under the lectern, and pulled out a long, shining sword.
You are a long forgotten god. A small girl leaves a piece of candy at your shrine, and you awaken. Now, you must do everything to protect your High Priestess, the girl, and her entire kindergarten class, your worshipers.
The stone was immovable, in the past. Indestructible. A spire of granite no mortal hand could even alter.
But mortal hands build clever tools, and these last few hundred years I have lived in dread that they will break this, my sacred stone, the last link that preserves me, a faint shadow of a forgotten god. While my sacred stone stands, I do not, quite, fade away.
I am in a park, now, clipped and tamed, my forests long gone. But they landscape around me and my stone, admiring its beauty, so I do not complain. While they take pleasure in the stone, I am safe.
There is a playground a few lengths away, and the laughter and happy shrieking rouse me a little from my sleep. I watched over children, once. It’s nice to hear them again.
But I don’t truly awaken until the Offering is made.
Little hands touch my stone, with curiosity and a sort of reverence that only the very young feel now. For a child young enough the world is still a mystery, and even an ancient granite stone provokes wonder. So I stir, when she touches the stone, becoming hazily aware.
And then, solemnly, the child places a tiny colourful object in the roughly shaped alcove in the stone’s side, the place where offerings were laid two thousand years ago and more, and I awaken. Many people have put things in that alcove, of course… to take pictures, usually, these days, or putting a lost object where it will be seen. Merely to place an object in the alcove isn’t enough. A true offering is given as a gift, with intent.
As this is.
Again, sorry about the slow updates, but long Covid aside, as followers of my main Tumblr will have heard, my laptop keyboard is on its way out and typing is getting increasingly difficult. I’ve ordered a new wireless keyboard, but it hasn’t arrived yet.
Anyway, back to the superhero universe! warnings for death, police, attempted murder, supervillainy, and ethical dilemmas. Also swearing.
#
“Choose,” the villain purred. She didn’t know his name. She was new, she hadn’t learned them all yet. “Who lives? Who dies? Who will you save, little hero?”
Flitter trembled. “I’m not making a choice,” she said, and her voice wasn’t as firm as she wanted it to be, even through the voice-changer. You’re gonna let both those cages down, nice and easy.” One cage full of nurses. One cage full of juvenile offenders. He’d said so, and she could see the scrubs and the jumpsuits for herself. He really wanted this to be a dilemma, and she didn’t know what to do, aside from telling him not to do it, and when did that ever work?
“Oh, I don’t think so.” He laughed at her, hands caressing the controls that suspended the two cages over the street forty floors below. She couldn’t remember his name! She recognized the costume, the jagged streaks of green and white and vivid yellow. This was a dangerous villain, the same guy who’d cut off both of Player One’s legs with some machine just a month ago, and she’d only been a cape for a couple of weeks, she wasn’t up to this guy’s weight in any way even with powers, and she couldn’t remember his name -
And then the villain’s head exploded. She saw it burst before she heard the sound of the gunshots, so they’d come from some distance away. There was red… stuff… all over the wall behind him, and as the body toppled she jumped forward to grab at the handles he’d been toying with - but it wasn’t necessary. Neither cage had moved.
She moved closer and wondered if she should check the body, but… the whole top two-thirds of the head was gone. Trying to take a pulse at this point would just be creepy and weird.
At some point, surely someone must notice the pattern… right? Note: Beginning slightly edited for clarity.
##
It took a while, but I’ve convinced Maggie to tell me when she goes out of town. I’ll feel better, I say, if I know for sure where she is when a body makes the news.
Which is true, of course. The sheer frequency with which that little lunatic does it keeps me awake at nights. But it also enables me to take certain precautions.
Like this one.
“Hello, Branford County Police Station, Constable Ford speaking.”
“Hello, Constable Ford, this is Detective Inspector Winsbury. I’m going to need to speak to whoever is in charge there about a possible murder.”
As usual, there was some back and forth at that point, but eventually I got through to an Inspector. “What do you mean, a possible murder?!” he asked, irritated.
“Just what I said. Tell me, Inspector, have you ever had dealings with an amateur detective? The real thing, I mean. The genuine Carrion Crow.”
His tone went from hostile to guarded. “I’ve… heard some things. Never met one.”
“You’re about to. Mine’s visiting Branford, ostensibly to see an old school friend, and I wouldn’t bet you the price of a beer that she’s not going to show up to report a murder within a few days.”
“You can’t possibly - “
“Her count’s at fourteen, to my certain knowledge.”
You are a long forgotten god. A small girl leaves a piece of candy at your shrine, and you awaken. Now, you must do everything to protect your High Priestess, the girl, and her entire kindergarten class, your worshipers.
The stone was immovable, in the past. Indestructible. A spire of granite no mortal hand could even alter.
But mortal hands build clever tools, and these last few hundred years I have lived in dread that they will break this, my sacred stone, the last link that preserves me, a faint shadow of a forgotten god. While my sacred stone stands, I do not, quite, fade away.
I am in a park, now, clipped and tamed, my forests long gone. But they landscape around me and my stone, admiring its beauty, so I do not complain. While they take pleasure in the stone, I am safe.
There is a playground a few lengths away, and the laughter and happy shrieking rouse me a little from my sleep. I watched over children, once. It’s nice to hear them again.
But I don’t truly awaken until the Offering is made.
Little hands touch my stone, with curiosity and a sort of reverence that only the very young feel now. For a child young enough the world is still a mystery, and even an ancient granite stone provokes wonder. So I stir, when she touches the stone, becoming hazily aware.
And then, solemnly, the child places a tiny colourful object in the roughly shaped alcove in the stone’s side, the place where offerings were laid two thousand years ago and more, and I awaken. Many people have put things in that alcove, of course… to take pictures, usually, these days, or putting a lost object where it will be seen. Merely to place an object in the alcove isn’t enough. A true offering is given as a gift, with intent.
As this is.
