On the darkest side of The Marches...past the center valleys where all dreams pour in...when nightmares and dreams fight in their constant struggle. Where dreams are shattered on the rocks of Fear. There...a tower stands...ever shifting. Forming. Growing. Looming. Foreboding. It is where Promises are turned to Lies. Where dreams are all Nightmares...
     She sits on a chair, covered in black drapery. Her face hidden -- all but for her now closed eyes -- by a black veil. Her hair, unbound...a sheen of Darkness it falls to touch the floor beneath her. Her vestments...are midnight. Her form is Haunting. Alluring and then Dark. A trap. And pale. Stark against the darkness of hair and clothing...
     Her hand moves. Long the nails, like talons. Claws. And when her eyes open...they are the color of fathoms deep. Unending ocean. To swallow you. To drown you...

     "I have spoken to the others," voice comes. A male. When he steps from the shadows, his tanned features bespeak his heritage. That of the Central Americas. His skin is darkened honey, eyes almost black now. Perhaps that has come with the Passage of Time. But Time has not diminished his form. Instead, it is more chiseled here in the Marches, perfectly sculpted body, the pride of the Aztecs.
     Mictalantechtli has only improved in your service, since the purifications of Uriel. That horror has not been forgotten. The others...agreed reluctantly when he suggested they all accept your offer of haven from Uriel's miserable destroyers; and in doing so, they managed to avoid the fate of too many others. Tezcatlipoca and Huitzilopochtli are not here at the moment, for it is Mictlan who has become the voice of the Aztec pantheon, the Sacrificers par excellence.
     "We'll see what we can do about the Olympians who still support your Enemy," Blandine. Led now by Athena, most of the Olympians are faded due to lack of worship. Mictlan has no plans on their lot doing the same. A few have gone, blood sacrifices and nightly rituals lost through time and change in the indigenous Americas, but he, with the others, have waged a war of their own. To survive. To keep Essence. And that involves you.
     "We will not attack Athena outright, nor Apollo," who sits upon his hill now. "But we will see what we can do." Perfect ideal, the Lord of the Underworld remains in his traditional clothing, leaving his torso, midriff and shoulders bare. The rest is thinly veiled. "The others have given their assent," as to make the point.

     Oceanic eyes. Dark...perhaps too dense for true color. They are black and they are midnight. And they are the depths of both until both....are neither. "Indeed..." The one word lasts for many moments. Her gaze is fierce. Her voice...sometimes smooth...alluring...other times like the sound of breaking glass. Shattered hopes. Dreams dashed to pieces. It is that sound that echoes over her half of the Marches. Does she seem dispassionate or bored? Beleth rises, darkness swirling around her. Serpentine. "There is nothing that pleases me so well...." comes her voice again. Alluring now. "...than Victory...Mictlan..." The name trips off her tongue. She stands before you. And then passes you by...moving toward her window.
     Can you ... Blandine ...see me from those far reaches. Will you cry when you see me? When I ...in victory...surround you in my dark arms again?

     That, he does not care about. Mictlan stands perfectly still as you pass him, only venturing a glance once you have traversed his plane. This business he has heard, about what happened, about that one across the Marches, it only interests him in as far as he needs to Survive. His black eyes turn back to the seat where you once sat. Can you hear his thoughts, he sometimes wonders. But then, he thinks he should not care. If you smite him ... perhaps that will be a Gift.

     Across the Marches, however, another does care. Few know of the sorrow that wells within Blandine, that pools silently within. When a Dream is Shattered.
     When his Hopes have become Impossible. You know, however, what Infinite Goodness is within him, how disappointment, sadness, confusion, and emptiness can fill him on occasion, when he feels his own Word is denied him. Not unlike others with no Hope.

     "The Far Marches will be coaxed out," comes Mictlan's voice again, smooth as the finest material. "And placed upon the Fields again, Mistress. We shall see to it." And what shall we be paid for this? He exhales, "What of...the Ibuzu... " he asks, the worshipping cult growing in the Amazon.
     "You promised them to us." A growing handful that the Aztec pantheon are trying to cultivate. "Do we still have that agreement?" he asks, turning somewhat now to see you staring across the Marches.
     "You..." he boldly says fast, "...are intrigued by something, yes?"

     You turn and she is turning toward you. "I am not a Liar. That is someone else's court..." Beleth walks the circuit of her chamber. Only those who knew Blandine...and knew the confines of that Other Tower...could realize that this room is an exact opposite of Blandine's. Everything else...is similar. Darker.
     She ..he...is her ...inspiration. As much as the great joy she shall experience when humankind is gone. "Yes ... yes ... Mictlan," she murmurs, voice soft again. "I think you shall." She is sitting in her ...throne...veil covering her face.
     Is she Beautiful or Horrid? Perhaps the Nightmare is in not knowing. One long and slender leg crosses over her other. And she toys with something in her hands. Round. Like a stone. Dense and black. But reflective. Like Obsidian.
     "You will have the Ibuzu...as reward ... when ...the last of the Cowering are swept from the Far Marches. Our ... Agreement ... will stand. We shall ... both win at the end of the ...day." To your question of intrigue, she says nothing. Her head is tilted back, black hair spilling over her form, over her shoulders and down along the sides of her chair. Dark eyes on you. "Intrigued? Why ...ask you this..."

     He only purses his lips at the mention of being a Liar. Mindreaders. Mictlan would be happy to depart now, save that he must put in his time. Alliances. Need. "You were...looking," he motions to the window, form twisting in the process. "I assumed there was something...to look at." Not that he would like to get into a Princess' business and all. But he is curious...since all that bit with Falling happened so much before his kind. Maybe you would tell him the story. Pass...Information. No, you would not be so manipulated.

     Laughter. Dissonant sound. Deep and throaty. Resonant. Full. And Empty. "Assumptions..." That seems to have thrilled her somehow. "Look out there...at the multitude facets of Fear and Despondency. Yes...it is a wonder to behold...." Talons turn to fingers..her body is supple ... but ...frighteningly so. She is the haunting woman of a thousand dreams. The first Rusalka. The first siren. "My brave warrior," comes Beleth's murmur. "...you ...look out of the window. Tell me what you see. Tell me....what ...intrigues you...."

     This is the part he hates. The Lord of the Underworld turns about, giving his black gaze to this side of the Marches. "I see the nightmares of those who walk in fear of you and your power." Ah, such lines like that come easy to him now.
     "I see those weakened creatures who close their eyes and wander this realm, weeping in their own failures and frailties." And further away? "Beyond that, Mistress, what else is there?" Back to you.

     "Nothing...there is nothing but that..." The talons return. They curl around the arms of her chair. Her expression sets. What little there can be seen of it. But that is a lie. Where there are Nightmares ...are there not also dreams? Just the thought of it makes her well up with darkness. With venom. "There is the wide open plains of the Marches...there is..." Her eyes focus on you. "...only territory to conquer. Think of that, my brave Mictlan...."

     He shall. And not of the Defensiveness. Mictlan nods in assent, but eyes speak otherwise. He sees it. There is something else, someone else. Upon rising, he puts on the face of curious student. "Would it be...improper...to ask a a question ... about those we oppose?"

     There is a clicking against the wood of her chair. Talons against the arms of it. And a brow lifts in an arch. And in her throne, the Queen of Night settles back. Is there manipulation in such a question? She is quiet. Perhaps just long enough for you to regret it. "Ask," comes the voice behind the veil. Or is it a mask? Is she hiding herself from you...or you from her? "I ....like bravery in a man ...." Her voice ...coils. Yes, ask, brave Mictlan. You are her favorite. That she entertains the question should be enough proof of it.

     "It comes to me," he says deferentially, "...in my work, this name." Eyes meet yours, the understanding of what is passing there. "I know that it is...that of your Enemy, my Mistress." He exhales, seeming upset to have to remark on it at all, "But...there are stories that...they make gains in the dreamscapes." Those dreams of the sleeping mortals. The shards upon the field each night.
     "I...cannot believe this is true...." he asks...You are wise enough not to speak the name.

     She is known to fly into a rage. Or ...worse yet...to go into a stony silence. "No...it is not true..." Her words are soft...but horribly precise. "We are making ... remarkable gains...In the Marches...and particularly on the Corporeal plane." Beleth leans in toward you.
     "We are bold. We take. We conquer. We ...are not content. And this...is why we shall be successful. We are the relentless, pursuing Nightmare..." You cannot see the smile. Perhaps that is a good thing. But can you see it in her eyes. A momentary flicker of sapphire blue across the otherwise abyss. "My...Enemy...does not have the heart to fight me..."

     And why is that? His eyes ask. "A fearful enemy is a soon vanquished one, my Mistrees," Mictlan replies softly. "That one," who shall remain nameless, "...should fear you. You are the Bringer of Dreams," he says, voice flat. Oh, there is much in that, "...and soon ... everyone shall know it."

     She is Dream's Shadow. And her heart is rent and spent. She tears at what she once adored. "That One...does fear me. My Enemy lives in Seclusion. Hiding...and waiting...until that day when I take my Enemy's very Tower. And then...all matters shall be ended..." Beleth turns her head. A hand motioning.
     "No more questions. Go fight, Mictlan...Spread my ...word...make that vow....real, warrior." Her eyes close again and she settles in her chair. "Make a sacrifice to Darkness...and you will feel restored for your coming battle..."

     That is perhaps enough for one visit. Mictlan bows deeply, warrior's form already emboldened to the task at hand. "As you wish, Mistress," his voice calls as he backs out towards the gate, the exit where your seal is placed. Feet cross it and he rises...and turns to head back to the Marches.

     The dark veil is removed, parted. And blue lips are twisted upon an otherwise perfect face.
     "Blandine..." Her chair will hold her with its cold arms. And she will fight. It is the only expression of the former love that once existed...

Posted by rowan at January 19, 1999 02:12 PM