Storystruck, Part 5 and the end
And the end.
The blind girl--Kirelen--found him first.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice soft. "I followed your trail. They were still arguing, but I thought you were more important than a stack of paper."
"It depends on what is written on that stack of paper," he said hoarsely, marveling at the sound of his own voice.
She was standing in the doorway, her face, smooth now, not ravaged, turned towards him. "They said you could not speak."
"I couldn't, before," he whispered.
"What you wrote freed your voice?" Kirelen asked.
"What I wrote--What I wrote freed my soul," Jeremie said, and knew that to be true.
The cloak lay an armslength away. His left arm was outstretched. He focused on it, saw only faint tracings of what it had been like before. It was an arm now. His arm.
Greatly daring, he touched his face. And then he sat up and leaned back against the wall and looked down at himself. Peeked under his shirt.
Heard footsteps hurrying towards them, echoing off the walls.
"I picked up some of the stones you left behind," Kirelen said, and showed them to him. Opals, glittering like firelight in her hand. All opals. "I thought that might give you more time, if you needed it."
"Thank you," he said. "Keep them."
She laughed. "I already have a fortune in pearls!"
"Keep those too," he told her, and slowly stood. His left arm and leg were weak yet, slightly stiff. Perhaps they would be like that always. But he wanted to be standing when they arrived. He closed the window and stared at himself in the reflection on the glass.
Touched his face again. His hair.
The footsteps slowed as they approached. Kirelen stepped back from the doorway and said something he couldn't hear.
And Lena, only Lena, appeared in the doorway. And she'd closed her eyes. Squeezed them shut for his sake alone and nothing more.
He wiped tears from his cheeks. "You can open your eyes, Lena," he whispered, and she gasped, and almost fell, and stumbled forward, and she--she opened her eyes.
Deara did not appear in the doorway with her eyes closed, which made Jeremie realize she'd seen much more than she'd admitted. But she smiled at him as Lena stood stock-still in the doorway, and nodded to him, and then she gently shoved Lena forward.
"If you stand like that forever, you'll make him think that something is wrong," Deara said.
"Wrong?" Lena whispered. "No, not wrong. I--"
"You saw," Jeremie said, understanding. "In my house. You saw me."
"The cloak slipped when I pulled you through the portal," Lena said. "I'm sorry. I--"
What did they expect him to say? They had seen what he had kept hidden from himself. And they had not abandoned him.
"It's gone now," Jeremie said.
"There are still scars," Deara told him gently.
"Scars are proof of what I wrote," Jeremie said. "Of what he did to me."
Lena hesitated. "Have you looked into a mirror?"
"There are no mirrors here," Jeremie said, quoting Deara.
"Well, there's one," Deara admitted. "But only one."
Lena's lips curved into a smile. She held out her hands. "Let's go look into the mirror. I want you to see yourself again."
He motioned towards the window. "I've already seen what you don't want to say."
"Your hair wasn't white before," Lena said. "When we cut it, it was black."
"I know." He smiled at the expression on her face.
"It's good to see you smile," Deara said.
"What you wrote--" Lena began.
"What will you do?" Jeremie asked.
"He spent years planning this," Lena said. "Most of the people loyal to me are dead."
"What will you do?" Jeremie asked again.
Lena's face grew solemn again. "I don't know."
Jeremie bent and picked up the cloak. "We have something he doesn't have," he told her. "We have this."
"We," Lena whispered. "I never once suspected that you were my brother, Jeremie. My father wasn't--he had others. When my mother became ill. No children, though. At least not that I've heard. Just you."
"I'm sorry," Jeremie said. "I should have told you."
"It wasn't your secret to tell," Lena said.
He handed her the cloak. "I think he used this to gain access to your mother's rooms. To administer the poison. The bottle is still in the inner pocket of the cloak."
"To administer the poison," Lena said. "Yes."
"No," Deara told her. "No. Not you, and not Jeremie."
Lena turned on her, mouth agape. "What would you have me do? Allow him to get away with murder twice?"
"By becoming a murderer yourself?" Deara asked.
Lena stared at her. "What would you have me do?" she asked again.
"The truth has been hidden for too long," Deara said. "Set it free."
"And how," Lena asked, "Do you expect me to do that?"
"The opals," Jeremie said. "Tell them the truth. Your father displayed the ones I created from your mother's pain; they are your brother's trophies. He will not want them to be hidden."
"Tell them?" Lena asked. "You want me to talk to stones?"
"Kirelen? Do you still have the opals?"
"Of course." Kirelen carried them into the room, her hands full of fire even without the direct aid of sunlight.
Lena touched them, mesmerized.
"Tell them the truth," Jeremie said. "And the stones in the castle will speak it."
They left the tower together, and picked up each and every stone, each chunk, each sliver, that had once been fused to his wounds. And they brought them back and piled them on top of the table in Jeremie's room, and the stones blazed into life as Lena began to speak.
And a rainbow of sparkling light fell upon their faces as they sat around the fireplace, listening to the words Jeremie had written.
One by one, the opals on the table grew dim and cloudy. One by one, they crumbled into dust. One by one, the words fell into ears and sparkled around conversations. One by one, the kingdom heard the truth.
And one by one, the people walked into the castle, and listened to the stones speak and left again to spread the story until there was only one, standing alone in the darkness, watching the play of colors across the smooth white stones.
One by one, he took the stones from their pedestals and he threw them at the walls, but truth is stronger than stone and they did not break.
And in the end, they found him floating in the moat around the castle where he'd jumped from his mother's balcony to his death below. And they came to the solitary castle where Lena waited, and they crowned her Queen and brought her back to a crippled kingdom, burned and flayed by the power of the truth of what her brother had done.
Jeremie rode at her side, because he was, after all, a healer. And the kingdom needed to be healed.
And if the streets were paved with stones after that; if the fountains sparkled with rubies, then the legends were not legends at all, but the truth. And if the legends said that the Queen ruled fair and wisely, and the kingdom prospered under her, then that must be true as well.
As for the healer; as for Jeremie, he opened what was left of his house to the blind girl, to Kirelen, and they lived together for many years.
No one truly lives happily ever after. But one can live, and live happily--or unhappily--and ever after only involves that space of time between the end of this tale and the beginning of another.
And ever after, after that.
--end
Since I am waiting for the Wild Hunt* (on their motorcycles) to ride past my house this fine Halloween evening, I thought I'd post the ending a bit early.
*A bunch of biker dudes dress up in cool costumes and ride around town every year, so I call them the Wild Hunt. Very Bordertown. Their leader wears antlers.
The blind girl--Kirelen--found him first.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice soft. "I followed your trail. They were still arguing, but I thought you were more important than a stack of paper."
"It depends on what is written on that stack of paper," he said hoarsely, marveling at the sound of his own voice.
She was standing in the doorway, her face, smooth now, not ravaged, turned towards him. "They said you could not speak."
"I couldn't, before," he whispered.
"What you wrote freed your voice?" Kirelen asked.
"What I wrote--What I wrote freed my soul," Jeremie said, and knew that to be true.
The cloak lay an armslength away. His left arm was outstretched. He focused on it, saw only faint tracings of what it had been like before. It was an arm now. His arm.
Greatly daring, he touched his face. And then he sat up and leaned back against the wall and looked down at himself. Peeked under his shirt.
Heard footsteps hurrying towards them, echoing off the walls.
"I picked up some of the stones you left behind," Kirelen said, and showed them to him. Opals, glittering like firelight in her hand. All opals. "I thought that might give you more time, if you needed it."
"Thank you," he said. "Keep them."
She laughed. "I already have a fortune in pearls!"
"Keep those too," he told her, and slowly stood. His left arm and leg were weak yet, slightly stiff. Perhaps they would be like that always. But he wanted to be standing when they arrived. He closed the window and stared at himself in the reflection on the glass.
Touched his face again. His hair.
The footsteps slowed as they approached. Kirelen stepped back from the doorway and said something he couldn't hear.
And Lena, only Lena, appeared in the doorway. And she'd closed her eyes. Squeezed them shut for his sake alone and nothing more.
He wiped tears from his cheeks. "You can open your eyes, Lena," he whispered, and she gasped, and almost fell, and stumbled forward, and she--she opened her eyes.
Deara did not appear in the doorway with her eyes closed, which made Jeremie realize she'd seen much more than she'd admitted. But she smiled at him as Lena stood stock-still in the doorway, and nodded to him, and then she gently shoved Lena forward.
"If you stand like that forever, you'll make him think that something is wrong," Deara said.
"Wrong?" Lena whispered. "No, not wrong. I--"
"You saw," Jeremie said, understanding. "In my house. You saw me."
"The cloak slipped when I pulled you through the portal," Lena said. "I'm sorry. I--"
What did they expect him to say? They had seen what he had kept hidden from himself. And they had not abandoned him.
"It's gone now," Jeremie said.
"There are still scars," Deara told him gently.
"Scars are proof of what I wrote," Jeremie said. "Of what he did to me."
Lena hesitated. "Have you looked into a mirror?"
"There are no mirrors here," Jeremie said, quoting Deara.
"Well, there's one," Deara admitted. "But only one."
Lena's lips curved into a smile. She held out her hands. "Let's go look into the mirror. I want you to see yourself again."
He motioned towards the window. "I've already seen what you don't want to say."
"Your hair wasn't white before," Lena said. "When we cut it, it was black."
"I know." He smiled at the expression on her face.
"It's good to see you smile," Deara said.
"What you wrote--" Lena began.
"What will you do?" Jeremie asked.
"He spent years planning this," Lena said. "Most of the people loyal to me are dead."
"What will you do?" Jeremie asked again.
Lena's face grew solemn again. "I don't know."
Jeremie bent and picked up the cloak. "We have something he doesn't have," he told her. "We have this."
"We," Lena whispered. "I never once suspected that you were my brother, Jeremie. My father wasn't--he had others. When my mother became ill. No children, though. At least not that I've heard. Just you."
"I'm sorry," Jeremie said. "I should have told you."
"It wasn't your secret to tell," Lena said.
He handed her the cloak. "I think he used this to gain access to your mother's rooms. To administer the poison. The bottle is still in the inner pocket of the cloak."
"To administer the poison," Lena said. "Yes."
"No," Deara told her. "No. Not you, and not Jeremie."
Lena turned on her, mouth agape. "What would you have me do? Allow him to get away with murder twice?"
"By becoming a murderer yourself?" Deara asked.
Lena stared at her. "What would you have me do?" she asked again.
"The truth has been hidden for too long," Deara said. "Set it free."
"And how," Lena asked, "Do you expect me to do that?"
"The opals," Jeremie said. "Tell them the truth. Your father displayed the ones I created from your mother's pain; they are your brother's trophies. He will not want them to be hidden."
"Tell them?" Lena asked. "You want me to talk to stones?"
"Kirelen? Do you still have the opals?"
"Of course." Kirelen carried them into the room, her hands full of fire even without the direct aid of sunlight.
Lena touched them, mesmerized.
"Tell them the truth," Jeremie said. "And the stones in the castle will speak it."
They left the tower together, and picked up each and every stone, each chunk, each sliver, that had once been fused to his wounds. And they brought them back and piled them on top of the table in Jeremie's room, and the stones blazed into life as Lena began to speak.
And a rainbow of sparkling light fell upon their faces as they sat around the fireplace, listening to the words Jeremie had written.
One by one, the opals on the table grew dim and cloudy. One by one, they crumbled into dust. One by one, the words fell into ears and sparkled around conversations. One by one, the kingdom heard the truth.
And one by one, the people walked into the castle, and listened to the stones speak and left again to spread the story until there was only one, standing alone in the darkness, watching the play of colors across the smooth white stones.
One by one, he took the stones from their pedestals and he threw them at the walls, but truth is stronger than stone and they did not break.
And in the end, they found him floating in the moat around the castle where he'd jumped from his mother's balcony to his death below. And they came to the solitary castle where Lena waited, and they crowned her Queen and brought her back to a crippled kingdom, burned and flayed by the power of the truth of what her brother had done.
Jeremie rode at her side, because he was, after all, a healer. And the kingdom needed to be healed.
And if the streets were paved with stones after that; if the fountains sparkled with rubies, then the legends were not legends at all, but the truth. And if the legends said that the Queen ruled fair and wisely, and the kingdom prospered under her, then that must be true as well.
As for the healer; as for Jeremie, he opened what was left of his house to the blind girl, to Kirelen, and they lived together for many years.
No one truly lives happily ever after. But one can live, and live happily--or unhappily--and ever after only involves that space of time between the end of this tale and the beginning of another.
And ever after, after that.
--end
Since I am waiting for the Wild Hunt* (on their motorcycles) to ride past my house this fine Halloween evening, I thought I'd post the ending a bit early.
*A bunch of biker dudes dress up in cool costumes and ride around town every year, so I call them the Wild Hunt. Very Bordertown. Their leader wears antlers.