Synopsis- Abridged

((A short synopsis laying the basis for my novel.))

           On the surface, Samuel Haine leads an unremarkable life. In secret however, he is a Librarian, part of an ancient society whose influence lingers hidden, even in modern times. As a Librarian, Sam and those like him are tasked with the ever important role of safeguarding humanity from itself. In his journey to find a place within the Blue Library, Sam is nearly ostracized  for questioning the seemingly arbitrary lines that divide various sects. However, when a new threat emerges among the Libraries, Sam gains a chance to redeem himself. In his attempts to decipher the words and actions of adversaries within and outside of his order, Sam must decide how far he will go in trying to protect his allies and himself from harm.

The War of Knowledge

((Here is a bit lengthy history lesson on the state of the world that Librarians exist in. This is the beginning of the chain of events leading up to the start of A Librarian. ))

In the beginning existed only man and his knowledge. The people knew, and they learned; all that they learned, they recorded in books. These books quickly became their most valuable of things, treasured above all other possessions. These books held the secret keys to life, codes that contained truth, will, existence, and other secrets beyond number.

Selfless members of this society made it their mission to gather all of the books, each and every story, so that everyone could have access to the knowledge. To this end, they created a place where they could keep all of these ideas. This place became known as the First Library. It stood in the center of the people’s society, an offering of knowledge to all who sought it.

Other members of society did not agree with this course of action. They argued that the books and the information that they contained, information born of personal experiences, were to be shared at the sole discretion of their owners. They, out of respect for themselves refused to submit their texts to the First Library, and in respect to those who had given their stories (freely or otherwise) abstained from using that collection of knowledge.

The time came where the people began to become divided by these two separate ideals. Those who believed in the sharing of all knowledge came to be known as ‘The Collaboration.’ Collaborators quickly took to acquiring the stories of other individuals. In some cases, they merely asked for the records they sought. However, where this failed, they gained possession of the tomes  by coercion or other, more forceful methods.

For those who believed in individual choice in sharing their stories, this could not be tolerated. Calling themselves ‘The Selection’, they withdrew from the society, traveling some distance away to erect their own. These Selectors  lived true to their name, deciding to share only what they wished, with whom they wished.  In their society, they established a place known as the Second Library, a keeping grounds for information given only willingly, and shared only with a chosen few, even among members of the Selection.

For a time, there was a truce; the Collaboration would retain control of the knowledge it currently possessed, while the Selection would neither seek to destroy it, nor be forced into further contributions. However, there were those among the Selection who could not abide by this outcome. Chief among them were individuals whom had already lost their own personal records of knowledge at the hands of the Collaboration. These resentful people quickly found support among their brethren, and together, returned to the Collaboration’s society with the intent to claim the First Library’s knowledge for themselves. In the ensuing skirmish, many lives were lost, and even worse, much of the First Library’s most precious information.

The Collaboration, of course retaliated. No longer content to let members of the Selection live in peace, they gathered their armies and swept across the land, capturing Selectors wherever they could be found and extracting all of their knowledge from them. The Collaborators also took to destroying Selection settlements without regard to the displaced populace that remained.

Having been pressed into a corner, members of the Selection came forward proposing another truce- they would share even their most secret information with the First Library and rejoin society as equals, and neither side would engage in harming the other. At this time, the Selectors rallied behind the twins Pelomect: Cagneidu and Oddriser. It was at their command that the Selectors returned to make peace with the Collaboration.

As was true to their custom, and as demonstration of their good will, the Collaboration shared all of the information that yet remained in the First Library. However, when the time came for the Selection to share its information, they refused. Instead, loyalists following Pelomect Oddriser lashed out with the knowledge they had created, combined with the knowledge they had so recently attained. With this combined power, the selectors tore the very foundations of the Collaboration apart, inflicting casualties far greater than previously witnessed by either side.

Seeing what his brother had done, Pelomect Cagneidu whispered just enough secrets of the Selectors to a trusted Collaborator called Counsel so that the Collaboration might have a fighting chance. This war between the Collaboration and the Selection that lasted for many generations, longer than even the previous skirmishes, came to be known as the War of Knowledge.

The War of Knowledge came to an end only when both the Collaborators and the Selectors took notice of the world around them, and how much their fighting had ruined it. While their philosophies differed and hatred from old wounds still burned on both sides, the leaders of both societies came to agree that even if their grudges could not be settled, a war could not take place on a planet that no longer existed. With this in mind, they managed to establish an uneasy peace, one where they agreed only that they would no longer oppose one another in the open or with direct force. To this end, each side sealed away their most potent knowledge. The Collaborators sealed their knowledge within Counsel, and the Selectors placed theirs within the twins Pelomect. Together, they removed themselves from their societies and disappeared into obscurity.

Without the most precious of their information, both sides began to rebuild the world they had so carelessly destroyed. They came to agree that the secrets of the past should remain buried, and to that end, continued to avoid direct conflicts with one another. However, beneath the surface of the world, amidst the generations of humanity that matured without knowledge of their true potential, a select few of the old societies remained, sharing what little ideals they still possessed with any who might unknowingly listen...

Lunette

 ((This piece offers a little insight on Sam, protagonist of A Librarian. As a Librarian, Sam and his order are responsible for safeguarding the knowledge of the world.))

The near silence of the evening died completely. At the same moment, the moonlight in the sky was accompanied by a short flash of blue. To him, the silence was not truly complete, and never would be- he could hear it wailing as it rose from the asphalt. It climbed, slow and even, likely from a place some might call hell- but really, words, even for places of ‘ultimate evil’ were merely labels. He knew that fact now, knew it very well.

Even though the pillars had not an inch of smooth, unmarred wood, the torn and ragged beams did not harm him as he placed a hand to them. It continued on easily enough, reaching in vain for the empty sky above- a sky almost as empty as that in the place from where it hailed. It grew and grew until it towered over him, one of the corners blocking his view of the moon, and thus blocking the only source of natural light.

Then it ceased and remained still, unwavering in the cool air of the night. The whispered wailing ceased as well, dissipating along with the azure flash that had ushered its presence into this world. His world, and yet not his- a world he shared with others. He looked around him now, and the differences between the two did not require much observation to discover- the tall, concrete and steel and glass constructs, the lampposts with their broken bulbs, the paved walkways and roads connecting everything...Nothing like the thinner, more elusive networks within his sanctuary. The pale blue webs that wound everything together behind the scenes, behind the cold stone surface of his walls- they carried everything: information, existence, life.

These streets were empty. Whatever lived here had hurried off into some den or another and shut the door on the shadow. Even when he had been separated, driven numb by the unruly forces within his own domain, he had never felt quite so lonely. Perhaps it was better this way. Here, in the hours before dawn, he could carry out anything; here, before the sun returned to the world once more, he could call it... he had called it, and once before- an insatiable being consuming a soul no less voracious...

The wood beneath them groaned and heaved, and twin oaken shafts shot up into the freezing night air. The pair emerged on either side of the witch, their roots catching hold of one another, entangling her throat in the process. She howled. She thrashed about, clawed at the wood on either side of her. Though her talons carved free great splinters from the posts that bound her, the pillars did not crumble.

He stood up and turned away. Behind him, the tops of each pillar shifted and heaved again, forming branches that joined with one another.  As they intertwined, a split remained along the bottom  of the joined branches, from which a cold steel tongue descended. The metal gleamed in the bleak azure light, and all traces of sound vanished. She opened her mouth in what could only be a scream.

He didn’t look back when the blade fell.

He fell. Slowly, he toppled backwards until he allowed himself to lean on it, the guillotine. Yes, even when it had separated him from his own, it had been there for him- and when he had been vulnerable, it heeded his calls and stuck down his enemies- breaking them to be remade again, whole, incorrupt. He found his eyes wandering up toward the slanted, steel fang that glimmered just barely in the moonlight; even from his position, he could feel his skin prickling in response to the lack of warmth it had ushered in. He did not shiver for the cold alone.

He shut his eyes, and when he opened them, the night seemed a little further away. Eventually, the dawn would renounce the peace he had found on his lonesome.  The aged wood warbled as if in response to his thoughts, and he recalled it shifting , that same, nearly imperceptible shifting occurring the first time he had called it, brought it from his own world to this one upon rune-scrawled tiles and amidst paper-laden walls.

Deafening cries...frenzied thrashing- both accompanied his manifestation as he tore it from his Library. It warbled and twisted, its moans reminiscent of aged, condemned structures. He stared at it. It loomed over him, almost silent now, only the subdued groans of pain breaking the usual unnatural silence that followed his manifestations. In the confinement of the dark chamber, he could not see it entirely-- in fact, only the gleam of its maw-- yet he could feel it so very clearly. His stomach lurched and heaved, and he clasped a hand to his mouth. On his knees, he looked up into the shadows, checking again and again, but there could be no mistake.

He had answers now, answers he had not been willing, not been able to give. He looked up at the guillotine again, studying the patterns in the wood. He’d studied them before, but now, the familiarity with which he saw them moved well beyond that of constant observation. There could be no more denial, no hiding from the reality, not in this world, nor in his own. In his heart, he knew that just as with every stone, every shelf, every book, that the guillotine too was a part of him, perhaps the most sincere part of all....

“Rise,” he whispered. The frame crawled out of the wood, the shafts just over shoulder length apart. This time, no wailing accompanied it as it assembled. A hint of steel gleamed in the light, and he shivered. He placed his hand on one shaft. The wood nearly bit his skin, but he kept his hand upon it, fingers feeling all of the nicks and scars in its surface. “Where did these wounds come from?”

He circled it, taking note of every flaw, every crack, every chip missing. He recalled the battle with Her- even before she had begun to tear at it, the wood had been scarred. Even after she’d attacked it, it had not broken. He took a step back, looking closely at a particularly large crack in one pole...he set his hands on the frame once again, and it shuddered at his touch.

           The sun was beginning to rise. He stood upright, shoving his hands into his pockets. Without word or gesture, the guillotine acknowledged his dismissal, creeping back into the depths of his Library, moving away from the waking world.

Simon

 ((An except alongside my novel, A Librarian . Here we have a look at Simon, A Blue.))


"I will do what I can to protect this Library, and until the Lamentors tell me otherwise, I will do it my way."

"You would kill your own kind?"

"If I seek their lives, it is precisely because they are not my kind."

While cold and dark and solitude might deter others, he merely accepted such discomfort. Their very nature, his nature, held fast to the bearing of such ills and countless more. Tireless eyes, all his, roamed the cityscape, their watch penetrating the otherwise dark and undisturbed nature of the night. Where are you? He knew. What are you doing? He knew. Why...? This was the great question asked, and never fully answered, for that answer, much like his faculties, existed as many instead of one- the 'whys' likely outnumbered all of his manifestations... And yet he watched, so that he might determine each and every why.

Somewhere in another age, far removed from the night, vultures had circled with his tidings. In fields beyond the sacred places, whys had been answered with no true value- no resolve.

He opened his eyes to the night again, followed his senses borne upon silent wings, ever vigilant, ever searching...

What are you doing? Why?  Weakness, disbelief, lies. A commitment to which there is no commitment.

They seem to enjoy the rain. When the world cries, there is commiseration. When the world cries feathers...

When whys are answered without true reason, he sends more than mere watchful eyes. Vultures descend from 'on high' to speak with the unworthy...His fingers pass through them, a caress, a more direct approach- One that always comes up empty, just as those he inquires.

He stood, and an owl settled upon his fist. Their eyes met, its pupils expanding, dark voids encroaching upon thin rings of iris, rotating opposite one another. Simon witnessed the truth then, upon his cold, dark and lonesome post. He nodded, slow.

"Go then," He whispered, casting his hand into the air. The owl tumbled away, its open wings tripling in length, petite claws warping into nearly serrated talons, midnight spilling across feathers once akin to snow as his vulture sought to extract the truth...

Night Op

 ((Here is a glimpse into the setting for my Novel-In-Progress, A Librarian. This is a glimpse of that world, with its people and customs, a taste of their motivations.))




In the depths of the mourning chambers, eight Librarians stood in a semi-circle, each wearing a cloak of navy and a sapphire badge. Facing them was another who wore the same garments, but his cloak was a deeper blue, his insignia a bit more elaborate. He appraised the men and women standing before him. When he smiled, it was only with his lips.

Though his eyes bore the partial clouding of one who was checked out, he spoke to them with ease. “We need to move quickly,” He reminded them. “ We have but a few hours of night, and have much to do.” He looked to each of them in turn. “Have you your tales?”

The pupils before him shifted somewhat uncomfortably, but their words came firm. “We are ready to sow our misery.”

The leader nodded. “Good. Show me.”

One by one, they  searched inside themselves just as he had. They extended their hands and their tomes manifested, coming to rest upon their open palms. The first bore a text smooth and polished, a chilling mirror not unlike ice. The second held between her hands a withered tale that ceaselessly crumbled, yet never completely fell apart. So it was for the rest of them, each presenting a tome that was forlorn, abandoned to despair, reeking of sorrow, and physically unique to the others with but one similarity- the presence of an azure hue.

“Is that the extent of your sorrow?” He asked them. As he spoke, the light in the chamber began to dim, and an even mist rolled in across the floor. He held out his hands, his eyes now completely cloudy. The sluggish fog wove together into intricate patterns, circling and girding one another, binding together one to the next. When the mist had cleared, the Librarians beheld a massive cobalt tome, the covers of which were carved with ornate designs and bound fast by iron chains.  Salted water leaked from between the pages of the book, and one could almost hear a concert of sighs whispering away from within.

“This is my burden,” The leader continued. “Share in my sorrow.” He extended the tome to them, and they each laid their tales upon his.

The evening’s silence yielded only for the faint footsteps of the Librarians as they emerged into a dreaming world.  Each carried only their insignia and their newly strengthened sadness from their libraries. On this night, such despair would be unleashed.

   They made their way along the streets, taking care to avoid the lights that protected the sidewalks from the shadow.  They came to an intersection, and the leader spoke to them.

“The night belongs to us, but when dawn comes, we must yield.” He appraised his comrades once more. “Take care to spread your lamentations evenly. Let not the world forget the pain in this life, for it reminds us of the truths we must keep close at all times.” He gestured to the first two of his subordinates, and they continued straight ahead alongside him. The remaining six split into sets of three, heading in separate directions.

    As they walked, each among them opened their tomes, scattering the night with brief flashes of cobalt light. Page by page they dismembered their texts, tossing their stories into the wind. Some the placed upon the buildings, plastering them to both wall and window.  Others they hung upon lampposts, and still others were cast almost carelessly upon the ground. Where each page graced the world, a light dimmed, a window became stained, a building sighed. As the pages faded into nothing and the ink evaporated, the air was left only with a somber stillness. In the end, each Librarian had bound their own lamentations into the fabric of the world.

   The party returned at the crossroads once their tragedies had spread, just as the sun began to peek over the horizon. They were making their way homeward when they encountered another group. This one was led by a tall, proud woman with long fiery tresses and an immense burning tome tucked under her arm. She lifted her head and sniffed the air.

   “The stench of sorrow.”

   “Then we have done our work well.” the leader of the Blue squad clasped his hands and bowed his head to her, his subordinates following suit. Seeing this, she snorted and turned her head away, an action her comrades mimicked as well.

   “You’re late,” She replied. “You know the dawn hours belong to us.”

    “Forgive us, for we had no intent to be active during your time.”

   “Damn right.” She turned and gestured to her followers. “ Let’s get going. I don’t want to see anyone falling behind!”

   The Red Librarians fell into step flanking their leader, and at her direction dispersed into the city to perform their tasks.

Suspicion

“They say one of us is a dragon-blood,” Kanor said. He sat down at the campfire with the other three and pulled his knife.

“Dragon-blood? A Joined?” One man asked. He glanced nervously at the rest of their unit. “Who told you that?”

“Sergeant’s words,” Kanor replied. His blade shimmered in the firelight. “S’you, ain’t it, Casus?”

“I’m no dragon-blood!” Casus looked around again. “I don’t trust those damn things.”

“Prove it,” Kanor said. The eerie grin on his face proved more disconcerting than the gleaming knife he extended. “They say a dragon-blood bleeds black if you cut ‘im.”

The woman, Svala, snorted. “Why does it matter who’s what?” She met Kanor’s eyes and flinched only a little as he leaned toward her. “What if one of us were a joined? We’re still allies.

Kanor’s grin split wider. “You’re going first, Svala. If you bleed red, you’re clean.”

“No, Kanor. You’re going first.” The voice came from the other man, one who appeared more composed than either of his more anxious comrades. “You’re going first, since you’re the one worried about dragons in human skin.”

Kanor opened his mouth to reply, but they were all focused on him now. “You want proof, Lial? Fine. I’ll do it.” He cupped his hand over the blade of the knife, dragged it slow.  He held a bleeding hand by the crackling flame. The stream that ran along his palm and dribbled from his fingertips into the dirt shone a dull crimson. “See? I’m human.” He glared at Lial. “Are you?”

Lial, without a word, drew his own knife, and without ever taking his gaze from Kanor’s, stuck the blade into his palm. He offered his hand to Kanor. “Satisfied?”

The surprise on Kanor’s face faded as he turned to the other two. Despite the protests of both parties, and the whimpering(most of which came from Casus) their knives came back clean. Clean red blood.

“What now, Kanor?” Svala asked. “Not one of us is a joined.The Sergeant spoke in jest.”

Kanor spat. “The Sergeant NEVER speaks in jest.”

“Pathetic.” The final member of their unit emerged from the wilderness, nodding to Casus as he settled in. He waited until Casus had gone to take his place on watch before he continued. “Have you nothing better to do but chase rumors, Kanor? Afraid a dragon-blood might chew your guts while you sleep?”

“I ain’t afraid of anything,” Kanor growled.

“That’s why you’re squatting in the bushes, cutting your comrades.”

“Dragon-bloods are crazy. I ain’t gonna have no madmen watching my ass.”

“You’re crazier than any joined I’ve ever heard about.”

At this, Kanor tilted his head, fixing his adversary with a most dangerous gaze. “ What do you know about dragon-blood, Dreim?”

“More than you do, obviously.”

“You’re awfully calm for someone who could be sleeping by a dragon at night.”

“That makes me human then. After all, dragon-bloods are insane, aren’t they, Kanor?” Dreim paused for a moment, as if lost in thought. “You know, Kanor, you seem pretty agitated right now. How do we really know that you aren’t the joined?”

The others were looking at Kanor again, and he shrunk some under their gazes. “You all know I’m clean!” he shouted. “You all saw it. I ain’t no filthy dragon-blood!” He held up his hand again. “You all saw it,” he repeated.

Dreim shrugged. “There isn’t much light here, Kanor. It’s hard to say for sure.”

Kanor pointed his knife at Dreim. “What about you, Dreim? We’ve all drawn blood. You haven’t.”

“I’m not going to cut myself to prove anything to you.”

“Hah. So it IS you! Filthy-”

“No. A cut reduces fighting capacity and brings on infection. You’ve weakened us enough already with your maddening paranoia.”

“I ain’t mad!” Kanor shouted, lunging for Dreim. “I ain’t no filthy dragon-blood!” he lashed out with his dagger.

Dreim leaned back, sweeping aside his assailant’s wrist with his own. He reached for his sword, but paused as Kanor retreated. Everyone’s attention fell upon Kanor’s knife and the fresh blood upon it. Dreim glanced down at his sliced wrist with annoyance.

“Impossible,” muttered Kanor.

“You see it for yourself, fool.”

“If it ain’t you, then who?”

“None of us is a joined, you imbecile. The Sergeant spread that rumor to test our unity. Because of you, we failed.”

Pact

I strode out onto the balcony adjacent of our bedroom, shoulders and jaw fortified with the courage my father had taught me, a strength I did not truly feel. When I turned to close the ornate glass doors, my own shadow in the moonlight became eclipsed effortlessly in that of his as he settled upon the ledge. He crouched low, low enough that we met nearly at eye level, then dipped his head lower, an uncharacteristic sign of respect for one of his kind. I nodded in turn.

“Thank you for heeding my summons,” I said.

He then ignored me, casting his gaze over my shoulder, through the dense curtains and into the bedroom. His vast eyes flickered for a moment, the dark orbs now covered by amber veils. “She sleeps.”

“Yes. She will need her strength. Enough for her, and the child.”

He bared his fangs at me in a grin. “Bold you are, man-thing. Calling One to your home whilst your kin sleep less than half a wing-beat away.”

“I know well of your power and respect it so,” I replied. “This is why I have asked for your presence.”

“Those of your kingdom do well to stay far from One’s mountain. When they venture into One’s territory, they never tarry, nor fail to leave worthy offerings. Even now, your courage before One is commendable. You have One’s ear, man-thing. Speak.”

“I ask of you the impossible.”

His eyes widened and I struggled to return his gaze. Even the most absurd of requests, I knew his kind would consider, if we voiced them with conviction. He opened his mouth, let his warm, foul breath roll over me. “You know as well as One does, man-thing, that the impossible cannot be done. That is why it is ‘impossible’.”

“You know what I truly seek. A joining.”

His eyes drew wider still, flickering again to amber hues as he focused on me. A test. I would not falter.

“I know that you have considered it too. The fact that you have not yet burned my kingdom to the ground is evidence of such.”

He hissed, and drops of pitch fell upon the marble of the balcony. “Press not your luck, mortal creature. One knows your fears. One has flown the borders of your country. One has seen the armies of the north assembling to bear down upon you. Why should One loan you One’s strength? Why should One be damned among one’s own kind for the sake of a mere man-thing?”

“You knew my father. You knew my father’s father. My line is and has always been committed to peace. Peace however, is no longer an option. The northern armies will not be content until they have claimed our territories. If my people should fail to defend these lands, they will come to conquer your mountain as well.”

He cast his great gaze to the north. “You know well, beyond the honor of your kind, the price to be paid for such a favor.”

I glanced over my shoulder, felt his eyes watching as well, seeing what I could not, what I knew only from memory lay amid the sheets within the bedchamber. “I know well the price. As does she.”

“Very well.”

I turned back to face him, but he had already fallen away from the ledge, his great wings spreading to carry him off into the mountains.

***

Man-things gathered in the dark, in valley at base of One’s mountain. A ring of fires they’d lit, to guide One to them. One cared not; such guidance, meaningless. Heat burned clear in the night- warmth of the manthing’s bodies; Easy prey. Body tilting, shifting- fell into a wide descending loop. Flames of the circle stirring, called by the stretching of One’s wings- not like man-thing fires; man-thing flames shrink from One’s presence. Timid, fragile creatures. Most man-things cowards. Hid among the frightened creatures, squirming in thin plated shells, faint flames poorly fanned, One found strength. A flame unlike the man-things, yet of the man-things.  A she.

Across from her, One settles in the center. She stares into One’s eyes. Does not falter. Rising, One bellows into the cold night. Many man-thing fires flicker- not hers. One settles on talons again. Approaches. Female flinch not. Tears stone with great steps. Female flinch not. One circles, slow, deliberate, hissing. Flame of she only grow brighter - intense, for mortal. In her swollen belly, another fire. Small man-thing, youngling. Youngling fire bright also.

One gazed at monarch. “Once it is done, there is no turning back.”

Man-thing nodded.

One faced woman again. “What say you, man-thing?”

    She draws close. Placed hand upon One’s muzzle. Fragile man-thing skin burns against One’s scales. No noise, no flinch from she.

    “I will join with you, dragon, for the sake of my kingdom.”

    One nods. Wings extended, great sweeps. movements coaxing flames higher, now even man-things flames grow brighter. Valley lit by flame. One lifts away from ground. To she,

    “Your fire burns so brightly. You could almost be a dragon.”

***

    A great bellow tore him from his sleep, and he clung to his father. Bleary eyed, he looked around. It was almost as though he’d been borne into a storm. It was a dark storm, one absent of lightning yet rife with fires. Even clutching his father, he remained frightened. There came another bellow and then he noticed the large dragon hovering before him, its great wings hurling gusts of wind in all directions as its talons raked the flesh of...

    “Daddy, what’s happening? What’s happening to mommy?”

    His father did not answer, did not look at him, ignored the small hands tugging at his garments. In the firelight, a stream of tears glistened as it slid down his cheek.

    The child, receiving no response, wormed his way out of his father’s grasp and ran toward his mother. “Mommy! Mommy!”

    A pike crossed his path and he crumpled over it, winded by its sudden appearance. he could only gasp helplessly as he was carried back to his father. He began to howl then, screaming as loud as he could, trying to be heard over the ominous thundering of the great dragon’s wings.

    The monster paid him no attention whatsoever, pressing its wicked talons into the back of the woman, forcing her skin apart, settling close against her body.

    “Daddy!” he cried again. “Please, Daddy! It’s hurting Mommy!”

    Blood splattered across the earth as the dragon peeled at the mother’s skin, and yet she did not scream. She remained, half crouched as the dragon bled her, and bled into her. Finally, she toppled slowly to the ground, and the dragon lifted away, hovering a good distance above the earth. A foul, black substance fell from its jaws, a substance that hissed and steamed as it fell upon the mother’s back.

    “It is done,” the dragon said. It watched the king’s eyes for a moment, then with a mighty flap that extinguished the flames, it shot high into the air and disappeared.

   

    “Daddy... what’s going to happen to Mommy now?”

    Once the beast had flown away, the soldiers hurried into the ring and draped a cloak over the woman, still sitting upon the ground. His father made his way over to his mother, and when she looked up at them, her eyes shined with a little bit of amber.

    “She did this for us,” his father said. “Not just you and me, but our whole kingdom. Someday you’ll understand.”

***

    A man and the child he carries stare down at you. You stare up at them with the feeling that you should know them, but you can’t quite recall their names, or where you’ve seen them before. Absently you pull the thin fabric tighter around your shoulders.  Your body still throbs with a dull pain. Your back and thighs feel sticky, your hair is matted to your face. Your eyes drop down to your belly. it is swollen, ripe, and somehow, it seems to glow. Maybe it’s just the light of the moon...

No, there is a faint, almost golden glow crawling beneath the skin, and you feel movement within your flesh. Movement that isn’t yours. You can’t figure it out, so you turn your attention back to the man and the child. He calls you a name that doesn’t sound familiar. The child just cries.

There are others now, pulling you to your feet. You watch them carefully, unsure of what to expect. They just want to help you, it seems. The cold, hard ground is slick with fresh blood, and you remember how much your back hurts, but nothing more. You stumble once as you move toward the edge of a circle, but before you can fall, others catch you and help you along. The man and his child are close as well. They seem worried. Everyone seems to be making a fuss over you.

The outline of the circle is marked by several braziers. You know that they were recently lit because they still smoke, and the scent of burning lingers in your nostrils. You feel cold suddenly. The warmth that had been with you previously seems to have disappeared. Instinctively, you look to the braziers. You see one of them has toppled over; there are still some faintly glowing embers burning among the otherwise dull ashes. The concerned expressions and voices dim in comparison to those embers, the brightly gleaming bits that call to you in a way you’ve never experienced, yet one that feels so natural. You make your way over to the brazier, and scoop up a piece of coal. The searing pain that attacks your skin is nothing compared to the sudden immense hunger you feel and the delight that the coal provides. Before you can shove it into your mouth, however, others have grabbed you and drag you away.

Binding Cycle

For us, I’d given everything
Union-circle, Binding Ring.

Their termination by your hand
Our blackened skies mourn their demise
And you begin to understand.

Taken by the ebb and flow
Tear in the seam, flaw in the will
Sinking until, just like a dream--
Sealed beneath the ice and snow

Rescued by the summer suns
Dirty little secret wakes
Your every denial, said with a smile
Relinquished by naïve snowflakes,
Defeated by a thousand guns

A song is carried on the wind
Of hope and fear whispered, ear to ear,
Of silenced cries and sundered souls
Of painful tolls and endless why’s
All once held dear, destroyed with a sneer
The beginning, middle, and end.

The walls shatter, the road returns
Throughout the glade, a promise made
A darkened binding of a different sort
Of shadows and pain, of blood and disdain
And their faces contort, the truth reminding-
All joy must now fade, all light turn to shade...
The union now in fire burns

The Shelf

Welcome. I am many things. I am a guy with a head full of ideas and a pen. I am a thinker, a dreamer, an idealist, a would-be philosopher... to express all of these things, I am a writer. This is a place for me to vent my creativity, be it in prose, poetry, or some combination, covering subject matter from the mundane to the magical.  While I have written many short pieces and continue to do so, I am currently invested in writing and publishing a novel... Some of the parts and processes for that will appear here, don't be afraid to tell me what you think. If you stumble upon something you like, feel free to say so, and stick around, as I'll always be adding more. While I appreciate interest in my writing I would ask that you respect the writing here and refrain from copying or stealing any of my work. Thank you and please, enjoy the shelf.