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6/27/2025, 1:55:55 PM
>FIRE LAKE GARDEN
Of course you had ideas. He never consulted you on the design of your manse the first time, after all. Too late to tear it up and rebuild— much too late for you— but you would not leave yourself with vacant, dusty, bone-pale nothing. The only good parts were the font and Gil's garden in the wall. He didn't need it anymore; he had his own, now. You would.
You could've knocked out a wall, opened a door, but you took special pleasure in turning your head to the vaulted ceiling and speaking [OPEN] to the greatest, most intricate, most gemlike window of them all— the one with the sun in it— and watching it fall, and watching it shatter, coating the floor in shards of red light. The skeleton of the window swung and clattered out into the absolute darkness. You offered your hand out to Richard. "Could you give me a boost?"
He did not reach back. "And break my back, Herald? Use the door."
"Do you ever miss those long legs of yours?" you said conversationally. "Or that neck? You could use those to—"
"You don't know about those yet."
"Oh. Sorry. It's hard. I— I'm glad I'm like this, you know. If you saw me how I'm supposed to be, I wouldn't— there. There is good." You exhale steadily. "Hold still."
Richard reacted too late to stop you, even though you gave him fair warning: you launched yourself forward and bounded up his front, planting one foot on his hand and the other on his shoulder. "Yeah! Okay, now walk over there."
"You're lighter." He squeezed your ankle, but complied. There was still a sheer wall between you and the window-ledge, but you plunged your hands into the marble and made divots, and picked your way up that way. When you rolled onto the ledge at last, you reached your arm down for Richard. "Jump."
He fixed his tie. "I will join you on my own, thank you."
"No you won't," you said, and pressed against your skin again, and then he sighed dramatically and stowed his glasses and hopped— it was really more of a hop. But you flung yourself down to catch his arm, then wrenched it up and free of him, and his paper body fluttered as you swung up, black and narrow arm in hand, snake in hand. It hissed in your face, and you laughed fangs-out at it and dropped it out the window. You followed.
Richard was out there, in the blackness, brushing himself down. "Was that necessary?"
No. It was very far from necessary. But out there, everything was necessary: everything was portentous, everything meant the fate of the world. It did not mean the fate of the world whether you swung Richard out the window, but you could do it, so you did.
(1/5?)
Of course you had ideas. He never consulted you on the design of your manse the first time, after all. Too late to tear it up and rebuild— much too late for you— but you would not leave yourself with vacant, dusty, bone-pale nothing. The only good parts were the font and Gil's garden in the wall. He didn't need it anymore; he had his own, now. You would.
You could've knocked out a wall, opened a door, but you took special pleasure in turning your head to the vaulted ceiling and speaking [OPEN] to the greatest, most intricate, most gemlike window of them all— the one with the sun in it— and watching it fall, and watching it shatter, coating the floor in shards of red light. The skeleton of the window swung and clattered out into the absolute darkness. You offered your hand out to Richard. "Could you give me a boost?"
He did not reach back. "And break my back, Herald? Use the door."
"Do you ever miss those long legs of yours?" you said conversationally. "Or that neck? You could use those to—"
"You don't know about those yet."
"Oh. Sorry. It's hard. I— I'm glad I'm like this, you know. If you saw me how I'm supposed to be, I wouldn't— there. There is good." You exhale steadily. "Hold still."
Richard reacted too late to stop you, even though you gave him fair warning: you launched yourself forward and bounded up his front, planting one foot on his hand and the other on his shoulder. "Yeah! Okay, now walk over there."
"You're lighter." He squeezed your ankle, but complied. There was still a sheer wall between you and the window-ledge, but you plunged your hands into the marble and made divots, and picked your way up that way. When you rolled onto the ledge at last, you reached your arm down for Richard. "Jump."
He fixed his tie. "I will join you on my own, thank you."
"No you won't," you said, and pressed against your skin again, and then he sighed dramatically and stowed his glasses and hopped— it was really more of a hop. But you flung yourself down to catch his arm, then wrenched it up and free of him, and his paper body fluttered as you swung up, black and narrow arm in hand, snake in hand. It hissed in your face, and you laughed fangs-out at it and dropped it out the window. You followed.
Richard was out there, in the blackness, brushing himself down. "Was that necessary?"
No. It was very far from necessary. But out there, everything was necessary: everything was portentous, everything meant the fate of the world. It did not mean the fate of the world whether you swung Richard out the window, but you could do it, so you did.
(1/5?)
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