Providence

A sea of mourners flooded the lower rooms of the elegant farmhouse.  The voices rose and crashed against Beatrice's door like an angry tide; a steady chorus of sympathy mingled with broken laughter.  Theirs was a siren's song, tempting her with promises of relief if she would only venture downstairs.  Instead, she pulled the blankets up around her head and buried herself deeper beneath the covers on her bed.  They would expect her presence soon enough and then they would demand it.  Her fingers curled around the pocket of her dress as she savored her last moments alone.

It had been her mother who had insisted on having the ceremony at home rather than in the Citadel as ordinance demanded.  "It is only proper he be received at home.  Everyone will expect it, and there will be even more talk if we do anything differently," she had insisted.  The circumstances surrounding her brother's accident had spawned numerous rumors which had spread like wildfire across the town.  Sudden, tragic, and suspicious.  These mutterings were to the chagrin of her mother, of course, who was eager to have the matter not just settled, but settled resolutely and without question.  "There are always exceptions for those like Justen."  Beatrice knew this to be true, but she had also heard that their Tribunal was particularly cautious.  Their scrutiny of every detail and adherence to ordinance had protected the village in the past from the blind folly of the grief-stricken.  She had only been a little afraid to speak to them when they asked for her testimony of her brother, but she managed to tell them, and made sure to tell them the truth of what he was like.  The decision of the Tribunal to concede to her mother's wishes had come as such a shock to Beatrice after the testimony she had given, that her faith in their counsel had been shattered.

A soft knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.  "Beatrice, dear?"

The girl clutched at her blankets and drew them in tight around her.  She held her breath and closed her eyes.  Maybe if they thought she had fallen asleep, they would go away?  A second knock, gentle as the first, indicated that they were determined to intrude upon her solitude.  "Beatrice?  It's your Aunt Lu.  May I come in?"

The doorknob turned without her permission and Beatrice quickly twisted around to face the window, pulling the covers down slightly to make it appear as if she were indeed asleep.  Tears welled up within her eyes, but she closed them tightly and held her breath.  Oh please go away.  The floorboards creaked at Lucinda's approach and the bed rocked gently when she sat upon the edge.  A gloved hand reached out to stroke against the side of Beatrice's hair and curled some of the delicate ringlets her mother had forced it into for the occasion around her shoulders.

"Little Bea, I know you aren't sleeping," Lucinda cooed.  Beatrice whimpered and stifled a sob with her blankets.

"I know, dear.  This is hard on everyone.  Your brother..." Aunt Lu's words caught in her throat.  This broke Beatrice's heart.  She liked Aunt Lu who had always been sweet to her, always listened to her.  She wished she could make her understand, make her leave and get far, far away from this house.

"Your mother told me you don't want to come down because you're afraid of the ceremony."

Beatrice turned her wide eyes upon her aunt and nodded violently.  She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't find the words.  Her mother had yelled at her after she had talked with the Tribunal and warned her of what would happen if she said another word against her brother.  What would Aunt Lucinda say?  She snapped her mouth shut and pulled the blankets back up to her face.

"You don't need to be frightened, dear.  Jus...your brother..." Lucinda brought a tissue up to dab at her eyes and Beatrice couldn't help herself anymore.  Aunt Lu looked so pretty in the fading sunlight streaming in from the window.  Her pale complexion in the black gown made her more radiant, especially with her golden hair tied back into loose braids.  She looked like an angel without the wings.  Beatrice sat up and threw her arms around Aunt Lu and began to cry.  Aunt Lu wrapped her arms around Beatrice and the girl snuggled into her warmth, as they cried and comforted one another.

"He didn't deserve what happened to him, Bea.  He was a good soul, a good heart.  The Tribunal would not make a mistake.  Come down now, Little Bea.  The cleric will be here soon and you won't want to miss the...the ceremony."

Beatrice trembled and shook her head.  She tried to pull back from Aunt Lu, but wasn't strong enough or quick enough to escape her grasp.  "Shhh, there there.  There's nothing to worry about.  I'll hold you.  I know it can be scary your first time, but-"

"No!  Please Aunt Lu!"  The child wailed.  She caught a glimpse of herself in her vanity mirror over Aunt Lu's shoulder.  Her eyes were ringed and red from crying, her blonde hair was in disarray from having the blankets pulled over her head, and in the little white dress her mother had picked for her, she looked more like a ghost than a girl.  This terrified her all the more.  "No!  No!  No!"

Aunt Lu's grip turned into a vice, her tenderness turned into a trap.  "Hush now," Aunt Lu said sternly as she scooped Beatrice up off the bed.  "We must be strong like your mother.  Not another word."

Beatrice sobbed as the woman swept her from her room.  The last rays of the sun were disappearing from her little window and all was falling dark.  This was the last she saw of it as Lucinda carried her down the stairs.

The blazing lights and general tumult of the multitude gathered below was initially disorienting to Beatrice.  Lucinda danced her way deftly through the crowd, parting through rapt conversations and skirting well meaning sympathizers with a practiced grace.  Beatrice had never seen so many people in the house before today.  She wished they would all just go away.  Her hand returned to her pocket and she squeezed it for reassurance, making sure what she had put inside hadn't fallen out while she was in bed.

Aunt Lu turned a corner and Beatrice realized with horror where she was being carried to.  Justen had been laid out on a simple stone table.  He looked ready to rise at any moment.  His golden hair had been oiled and shone brilliantly in the light.  Make-up had been applied to his face so that he appeared to be merely sleeping, and it was difficult to be certain he wasn't still breathing.  Her mother had chosen a white robe with golden trim around the neck, sleeves, and hem for the ceremony, and lavished gold jewelry to adorn him.  Golden chains encircled his neck bearing sigils of peace and comfort.  Gold rings with similar designs had been placed upon his fingers.  A chain with the symbol of joy was clasped in his hands.  A pair of coins baring the symbols of charity had been placed over his eyes, and a pair of golden sandals had been strapped upon his feet to speed his journey.  Beatrice squirmed frantically against Aunt Lu despite the woman drawing her nearer and nearer to her brother.

"No, please!  Don't bring me near him!"  Beatrice screamed.  This momentarily hushed the crowd and halted Aunt Lu's progress.  Her mother materialized from the crowd at this moment, however.  She, like her son, was lavishly decorated for the ceremony.  A splendid white and gold gown had been purchased for the affair, and glimmering gold jewelery bearing sigils of peace and comfort practically dripped from her neck, wrists, and fingers.  She looked as if she might join her son tonight and this made Beatrice forget everything else she had been worried about.

"It is her first ceremony," her mother explained with as much dignity as she could muster.  This was all that needed to be said.  The crowd returned to their soft chatter.  Her mother fixed her with a smoldering glare, then turned on her heels and disappeared back into the crowd.  Beatrice watched after her until she was gone, then slumped back against Aunt Lu in defeat.

Aunt Lu hovered over Justen with Beatrice for a long time.  With every slight movement of her aunt, Beatrice could almost believe she detected movement from her brother.  No one else seemed concerned or gave him the proper distance.  They didn't know what he was like.  Beatrice shuddered at the smile on his face.  She imagined it was the same cruel, twisted smile he always gave to her when he was up to no good.  The same smile he gave her when he was about to beat her with sticks, or rocks, or even his belt.  He always did it so no one would notice too much and warned her that there was worse to come if she ever told anyone.  It was the same smile he had given her the day he tied her up in the woods and left her for the beasts and monsters which dwelt within.  The entire day had passed before he had come back to find her.  She remembered him taunting her for 'being a baby' and believing in the monsters.  When he had brought her back, everyone had been so proud he had found her, and so angry with her for running away from him in such a dangerous place.  They had called her a wicked girl and praised him for his bravery.  Her stomach twisted and turned with every bitter memory, and yet he still taunted her with that smile even now.

The ringing of the door bells signaled the arrival of the cleric.  Beatrice clung tightly to Aunt Lu once again.  The time for the ceremony was at hand.  She watched her brother's smile seem to grow wider as she was carried from his side and into the foyer.  The Presentation of the Family was the beginning of the ceremony.  The cleric would offer his blessings for the immediate family of the deceased in the hopes of warding off disaster.  Everyone whispered around her of the novelty of the formality in light of such certain assurances from the Tribunal.  Beatrice turned to see the procession arrived from the Citadel when, to her horror, she saw only a cleric being received by her mother.

"But...but where are the Knights?!"

"Oh we don't really need them, Little Bea," Aunt Lu whispered in her ear, "not for someone so young, so innocent.  You'll see."

Lucinda deposited her next to her mother, but held onto her tightly all the same.  She didn't need to fear Beatrice running off now.  The girl was so terrified, she was rooted firmly to the spot.  The cleric, mistaking her worry, praised her bravery and strength.  He prayed the blessings over her and her mother to soft applause of support and approval from the crowd.  This drew a small smile of gratitude from her mother and Aunt Lu, who then suggested it was time for the crowd to gather in the make-shift sitting room for the ceremony.  Beatrice's hand slipped down to clutch at her pocket.  Her other hand was swiftly taken up by her mother who led her, along with the rest of the crowd, back to where Justen lay.

"These are most unfortunate times, and the loss of one so young is indeed tragic," the cleric began and his words brought a hush to the crowd, "we must remember that this is just a shell from which shall come something far greater."

The crowd politely applauded the cleric's words.  Beatrice turned her face into her mother's gown and she sobbed softly against her.  Her hand was released then, and her mother gently patted her head, then forcibly turned her away from her dress to watch her brother.  The cleric began to speak at length about all the wonderful things her brother had done:  how he taken such great care of his mother and his sister after the death of their father, how he had accomplished much for the village, and how he had done all these things at such a young age.  Her mother and Aunt Lucinda had turned to embrace one another at these sentiments.  The crowd generally nodded and agreed with all the cleric had to say.  Beatrice alone had begun to edge away from the stone table.  No one paid her any attention now, but she still had to battle her way through the sea of legs and arms.  So many people were crowding around to witness Justen's transition that it was nearly impossible to get through.

An excited cry came from the crowd.  "His hand moved!"  A woman called and this only made everyone begin to press into the room all the more.

Beatrice pushed her way between people she hardly knew, her ears straining for the words of the cleric as he spoke, "The time has come!  Our brother's final journey commences!"

The cries of joy and excitement drowned out the prayers of the cleric, but Beatrice no longer cared.  There was a reason why the Tribunal favored the Citadel in such affairs and insisted upon the attendance of Knights.  There was a reason why only a delegation from the family was ever sent to bear witness to the ceremony, and why the results were later relayed by the clerics to the rest of the family and the village.  All those ordinances were for people like Justen.  She had to get away.  They didn't know what he was like.  They didn't know what he was.  But she did, and soon they would too.

She had managed to pull herself away from the throng and was hurrying towards the stairs when a horrible, wailing howl erupted from the room where Justen lay.  The entire house shook in response.  The crowd of villagers was brought to their knees and moved to cover their ears.  A violent sickly, red light was illuminating the room from which Beatrice had just escaped.  With difficulty, Beatrice turned her gaze towards the stairs and reached into her pocket.

The first cry is fire, the second is ice, and the creatures that follow don't play very nice.  The nursery rhyme chilled her as she pulled the ear plugs from her pocket and pushed them into place.  Cover your ears.  The second cry was too muffled to have much effect on Beatrice, but it did indeed send a chill down her spine.  She had to get away.  Now.  Bury your head.  It took every ounce of effort for Beatrice to pull herself up the stairs.  She glanced back only briefly to see the shadow of something terrible outlined in the red light from the room below.  Everyone else was frozen in place, some reaching for the door, all with expressions of horror on their face.  Her heart pounded in her ears and she drug herself agonizingly slowly up the stairs.  "Oh please, please," she begged, "help me, please!"  And pray that the darkness takes them instead.

She strained with the effort, moving faster and faster despite the ache in her arms and legs.  Another howl made the house shudder and then the screams began.  Beatrice could hear the crunch of bones as the creature that had been Justen began its rampage.  The girl somehow gained the landing and pulled herself into the darkened bathroom.  She threw herself against the door and stretched up to bolt it closed.  Despite the lack of light, Beatrice was familiar enough with her house to know where she was going.  She crawled along the tile, feeling along the wall until she came to the cabinets beneath the sink.  With the rest of her strength, she pulled the cabinet doors open, climbed inside, and pulled them shut behind her.  This is a nightmare.  It's a dream.  It has to be, please!  I'll wake up and he'll be alive and I won't ever cry about him again.  Please, please just let me wake up!

The blood curdling screams, despite being muffled, followed her up the stairs.  Crashing, thumping, and shattering filled the house along with them, as did the wild howling and screams from the beast.  Beatrice pressed her knuckles against her mouth to stifle her cries lest she give herself away.  Eventually the beating of her heart was the only noise she could hear.  The stillness of the dead took on an oppressive presence within the house.  The girl trembled violently in her hiding place, her eyes unable to adjust in the darkness.  She thought she still heard something below.  Something shifting?  Moving?  Yes, heavy footfalls were taking the stairs.  Had someone survived?  Beatrice dared to hope.

"Beatrisssss," she could barely hear the sibilant voice calling her name, imploring her to leave the safety of her cabinets.  "Beatrissss," the call was painfully alluring.  "I can sssssmell you."  Claws raked across the door to the bathroom.  Beatrice shrieked despite herself.

"Open the door!  Open the door Beatrissss." Justen screamed at her in a frantic, horrid voice, "I'm coming for you."

"Oh please!  Please help me!  Please!"

The claws dragged violently against the door, a great weight threw itself upon it over and over.  The hinges rattled and the walls shook.  It would all be over soon.

"Lord help me!" Beatrice screamed.

A sharp crack echoed throughout the room.  Two more followed.  A great weight slammed against the door.  The crash of wood on plaster told her that it had finally given way.  Beatrice's heart hammered in her chest and she sobbed hysterically.  The clamor of heavy steps stopped directly outside the cabinet.

The doors flew open and Beatrice shrieked, throwing her arms up in front of herself protectively.  A pair of gloved hands reached out and pulled her from beneath the sink.  The girl struggled against the hands which pressed her up against someone's shoulder.  She saw a flash of black material and gasped in surprise.  A hand tried to force her head down against a shoulder, but she fought hard enough to catch a glimpse of the beast that had been her brother.  It was a gruesome thing, like a mangy lion with scales.  It was dark with blood and appeared to be all teeth and claws from the little she could see.  Beatrice buried her face in the comfort of her rescuer and fought no more.  The sharp crack of a pistol resounded again and again as she was carried down the stairs and out of the house.

The girl whimpered against the strong arms that held her, comforted her, protected her.  The shots fell silent and moments later a sonorous masculine voice cut across the distance from the house to where Beatrice and her rescuer stood.

"Is she?"

"No," her rescuer replied, but it might have been the same voice if not for the distance between them.  She could ascertain as much even with the earplugs in place.

"Any idea why?"

Her rescuer nodded against her, "She took precaution."

"Why her?"

Her rescuer shrugged, "Providence?"

Beatrice pulled back to finally see who these men were and couldn't believe her eyes.  They both had the same brown hair, cut in the same short style, with the same intense gaze, and the same facial features.  They wore the same clothing, the black armor and accoutrements of the Paladins of old, and were each armed with a pair of silver pistols.  Each also wore a heavy silver cross around their necks.  Twins! Beatrice gasped as she realized this.  And Paladins of the Cross.

The paladin holding her attempted a comforting smile, but there was nothing but sorrow in his eyes.  "The cleric?"

"All of them.  But not her?"

"Not so much as a scratch."

Beatrice shuddered and fell back against the paladin.  His arms tightened around her, comforting her.

"This is folly, Altar.  Especially from a Tribunal."

"We are all human in the end."

"The girl-"

Altar shook his head slowly against her, "Not here.  We'll take her with us to the next village.  Temple..."

"It's clear.  All of them."

"Best to make sure."  Beatrice was settled upon a motorcycle.  She had only ever seen one in a photograph, but she had heard the paladins rode them in their travels.  Temple came over to stand beside her, but his eyes were on his brother.  Altar gathered several bottles with rags hanging out of the top of them to himself.  He carried them with him up to her house and lit the rags on fire.  "May the flames purify what we might have missed."  Temple muttered while Altar went about hurling the bottles one by one into the house.  The house was quite a ways from town, so Beatrice was not surprised that the panic and carnage had not sent the Knights or Tribunal running to lend aid.  The fire, however, would be hard to miss.

"It's strange, don't you think?" Altar muttered, rejoining his brother and Beatrice.  "That they took no precaution."

"Troubling.  Perhaps they thought they were safe at this distance?" Temple nodded towards the town, "But they will come soon now.  Better leave, I think.  This diversion has cost us time and I do not want to lose more to bureaucracy."

"Agreed, " Altar said and took up a place behind Beatrice.  His arms stretched around either side of her and he gave her a wink.  "Don't you worry, kid.  We've got angels riding with us."

Beatrice believed it.  The paladins' motorcycles roared to life and in a flash, they were nearly flying away from the blazing house.  The girl settled back against Altar as the town rapidly fell further and further behind them, happy to be going anywhere as long as it was far away from here.

The End of The Adventure

The wood was known to be enchanted.  It was dark and deep, and at times there was a certain stillness which blanketed the land the way a dense fog settled upon others.  Sunlight didn't filter through the trees so much as certain patches would illuminate during various hours of the day.  Few were so foolish as to be caught in the woods alone at night.  Fewer still ever returned.

Jacobias stood at a fork in the road, furiously examining the paths before him for any sign of a trail.  Wherever the thieves had gone to, they had been certain to hide their tracks well.  No footprints, no signs of disturbances along the trails, nothing.  It was as if they had come to this spot in the road and simply disappeared.  A subtle breeze played through the trees and caused the patches of light to dance around him.  Just as he had made up his mind to randomly select a trail, the glitter of a few strands of hair fluttering on a low hanging branch caught his attention.

"So it is to the right!"  Jacobias took a moment to check his sword in its scabbard before setting off down the trail.

The wood grew dark and darker.  Still there was no sign of where the thieves might have gone.  By the time the last vestiges of light were twinkling out of the trees, Jacobias was hungry, weary, and still had not found a single trace of his quarry.  Taking note of the dim outline of a fallen tree, he settled himself against it to rest a moment and regather his thoughts.

"Perhaps there was a gaming trail which the thieves knew to follow?  Or perhaps they pushed on until they were clear of the wood?  I would more readily believe them to be ghosts, so little of a trail they have left in their passing.  Yet they must be in these woods."

A chill passed through him and he glanced down at his mean apparel.  "When I catch them, I shall be sure to make them pay for the indignity they have made me suffer."

A ghostly laughter drifted through the trees at that, as if the very wood were mocking his plight.  Furious, Jacobias stood and drew his blade, defiant against further insult.  The laughter resounded once again, slightly louder than before and he thought he might have detected the sound of music as well.  He backtracked a few feet down the path until he was certain that it was indeed the jaunty sound of a flute joined in with certain merriment which had attracted his attention.

"Oh what fortune, it must be they!  But I cannot continue back this way.  They may have spies within the wood.  Best to leave the path and chance danger."

Jacobias slipped off the trail and started towards the sounds of civilization.  He kept low and moved within the shadows, using the thickness of the trees for concealment because of his great height.  Bramble clawed at him as he moved, scratching against his flesh and catching at his shirt here and there, so that he scarcely dared to move except when a great tumult of noise from the revelry was certain to add to his stealth.  By and by, he smelled the sweet aroma of a supper cooking and finally he managed to perceive the gentle glow of a fire.

It was here that Jacobias took stock of his surroundings.  He could only hope that he had not been seen within the wood until he could determine once and for all if this was the den which he sought or if he would return to town, bested by a troupe of thieves.  In the distance, he spotted the outline of some rocks which seemed to offer him a place from which he might hide, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the revelers nearby.

Having noticed no further signs of movement, Jacobias contended himself to wait until another particularly boisterous round of laughter afforded him the chance to clear the distance to the outcropping of rock.  He held firmly to his blade and lowered himself to his belly whereupon he inched himself along the ground bit by bit until he dared to lift his head and see for himself what there was to see.  Beyond the rocks were a series of huts set up at random here and there to blend in with the bramble of the wood.  Several lines had been strung from the trees to hang various items of clothing and cookware.  None of which seemed to be that which was lost.  A fire burned merrily off to the side of the huts whereupon a small collection of people were sitting on logs and rocks.  Some were eating off of wooden plates while one person was merrily playing a flute, and yet another was dancing maniacally around the campfire.  He narrowed his gaze and began to count the figures around the fire.  Half a dozen at least and the camp looked as thought it might hold at least double that.  This would be trouble.

A shadow moved in front of the fire as one of the revelers rose and moved away from the group towards the huts.  He watched the figure carefully, lest he change his course and get to close.  He was a rather large man, potentially as big as Jacobias was, with wild voluminous hair.  It was his attire that caught Jacobias' attention, however.  The man wore only a pair of pants.  He watched this man until he disappeared into the darkened hut, whereupon Jacobias made up his mind.  He slipped back down behind the rocks and waited until one by one the revelers took their leave of the fire.  He waited until the embers were nearly dead and the huts were only a vague outline against the stillness of the wood.  Then he crept down towards the camp, crawling on his hands and knees until he reached the hut in question.

The door had been left open.  Jacobias could see the outline of a man sitting in a wooden chair in the darkness.  Jacobias rose to his feet and ducked into the hut.  The man remained seated and regarded him coolly.

"You know why I've come." his sword caught a bit of the light from the dying fire and glinted with murderous intent.

"I have been expecting you.  I thought you might join us sooner."

"If I had only known I was expected, I would not have kept you waiting."

The man rose from the chair and hunched his shoulders.  He placed his hands upon his hips and met Jacobias' gaze.  The men sized each other up, each one coming to the conclusion that they appeared to be the equal in size and shape.  It would be skill or cunning which would determine this day.

"You have taken something from me, I would have them returned."

"Would you rob a man of his dignity in his own home?"

"No less than the turn you paid to me."

"So it has come to this...you must know that you will never leave these woods alive."

"My fortune has held so far."

A grin crossed the thief's face.  He spread his hands and a pair of silvery daggers materialized within them.  "These woods cares little for fortune, my friend.  They grow wild on the blood of the brave and foolish."

"Then the trees shall feast this night." Jacobias made ready his blade.

"You boast, sir.  No man can best the skills of myself or that of my men.  It shall be a meager offering at best."

"This metaphor regarding the trees has gone on long enough.  Besides, at this proximity they would thirst in vain."

"Oh no, I don't intend to bleed you out on the floor of my hut.  That's what the altar is for."

Jacobias frowned up at the thief, the hairs along the back of his neck standing on end.

"Come again?"

"I fight you until you fall, then we drag you to the altar and let your blood spill for the trees."

"So that wordplay...?"

"Completely serious, friend.  Why do you think we let you into our camp?"

"Bravado?"

"If only.  Shall we?" the thief drew nearer and Jacobias took a half-step back towards the door.

"But a moment more..."

The thief halted and gestured with a dagger for Jacobias to continue, "By all means."

"These trees have told you that they want blood?"

"Well the Hart Tree did.  From what we've gathered it's the dominant tree in these woods.  We've all survived because we've spilled blood in homage to that tree and garnered the protection of the woods.  So we shall pay homage tonight and the wood will let us stay on a little longer."

"Friend, what if I went willingly to this Hart Tree of yours?"

"You came all this way to die in these woods?"

"Something like that.  What I mean is...if I come with you to this Hart Tree, will you give me back what you took from me?"

"Of course.  A man should die with dignity."

The thief moved into the shadows so that all Jacobias could see was his figure twisting this way and that.  After a moment or two, he returned and held a small cloth bundle out towards him.  "Do you need a moment?"

"If you don't mind?"

"Not at all...just don't try to go anywhere."  The thief brandished his daggers by way of warning.

"Oh not all."  Jacobias chortled as he moved into the shadows.  The material was still warm, and it wasn't altogether a pleasant experience to be wearing a pair of pants warmed by someone else, but they were his and he had them back.  Now he only had to live.

"Alright, sir, now take me to this tree and there we shall conclude our affair."

"I would have your sword then."

"Not at all, but I will sheath it to show my good intent."  And with that, Jacobias returned his blade to its sheath and rose his hands into the air.

Satisfied enough, the thief marched him through the door and into the suddenly bustling camp.  It seemed the rest of the camp had caught onto the disturbance in their midst and responded with weapons and torches.  They mumbled amongst themselves of this fool who would be their next sacrifice at the Hart Tree, but Jacobias paid them no mind.  We moved at his leisure through the camp.  The thief took him past the huts and down a small path to another clearing within the wood.

There, in the center of the clearing, rose a grotesque, gnarled, tree.  The tree was black as burnt wood and Jacobias couldn't help but notice a strange flickering as if the tree was actually still burning.  There was a rhythm to the reddish light, like the steady beating of a drum.  He almost thought he could hear it as well, the cadence of his death march.

"The Hart Tree,"  His executioner said and he nodded towards a slanted rock at the foot of the tree.  "You'll want to get on that and-"

"May I look at it?"

"At the tree?  Only if you keep your hands away from that sword."

"You have nothing to worry about from me there.  I shall keep them in the air, just like this."

"Uh huh.  Lower them a hair and you'll be dead where you stand.  My skill with a knife is unmatched even at a distance."

Jacobias took note of this detail as he moved closer to the tree.  This was not just his imagination.  He could hear a beating rhythm.  And upon closer inspection, he noticed that it was not just a light which flickered across the tree, but the plant was leaking some manner of sap as well.  He moved around it several times, each time around he raked his eyes over the surface of the tree.

"Are you done now?  It isn't as if we have all night."

"Quite so, I am satisfied.  If only you would tell me what manner of sap this tree is leaking."

"It isn't sap, my friend.  It's blood.  And soon yours will be added to it.  Now if you don't mind, the altar-"

"Ah yes, the altar.  But that does seem like an awfully mundane way to go.  How many throats have been slit there?  You told me, however, that your skills with a knife were unmatched, did you not?"

"I did."

"Then here, let us make a sport of this.  I shall stand here upon the altar,"  Jacobias leapt up onto the stone and stood with his hands widely outstretched, "a fine target, wouldn't you say?  And you aim for my heart.  The logical conclusion is that I shall fall back upon the tree and bleed out.  This should satisfy all requirements, should it not?"

The men began to mumble and then cheer this idea.  It seemed to them that if they had only thought of this sooner, they might have made better sport in the past.  Egged on by his companions, the aforementioned thief could hardly refuse this last request.

"Very well then...it's your funeral."

"Indeed it is.  Oh, one more thing.  Let's make this sporting and why not do this blindfolded?  Your companions will be able to see me and so there will be no fear of trickery on my part.  If you miss, it shall only be your pride wounded."

The others chuckled at the increase of odds and after a moment or two of conjecture with his companions whereupon they determined if they even had the means to make a proper blindfold and the merits of listening to this last request, that the thief finally consented.  He was blindfolded and a pair of guards were stationed near enough to the tree that Jacobias couldn't flee.  Nor did he appear to be readying an escape as he had not moved an inch on the altar.

"Are you ready to die now?"

"I am ready for your blade.  On the count of three?"

"By your count."

"Very well:  One.  Two.  Three."

The knife flashed through the air to the cheer of the crowd.  Even the guards had taken their eyes from Jacobias to watch the skill of the blindfolded thief.  A thunderous groan overshadowed the cheers from the onlookers, the latter of which had concealed the audible thunk of the knife as it struck the Hart Tree and not Jacobias.  Jacobias had let himself fall back as he counted, trusting that the incline from the rock would make it difficult to perceive his movements.  He landed hard against the back of the tree, as anticipated, but the knife had flown true and struck the tree in the center of a heart-shaped carving.  Jacobias had noticed the strange image while watching the dull glow from the pulse of the tree.  The tree twisted and groaned louder as blood-sap flowed from the mortal blow.  The entire wood shuddered and the very earth began to tremble.  The thieves, distracted by the death pangs of their woods, hardly noticed Jacobias scramble to his feet and flee back from the Hart Tree.  He ran, fast as his legs would carry him into the wood.  The cries of the men were soon behind him, but the woods were in complete disarray.  He could hear the snapping of splintering branches, and the crashing of falling limbs all around him.  He watched them fall like parts from decaying corpses, and still he ran.  He knew that if he stopped, if he paused, he would be dead.  His only saving grace were the higher limbs of the trees, but it would only be so long before those came down as well.

His heart throbbed within his chest and his lungs ached for air by the time he finally saw light at the edge of the wood.  With a last burst of speed, he emerged from the crumbling forest into a field.  Jacobias tumbled and fell to the ground, gasping for air.  He began to laugh then as he watched the enchanted wood fall, not because he was glad for the lives that would be lost, nor because of his triumph, but because he was alive.  He would go back to town and he would have a drink and relay his tale.  The people were free of the enchanted wood and its dangers.  And Jacobias?  Jacobias had found his pants.

Journey to Winterfell

It was a cold, misty morning.  The fog lay softly on the ground, waiting for the suns rays to break through the blanket of clouds and heat the grass growing patiently in the damp earth.  A single raven glided through the air, tired from his journey but pressed on, sensing that his destination was near.  A small scroll of parchment was affixed firmly to his leg.  The words hastily scrawled and concealed in the tight roll had the power to bring the reader to his knees.  The simple ink on the plain page would be the beginning of something of great magnitude.  The news would ripple through the countryside, creating waves throughout the entire land of Westeros. 

In the distance, the castle came into view.  The bird flapped his wings to speed up, knowing food awaited him at his destination.  He entered the aviary where Maester Luwin was already waiting for him.  The expression on Maester Luwins face barely changed as he retrieved the scroll from the ravens leg, expecting news of the routine sort.  He carefully spread the scroll expecting to read a request or perhaps a bit of social correspondence.  His eyes slowly widened as they darted across the page and he clutched the parchment to his chest when the words ended.  His breathing got heavy and his eyes darted around the room as his brain worked furiously to accommodate this new information.  He sat, the page still tight in his fingers. 

"I... Robb..." he muttered between breaths as a quick burst of adrenaline radiated from his chest and he quickly stood up and left the room.  He found his master in the dining room conversing with his mother, Lady Catelyn.  "An urgent message, my lord," he said trying to push the panic out of his voice.  Robb Stark furrowed his brow in concern seeing that Maester Luwin was visibly upset.  He grabbed the page quickly and looked down.  His lips parted slightly, breaking the grimace on his face.  He stared at the page long after the words entered his mind.  Lady Catelyn waited, worried and curious, afraid to break the silence.  She could tell the news was life changing and chose to stay in ignorance for a few more precious moments.  Finally, the silence was broken. 

"It's the Lannisters..." said Robb, his voice quavering audibly, "they've taken..." he swallowed as the words caught in his throat.  He drew in a deep breath to summon his courage back into his chest.  "They've taken all the squares."  The lids on Lady Catelyn's eyes disappeared as her eyes widened with horror.  She couldn't live in a world without squares.  A rage radiated from her bones to her skin, consuming her. 

Robb crumpled the parchment in his fist.  "Maester Luwin," he said, his eyes fixing on the old man, his whole body filling with determination, awakening every sense he possessed, "Send a raven to Elmo."  His eyes moved to his shaking mother, "I will not rest..." anger vibrated his vocal chords like they never had before "...until every side and every angle has been counted and the squares are safely returned to us." 

The Story of Mr. Morton

Public Transit was out in full force, busing travelers from one place to another.  Like a great beast, the city inhaled its inhabitants and exhaled the workers who would be returning in the morning the following day.  The early afternoon sun beat down on the pavement and asphalt.  A neighbor chased his kid across the yard, but otherwise the neighborhood was business as usual.

Mr. Morton walked down the street.  He walked so as not to attract attention from everyone else going about their day.  A shaky hand reached into the pocket of his yellow jacket to retrieve a handkerchief which he dabbed at the sweat beading across his forehead.  His beady eyes followed the people he passed on the street, watching for the telltale signs of one of them.  They were always watching.  Sudden movement in the bushes caught his attention.  He froze, paralyzed to the spot, and held his breath.  An orange and black striped tabby cat darted out of the leaves, leapt up on top of his mailbox, and sat upon it.

He laughed to himself as he tucked his handkerchief back into his jacket pocket.  "Hello cat.  You look good!"  Mr. Morton often talked to his cat as part of their routine.  The cat yawned lazily and waited for him to walk by on his way to their home.  He mused at the fright the little fellow had given him and went through the motions of checking his mailbox.  As expected, it was empty.  Mr. Morton was a lonely man.  Mr. Morton walked up and opened the door of his house.  His cat followed him inside, quite likely expecting dinner to follow.  Being inside their home was his only relief anymore.  He knew that they were still watching him.  They were always watching him, always controlling him.  They watched everyone, subjected everyone to their will.  Yet in his house, he could forget that they existed, forget everyone existed.  Well, almost everyone.

He moved up the stairs to the window which overlooked his neighbor's home.  Mr. Morton knew only one girl, his next-door neighbor Pearl, although he had not been able to work up the nerve to speak with her as of yet.  Mr. Morton grew the yellow daisies in his flower box for her, and dreamed of the day when they would bloom.  On that day, he would gather up a handful of flowers, march over to Pearl's house, knock on her door, and ask her to be his.  He would be courageous on that day!  Only...that day had come at the beginning of the week, most of the daisies were in full bloom now, and he still had yet to speak with her.  He leaned out the window with his watering can to water the flowers, and glanced over at the neighboring window.  There she was!  Beautiful Pearl!  Pearl with her soft brown hair and glittering eyes.  As she always did whenever she noticed him at the window, she waved and smiled at him.  Her smiles were like sunshine parting through rain clouds.  Mr. Morton blushed beat red and retreat from the window.  Mr. Morton was very shy.

How could he ever be brave enough to talk to Pearl?  How could he ever tell her about those things which terrified him everyday?  Did she know that they were being controlled too?  Would she think him strange or dangerous?  Would she even speak with him to begin with?  He wasn't the best looking man to be certain.  He opened his closet door and stood in front of the mirror to better evaluate his reflected physique.  He was a robust man, far from fit, with not a trace of muscle on his figure. He was also completely bald.  Such a man would never be right for beautiful, perfect Pearl.  When she had first moved in, he had determined to start running in order to get into shape.  However, the very idea of her watching him struggle to catch his breath and toddle down the street was far too mortifying for him to bear.  He had given that up almost immediately after the first day she had spotted him.

Heaving a sigh of resignation, he left his mirror and sat in front of his typewriter.  He poked halfheartedly at the keys.  First he struck a word or two, but the longer he sat there, the more he began to really let fly.  The typewrite clicked and clacked like mad as he let loose his heart upon the page.  Before too long, Mr. Morton had finished a poem about Pearl.  He looked over the words, each one perfectly arranged to describe his passion for the gorgeous woman who lived next door.  His heart swelled and soared within his chest as he read and reread the words!  Perhaps, perhaps if she should only read it, then she would see something of interest in him?  He turned to see if there was still a glimpse of Pearl through the window, but as he looked outside, his heart sank like a stone.

When he was inside the safety of his home, it was easy to forget about them.  Now that he had written his feelings for Pearl, they would know.  Once she saw it, what would happen then?  What would they make her do?  Run away, most likely.  Who could ever make Pearl love him?  She was so perfect!  On impulse, he turned the poem into a paper airplane and sent it gliding out of the window.  He wanted it out of his house and hoped that the wind would carry it far, far away.  It would be nothing but a dream now.  He would never have to face her rejection or, worse, her ridicule.  His cat stretched lazily across the floor and then leapt nimbly out the window, since he wasn't paying it the least bit of attention.

All this worry about what might happen now that they knew about his feelings for Pearl had made Mr. Morton nervous.  He began to pace back and forth across the room.  He was still at his pacing some time later when the orange and black cat returned with a note in his mouth.  So surprised was he to see the cat with a letter, that he couldn't possibly imagine where it might have come from.  Perhaps he had overlooked it in the mailbox?  That certainly seemed reasonable.  Upon retrieving the note and realizing that it had not been sent through the mail, he began to tremble and sweat profusely.  It was a reply from Pearl!  This could only mean that somehow, somehow Pearl knew.  It had to be them.  He was sure of it.  He carefully opened the letter and began to read...and then Mr. Morton fainted.

It was nightfall by the time he came to.  The cat was nowhere to be seen, but the window had been left open and he could see the lights from Pearl's house next-door.  He trembled at the thought of what he had to do, but he had to know.  He had to know for certain if it was them.  He had to know if Pearl knew that she was subject to their will, that she couldn't help herself.  Gathering his courage, he rose from the floor, cut a handful of the daisies from his window box, and left his house.  Before he was completely aware of it, he was standing on her porch.  Mr. Morton knocked on the door several times.  The delay made Mr. Morton nervous and begin to sweat again, so he sat down on the rocking chair that Pearl kept on her porch and idly rocked back and forth while he waited.  The minutes stretched on into eternity and it felt like he had all the time in the world to sit and think and reconsider what he was doing.  Just why had he come?  What would he say?  Surely Pearl would laugh at him.  Surely this was a mistake!

The door opened and Mr. Morton, tormented by his thoughts, ran from Pearl's porch, dropping the makeshift bouquet of daisies at her feet in his flight.  By the time he was back inside of his house, he had managed to regain his senses.  Why had he run away?  Mr. Morton climbed his stairs and returned to the room with the window which overlooked Pearl's home.  Why didn't he just say hello?  Mr. Morton began to type on his typewriter, making silly little rhymes as he mentally rebuffed himself for his cowardice.  Pearl could never love him.  It must have them.  They were playing with him, toying with him the way they always did.  He was nothing but a subject to their whim.  He was angry!  He was heartbroken!  He was ashamed!  And Mr. Morton was lonely, so very, very lonely.

The creaking of floorboards caught his attention.  He turned in his chair to discover Pearl standing there in his writing room.  She was as resplendent as ever; beaming at him with that radiant, warm smile of her's and holding out a single red rose to him.  Mr. Morton was so happy to see her, but he couldn't understand how she was here.  What was she doing?  Why had she come?  He stood up to embrace her, her whom he loved so dearly from afar.  Yet, all he could do was stand there and stare, transfixed by her presence.  Pearl only smiled all the wider, her eyes glittering with secret delight.  She opened her mouth to speak in her perfect angelic voice.  They were married.  They were happy, so was the cat.  Everything happened so fast!  They were packed and ready to go on their honeymoon, a bus was waiting outside to carry them away.  It was everything, everything he ever wanted, so Mr. Morton never questioned it.  He never questioned one word from Pearl.  He never suspected she might be one of them; he never even thought to ask because, Mr. Morton is the Subject and what the Predicates say, he does.


Inspired by School House Rock: