The flower is chill with dew and scent, but wherever its waxy petals light, a spark of heat ignites beneath my skin.

“Stop,” I say. But I don’t move away.

Fine hairs stand as the flower kisses them lightly. My neck burns.

“Make me stop,” he whispers. A challenge.

I grab his wrist. The flower falls.

The bark of the tree must hurt as he’s pushed against it but from the look in his eyes it’s a sweet pain.

“Make me stop,” I say. A challenge.

But he doesn’t.

quietus – noun
1.Something that serves to suppress, check, or eliminate.
2.Release from life; death.
3. A final discharge, as of a duty or debt.

Fantasy, original story.

Somewhere, I’ll swear it is true.

Rated R for language.

~*~

Quietus

~*~

He held out a feather and three pebbles. The immigration official stared at his palm, then looked up at him.

“Passport or I/C, sir?”

He made a fist of his palm, placed it in his jacket and then took it out again.

The official smiled as he handed her a small red book.

“Ah, returning home from a business trip…?” she squinted at the passport. “…Mr Michael Lee?”

“Yes,” he said and remembered to smile.

Whenever he came here, his passport said “Mike Lee”. Not an unusual name for Singapore. And it was nice to be called by an approximation of his real title.

“Have a good day,” said the immigration official, handing him back his little red book. He closed a fist over it and felt three pebbles and a long warm feather.

“Thank you,” he said and walked away.

The contents of his backpack did not alert the sensors as he left the airport.

~*~

The train rocked below his feet. He held on to a grab-pole and closed his eyes, thinking of the wind rushing beneath Asahi Phoenix’s feathers.

It had been a long flight and cold. Borne on the giant bird’s back, he had sat in silence until day turned to night and he was suddenly in the belly of a steel bird instead of riding the wings of morning.

The train moaned beneath his feet and he felt sea serpent’s scales shifting. Felt a dragon roaring in an endless tunnel, felt the hot spurt of blood as its fangs grazed his shoulder.

His shoulder ached. He rubbed it absently.

The dragonskin backpack shimmered at his feet as the train moaned its despair again.

~*~

The flat he kept for his use was clean and bright. The utilities paid, the water hot.

It did nothing for the pain.

The wound throbbed angrily, swollen with new pus. Trying to rid his body of the dragon poison.

He tended it, wondering why he bothered, then used a knife honed on sea serpent hide to shave.

Later, a steaming cup of coffee by his side, he looked through the contents of his backpack. Took the three pebbles, touched the feather to his lips.

It was warm now, almost hot.

He glanced out of the window. Mid-day. Not many people would brave the searing sunlight.

A good time to pay a certain visit then.

~*~

They called it the Esplanade now and caged the sea with little tongues of manmade land. He stretched out on one such spit, near the spewing statue of a Merlion.

The water was calm and glinted with the light of a million diamonds. Not many humans would brave the shine. He was the only one who dared today.

He hefted the largest of the three pebbles and drew his arm as far back as it would go.

Released it. The pebble described a long slow arc, glinting in the midday sun.

A very distant splash, and then the water continued to shimmer peacefully.

He drew his legs below his chin and waited.

The water shifted in long slow rolls. Churned, then heaved.

The shape that rose would have blotted out the sun had it had form and substance of the kind humans were accustomed to sensing. It rose straight and true, an immensity of green-blue scale and white-grey armour.

A head larger than reality came within snapping distance. An eye three times his size rolled in surprise and pleasure.

Our greetings, son of the Jade Emperor, whispered the sea dragon, loud as thunder. And our thanks.

The wind of its breath was salty and sorrowful at once. It stunk of dead fish and rotting rubber but also whispered of unknown depths pure of oxygen and the hand of man.

You are wounded, it whispered, and the waters of the bay rumbled.

He opened his shirt, let the dragon see his shoulder.

Ah.

It flicked out a long, impossibly long tongue that narrowed to a needle-sharp point.

He gritted his teeth as the needle found its mark.

The tongue withdrew.

Done, said the dragon.

He shrugged the shoulder, feeling the pain lessen. “Thank you, uncle.”

The great eyes rolled again.

How is my Brother?

“The Emperor is well,” he said.

But you are not, finished the dragon. Your Father uses you too hard.

“It is my function,” he said.

Dragon eyes rolled again.

And does that still please you?

He looked away, unable to meet its gaze.

Salt breath blasted his head upwards. The dragon stared at him with calm, vast eyes.

There is peace in the oceans, in the depths where humans have not been. The battles there are clean, spurred by hunger and life. When you have tired of the errands my Brother sends you on…

“Perhaps one day,” he lied, standing. “I thank you, uncle.”

Go well, and the needlepoint tongue kissed both his cheeks.

He watched the immensity recede and felt pinpricks of blood well up beneath his eyes.
They felt, he imagined, like the tears that he was not made to shed.

“Thank you,” he said again to the bay.

The blood had dried by the time he reached the shade.

~*~

He avoided the whorehouse lanes, the areas of known crime.

It was why he was here. Only here and in one another city where the crime rate was lower, could he avoid his function, avoid stepping into his role.

When he came here, it was not to fight.

Especially not this time.

“Just a shandy,” he told the bartender at the tallest restaurant in the city. Took his drink over to the windows that showed the entire nightclub district at his feet. Swirled the glass and dropped the smallest pebble into it.

The feather in his pocket, which had cooled as evening fell, warmed suddenly.

“Hullo,” hissed a voice near his ear.

He turned and offered the lamia a drink.

She took it, snake-eyes gleaming.

“An unexpected pleasure.”

He shrugged. “A belated wedding gift.”

She tilted her head in a way that would have been impossible for a human being. The gesture was hidden in the shadows of the room.

“Are we friends now?”

“We are not enemies here,” he said. “Sister.”

She smiled then and he felt a low dark pulsing near his stomach.

“Sister?” she said, and tossed back the drink, jewel and all. He doubted she’d swallowed it. Probably stored it in her poison sacs.

She caught him staring and grinned, opening her mouth to reveal a glint in the recesses of a cheek. He let out his breath.

“Your brother misses you,” she said and leaned forward to kiss his cheek. Tugged his earlobe with her teeth instead. “Thank you for the gift.”

The bite was not unfriendly. She didn’t use poison.

He turned back to the windows that showed the city at his feet, waiting for the feather to burn a hole in his pocket.

It stayed comfortably warm, then cooled.

Near dawn, he gave up and returned to his flat.

~*~

He sat in a chair in his flat and turned the phoenix feather between his fingers.

The last pebble, the middle-sized one, lay stolidly on a nearby table. It was grey and ordinary in the sunlight. Like its brethren, it only revealed its truth to certain eyes and in certain lights.

It was the last of three jewels taken from the crop of a phoenix. Jewels given willingly, with the thanks of a sunbird that could now lay its eggs without fearing a dragon would consume them.

The largest one granted healing powers – it purified wounds or eased the passage from one life to the next.

The smallest one granted fertility – it blessed love and passion, ensuring their fruits grew strong and tall in the sun.

The middle-sized one – he raised his head as a shadow blotted out the light.

“Hullo,” he said, squinting upwards, the phoenix feather blazing incandescence and blanking out his visitor’s features.

“You look like shit,” said his brother, sitting down.

He put the feather away and tried a smile. “Nice to see you too.”

His brother tilted his head in a gesture he might have learnt from his wife.

“Please do not tell me,” he jerked his head at the stone, “that you just wished for your heart’s desire.”

“No,” said Michael simply. “You just turned up anyway.”

His brother emitted a short laugh. “Prick. How’s the shoulder?”

“Healed.”

“Did a good job there,” said his brother. “You won’t forget that run-in in a hurry.”

“No,” said Michael, throat constricting. “How have you been?”

His brother frowned. “You should know. Didn’t you just come here after killing me?”

“About that,” Michael said. “I’m sorry.”

His brother blinked. Then threw his head back and laughed.

“No, really,” Michael insisted. “I’m sorry.”

His brother stopped laughing. Leaned forward, staring hard.

“I can almost believe you mean that.”

Michael did not look away. “I do.”

His brother’s eyes gleamed. “So, have you finally seen the error of your ways?”

“In a way,” said Michael slowly. “You might say that. In a way.”

His brother’s eyes narrowed. He studied Michael’s face. Finally he shook his head.

“You can’t be serious.”

Michael shrugged.

His brother shook his head again. “You cannot be serious.”

Michael looked at his hands. “Yes.”

“You’re…giving up?”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re what?” His brother barked. It might have been a laugh. “You’re tired! I’m the one you hunt and kill in every story, every world, and you’re tired!”

Michael winced. The phantom pain had started again in his shoulder, despite the needle-kiss of the sea dragon.

“My shoulder hurts,” he told his brother. “I’ve swung the sword once too often.”
Killed you, he did not say, once too often.

His brother shook his head. “You’re insane.”

Michael shook his. “No. I’m just…tired.”

“And that’s going to work, is it?”

Michael shrugged. “That’s what I intend to tell Father.”

“Shit.” His brother uncrossed his legs, leaned forward. “Listen,” he began persuasively, “If that’s all it is, you know there’s always a place –”

Michael shook his head. “No. Thank you, but no.”

His brother stared. “Then what the hell do you want?”

Oblivion, thought Michael. To stop, just to stop. To be reborn as human, to have the luxury of believing our stories are a lie. But that would be a betrayal of what he had been made to be and betrayal was not included in his makeup.

I don’t know what I want.

“I don’t know what I want,” he told his brother. “I just know I want this to stop. I can’t go on…in my current function.” Doomed to play out the same battle, the same story again and again, in every world, forever and ever.

Chasing you. Killing you. Being killed by you. Hunting you again.

“Our Father will have to find a new story.”

His brother shook his head. “Our Father will just create a new Champion.”

“Maybe,” said Michael. “But it won’t be me.”

“How do you know?” his brother shot back.

Michael swallowed.

“Because He prides himself on craftsmanship, on making things unique. He doesn’t do duplicates.”

His brother let his head fall back. “Shit.”

Michael waited for a while, then leaned forward, pebble in his hand.

“For you,” he said.

His brother opened his eyes but didn’t look at him.

“No thanks.”

“Please.” Michael’s throat was rough. “I got this for you.”

His brother looked at him. “You already gave my wife a really crappy gift.”

Michael tried to smile. “You used to love the light once. Starmaker, they called you. I thought it would be nice if the kids could enjoy the sun you made…”

His brother snorted. “I hope you’re right about the uniqueness thing. A Champion as sappy as you gets to be a real pain.” He stood.

Michael felt his throat tighten. His palm twitched, but remained open.

His brother sneered.

“Why don’t you use it?” he asked. “For your own heart’s desire?”

“There’s nothing I want anymore,” Michael said, and it was not a lie. “Nothing that that stone could give me.”

His brother looked at him a long time.

“Don’t,” he said finally.

Michael looked down. “I must.”

“Because you’re tired? Fuck that shit.”

Michael’s hand closed about the stone. Tightened.

“I used to enjoy my work once,” he said, barely audible. “I hate that most of all.”

“Fuck you,” said his brother. “Fuck you and your super-enlightened, super-loving psyche. Fuck you and our father.”

“Don’t,” said Michael.

His brother kicked at the table. Then incinerated it.

“Don’t,” he said again.

Michael said nothing.

His brother sat back down. “Fine,” he said. “Fine. What will it take?”

“Sorry?”

“What will it take,” his brother said, as if to an imbecile. “Reconciliation is out. Anything else. Name it.”

Michael shook his head. “I’m not…I don’t want you…”

“I know,” his brother said. “That’s why I’m offering. What will it take?”

Michael looked at the stone in his palm. It felt suddenly heavy. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I don’t think there’s anything anymore.”

“Well fuck you then.”

Michael fell back, stunned by the blow. His brother leaned over him, fists clenched.

His cheek throbbed. The phoenix feather blazed in his pocket.

“Fine, give up then,” hissed his brother. “What the fuck do I care? Some bloody Champion you are, giving up so easily.”

Giving up? Giving up what? Michael didn’t say, but his brother answered.

“Everything. Fuck you.” He punctuated each word with a fist.

Even with his healing power, Michael felt one eye closing and three teeth loosen.

“You’re not,” blow, “supposed,” punch, “to be,” kick, “the one,” slap, “who gives up.”

His brother hooked two fingers in Michael’s collar and lifted him up.

Reflexively, Michael headbutted him. Hard.

His brother fell back, swearing.

This time it was Michael who loomed as his brother got shakily to his feet.

“Give me that stone.” His brother’s eyes gleamed.

Michael tightened his fists reflexively. Punched, found himself blocked. Got in one from the other side.

His brother swore, lashed out.

They broke five fingers – two of them Michael’s – before the stone fell to the ground.

His brother snatched it up. Tightened his hand around it.

Opened his palm and blew away the dust.

“Fuck you,” he said again. “And I already did that to your crappy wedding gift.”

He disappeared, leaving Michael blinking in the sunlight.

“Liar,” he said after a moment, knowing his brother too well.

Then he spat out a tooth and staggered to the shower.

His bruises groaned and ached for healing, but his heart was lighter than it had been in millenia.

~*~

He awoke the next morning and packed his knives and sword in a dragonskin bag. He cleaned up the apartment, knowing he’d be back – not soon perhaps, but definitely. Once he’d grown tired of living out the next round of stories.

It was why he came here, after all. For the rest cure.

He grinned as he took the feather out of his pocket. It was warm and bright as he kissed it, growing incandescent but not blinding.

“Father,” he said, as the light enveloped him, soothing the last of his hurts and tiredness.

And then he was elsewhere, riding the wings of the Phoenix to a new adventure, as sunlight streamed through the windows of an empty apartment, illuminating a drifting feather and sparkles of ordinary house dust.

~ End

He did not become a True Hero by slaying the Dragon of the North or capturing the Werewolf of the West. Despite his exploits, the Wisest Witch still shook her head whenever he came to beg his ratings in her crystal ball.

“Sorry,” she murmured, while the not-yet-true-enough hero tore his beard in frustration.

Eventually, he rescued a queen and became her captive in turn. They had twelve rambunctious children who all grew up to seek adventure.

Then the Witch came to his lonely castle, patted his white-knuckled hand kindly and said, “Now you know what True Heroism is.”

Wind
.
.

.
.
.

His parents insisted he meet some lovely ladies for matrimonial purposes, hoping to get him to tie the knot before he returned overseas. He decided to do his best to ensure the meetings didn’t go too well.

If the maitre d’ asked, “Do you have reservations?” he answered, “Yes, but my parents really like her so I thought why not meet her anyway?”

Another time, he ordered two neat whiskies before asking his potential bride, “And what are you having?”

He asked a third girl, “What are your views on BDSM?”

She replied, “Who gave you permission to speak, slave?”

The tellers’ duty is to calm insecurities, not to actually reveal a person’s fate. It’s not what they read in the stars, but how they phrase it that is their gift.

You will be greatly blessed at forty, the tellers say. They mean you may not survive past thirty-nine.

You will rejoice in your child, the tellers say. They mean you will only ever have one, that too with difficulty.

Your husband will shower you with jewellery, the tellers say. They mean when he is sorry for beating you.

For obvious reasons, tellers never have their own stars read.

The first card of the Celtic Cross – this covers you.

Yearning is a rock-hard ball of suppressed feeling rising inexorably skywards. It blocks the throat, eclipsing sound, randomly reflecting itself. A chair, a glass, your own hand is a sudden, poignant focus.

Remind yourself that the chair is uninhabited, the glass empty. Silver-white rays may seem to outline a ghostly hand touching yours, but remember that the moon is the orb of longing. Its light easily seduces vision to strange imaginings.

Swallow the moon. Look away from the night.

Remember that ghosts fade in the light of day.

The river of dreams bisects the city into old and new, rich and poor.

At night when the river is inky black, reflecting the pale moon and her attendant clouds, boatmen navigate the sleeping waters while looking westwards at pinpoints of light. These are oil lamps, carefully hoarded, low-lit, illuminating the hard work of seamstresses, tailors and cobblers. From the waters, they look like wistful desires, cherished prayers offered to unseeing deity.

The east bank of the river burns with lanterns, fire-candles and electric sparks. The boatmen rarely look that way.
Such brilliance is beyond them. It hurts their eyes.

To be a bard, take the road up the hill. On the hilltop, dream for many nights. Either they’ll come to you or they won’t.

First the cat-woman will scratch your eyes. Either you’ll wake blinded or with the gift of far-seeing. You cannot tell in the dream.

Next, the serpent-man will bite you. You will not know until you wake if the poison brings death or inspiration.

Finally, heed the words of the dancing fool. Memorise them, and perhaps you’ll awake wiser. Or perhaps you won’t.

You’ll wake a bard, or you won’t.

Wake, that is. For very long.

“I have lost my shadow,” she told the gate-guards. “I must find it before dawn.”

She walked through the city gates into the desert.

“I have lost my shadow,” she told the watchful desert fox. “Have you seen it? I must find it before dawn.”

The desert fox scampered away.

She walked weary hours, finally reaching the giant paws of a sand-blasted sphinx.

“I have lost – “ she said, then stopped. Hidden in the eyes of the sphinx she saw her silent, secret shadow.

You have found me. What now? It asked.

She answered just as the sun rose.