An Elegy of Fate

by S. R. Laubrea

  The mist rose, separating him from the man and the Kyuosoa like a dense, impenetrable curtain. He got off his knees, and reached out towards the light. A cold, eerie chill slithered down his spine.

  "This is why I hate sleeping," a deep voice rasped behind him. There he was, manifested out of human blood, black and silver, his arms dribbling, clots dropping from him and splattering on the dark ground. And his eyes, those rings of solid, polished gold, burned into Yonathael's purple, human-esque oculars. "The Alyi, I know you saw It. What did It say?"

  Yonathael cringed.

  "I asked you a question," he growled, deeply, the gold becoming intensely bright, burning, boiling the black-silver blood around them.

  "I-I don't know," Yonathael sputtered.

  Those golden bands widened.

  "I swear, I swear! I know nothing, nothing at all!"

  "Then it's time to wake up," he said, growing in height, his clotted base creeping over Yonathael.

  "N-no!" Yonathael protested, clawing at the limbs of blood. "No! Not again, no, please! Have mercy! No!"

  Resistance was useless.

  He sat upright. Cold sweat saturated the suede leather couch. Groggily, he ducked into the kitchen and dipped into the fridge for orange juice. The only thing left was a half-empty bottle of sweet Sorbkei wine. He snatched the elegant flask of Jokthathi import and strode down the hall, dragging his fingers along the wall. He stopped, tentatively, when his hand slid along the door to Marqi's room. A calming sensation tingled at his fingertips, the aelyth within seemed to accept that it was, for lack of a better expression, trapped within that room.

  He twisted the knob, and hesitantly opened the door. She was sitting there, her legs folded indian-style, on the center of the bed, her head bowed.

  "Aaahhhsss~" she groaned, slowly rolling her neck. Finally her eyes focused on him — sharp, crystal, magenta. "For the longest time, I thought you'd never release me," she cooed. "I was starting to like being part of you, Mok —"

  "Yonathael," his tone cut into hers. "My name is Yonathael."

  "And so what are you going to call me? Sara?"

  "As often as I please," he kept his tone low, just a hair above a growl, but serious, threatening.

  She arched her brows and canted her head. "Of course." She laid back. "You Megynsei are all the same, aren't you? Nasty, mean, and cold to us Iisae. Whatever did we do to deserve your disdain?"

  "Your kind is beneath mine," he said, matter-of-factly.

  "My name is Einarreal —"

  "Get up, Sara." He started down the hall.

  "Would that I have you respect me," she muttered.

  "What was that?"

  "Coming!" She thrust her legs forward, rocking upright.

  He flopped back on the couch, and flicked on the tele. She stretched her arms over the back and hung by her chest, her chin nestled between the couch cushions.

  'Arch Ganton DuShaffte does not plan to press premeditated rape charges against Doctor Sara Malyth. Although he is well aware that the law demands Ms. Malyth be put on death row, he says that it is for his son's sake that he prolongs exacting judgment. Because ten year old Marqisian DuShaffte, formerly Marqisian Malyth, may still need his mother.'

  "Great," she groaned. "Not only am I some snow-bunny, I just so happen to be a wolf's head."

  "That won't matter for long," Yonathael scoffed, and turned to the international channel.

  'Seven-point-eight trillion Alekzandryan Kwaz is up for grabs. But what, you may wonder, merits such a hefty bounty from Nexus? The current Neisam, Her Grace, Mylisto Alekzandyr, is offering this sum in exchange for information as to the whereabouts of her son, Rollond Jysieldor Alekzandyr, who went missing along with a strange little red-head girl, shortly after a conference of the current forty-three tribal governors.'

  "What, you got some kind of plan?" She slunk forward and nosed his stringy black hair.

  He arched his brow. "I didn't become the Master Harbinger of Fate by idle inaction. But yes, I do."

  'If you have any information that may lead to the recovery of the Prince, you can reach Nexus directly at A-CG0, 1311, 449. Again that number is A-CG0, 1311, 449.'

  "You and your Fates," she muttered. "So who do you have it in for?"

  'In other news, Gantoness Regnant, or Gantoness Pregnant? What Konstanians can expect to see in their near future.'

  He cocked his brow. "You'll see," he said, and flicked off the tele.

  "Am I barred from a straight answer?" She watched him drape a long coat over his shoulders and slide his arms into the sleeves.

  He tossed her Sara's purse, and jingled her keys. "It's a surprise," he said. "Now come, I don't plan to go ill-prepared."

  She shuffled out the door after him, and he locked it. Sara's car had some bottom damage. The landing gear was bent from dropping the car on the street. But the engines still roared to life. She didn't take long to figure out where he intended to go.

  "A museum?" she asked.

  He circled around, lowering what good gear the vehicle had left to land on, and settled it as smoothly as possible on the roof of a strip mall, three blocks from the Arboretum of Malzeyuri Wildlife and Habitat. He stepped out of Sara's car, and peered over the edge of the roofing. "Yes," he said, and dropped down into the alley.

  The back door had no handle; the loading decks were all computer operated. He strode to a silvery tap-button call panel, and without much thought, tapped it. It chimed and lit up, but after a short while, a mock-female, computerized voice came on: Welcome, please state your ID and the nature of your visit.

  He pushed on the bottom of his throat, and rolled his head along his shoulders. When he spoke, he made the most unnatural sounds. Technological sounds, in pitches high and low, wobbling and screeching. Sara stared at Yonathael's lips, as he uttered sound after sound, as if words in a foreign language.

  Thank you. Received at 1:37 am, the panel chimed, and the freight door opened.

  He was marked by complete stoic as he went in, as if used to what he had done. "The designs of this Alyi are useful."

  "Strange is more like it," Einariel said, by Sara's voice. She had doubts as to where he was going, and her pace slowed, as he strayed through the halls. His eyes scanned the plaque of each dome, and sometimes he stood in the entrance foyer, listening to the sounds of the creatures within. Until finally he came to a place that smelled familiar.

  It was the stench of sulfur and of bog rot; the sound of yellowed, crusted bubbling springs, and the low disparaging wails of widwing-hags as he stepped into the vivarium; how the spongy ground broke at each step, and swallowed his foot whole; the perfect replica of a region once called Aylokazus. He passed by straw huts held fast by mud mortar, what the Malzeyurites used to live in hundreds of thousands of years before Konstaniah.

  It was a walk down memory lane for him:

  Oily-skinned, ghostly white, pristine blond men and women filled the empty huts. The steely walkway of the Arboretum became an over-trodden dirt path, and the people who stood in his way, with solemn faces, stepped aside. They were taller than him, and the children stood as high as his shoulder as he strode — on his hands and feet like a beast.

  A ways down the road was one that looked just like Yonathael, a beast whose body was covered in a fine, fuzzy, ebony down, and his paws were like human hands, and his mane of hair like that of a horse wobbled back and forth as he worked with sanding stones on a gnarled branch. The color of his glossy, lidless eye was burgundy and violet, swirled erratically, and as his internal ocular aperture shifted, and he caught sight of Yonathael, the beast uttered something only the two of them understood:

  Welcome, Brother! You remember that project I'm working on, do you? I finally finished it, despite what you told me. You were right, though, it is exceptionally unstable. Perhaps it is a good idea to seal it away, or better, destroy it. But now that it's here, I want you to have it. I figure, you'll know how to make practical use of it. The beast grinned at Yonathael
, and rose from his haunches. The branch he worked became a winding, polished staff. It narrowed at its far end and then split into two, pointed prongs in a U-shape. And at its base was an inscription rendered in the early words of the Gyutic language:

  Yonaithes: my love, my brother, my womb-mate — Vandlorr.

  There it was, the staff his brother made, upright and just as perfect as it was back then, centered in the vivarium. Waves of intense nostalgia overwhelmed him as he gripped the smooth wood. His eyelids fluttered, and his breath wavered — his whole body tensed. Tingling sensations, like thousands of thousands of volts of electricity surged through him at once. It was power, it was great, and it was still dreadfully unstable.

  "What's with the twig?" Sara asked.

  He faced her, but his eyes gradually opened. He had no idea why someone would retrieve this thing from the Blacklands only to hole it up in the museum. But for that matter, he didn't care. "Can't go unprepared, can we?"

  "Go where?"

  "You are the mother of the Arch Ganton's son," he said. "You tell me where we're going."

  Meanwhile, in the prenatal wing of Professor Dannes and Colleagues Hospital, Arlen fidgeted nervously. It helped a little that it was the same doctor and the same room that he first discovered Marqisian in. He was excited, trauma non-withstanding, to relive that moment, and Arlen's mind wandered the halls of the hospital's past, just over a decade ago, to he infant boy, whose head fit in the palm of his hand.

  When he sat down, and the nurse first handed him a bottle of warm milk, for the longest time he watched the boy suck, and peered into one blue eye, one green eye. When he reached up and grabbed Arlen's finger, that was when he knew, no matter what, this was his son.

  But this time he was there, as they smoothed Lellayla's belly with lubricant and ran the ultrasound.

  "Hey Marqi, Marqi, look!" He tapped his son and pointed at the monitor.

  Marqisian gasped. "It's… It's a girl?" he asked, because there weren't any 'poked-out' parts between the legs when the fetus opened its legs.

  "M'hm." Arlen nodded. "This is your sister."

  The boy canted his head at the images on the screen. "Is she going to be white, like me?"

  Lellayla snorted, and Arlen's cheeks turned bright red.

  "Errm… Marqi," he said, and knelt down to Marqisian's eye level. "You know what happens when you mix a bunch of milk with a bunch of coffee?"

  "Yeah, it turns into that light gray-brown stuff."

  "Exactly," Arlen said, "she's going to be like that light gray-brown stuff."

  Marqi nodded and watched the screen. She had a thing for grabbing her toes. It made her look cute, how she didn't really know any better, practicing for when she came into the outside world. "Dad, can I name her?" He grinned, broadly, at Arlen, who glanced at Lellayla.

  "What would you like to name her?" Lel asked.

  "Laylen," Marqisian blurted out.

  "Marqi, that is a beautiful name," she said.

  "Where'd you come up with that, Marqster?" Arlen asked.

  "Well, I thought Lellayla and Arlen makes Laylen." It's like math, where one plus one equals one — and three quarters.

  "I like it," Lel said. "That's her name, and I'll fight you tooth and claw over it."

  "I'm not so sure I like it that rough," Arlen said.

  The doctor ushered them out into the hall, where Arlen and Marqisian waited for Lellayla to get dressed. She glowed when she finally returned to them. Arlen kept his vision dead ahead. He didn't want to disturb their laughter, as Lel and Marqi pondered over Laylen. It wasn't until he parked his car on the top deck of the embassy, and Marqisian skipped in, that he and Lel were alone.

  "I've been your wife just under a year," she said. "And I know when something's off."

  He sighed and held his forehead between his thumb and index finger, leaning on the car door armrest. "Yeah, you do."

  "Is it the name?" Her voice rang in earnest. Maybe he didn't like 'Laylen'? "Arlen, if it's about Marqi naming our daughter, please, say so."

  "No," he hesitantly said.

  "Then tell me, please?"

  "I'm just weary."

  She wove her fingers between his and clenched his hand. It was that furrow-browed, jaded look on his face that caused her guts to churn. "Hey, lets throw a party. We can invite Marqi's friends over and make it a non-political bash."

  He sighed and shook his head. "Lel, I don't think that's the right idea."

  "It is a good idea, though. Arlen, how do you expect to fulfill your duties to the nation if you're constantly stressed over who-knows-what?"

  "And partying is going to help me 'fill my shoes' as Arch Ganton. Lel, do you hear what you're saying?"

  "No, I don't mean it like that!" Her voice escalated. "Look, I just want to help."

  He rolled his eyes and opened the door. She half-expected him to head into the building, but wasn't disappointed when he came around and opened the door for her. "Then make it happen," he said. "Right now, I just need…" He had no idea what he needed.

  "Thank you!" She gave him a sloppy, wet kiss on the cheek, and slid into the secretary's station. The desk was still familiar, as the touchscreen chimed to life. She didn't take long to make all the calls she needed.

  The Embassy was arranged in several tiers of four floors each for its central complex, and by wings for its annexes. The fifth floor from the flat on top was considered the grandest of all the levels, as it had a sterling view overlooking the capital in all directions, and a social dining room for gatherings that could easily suit more than four thousand people. And Arlen had just sprawled on the couch when the catering services from the galley arrived.

  His eyes widened as five men hauled out a twenty-seven layer cake decorated to look precisely like the Embassy.

  "Now dat, is wot I kall, a cake." Iott Nashom, the Ambassador of Jokthath, applauded the servitors.

  "And that's what I call showing up too early," Arlen laid back down.

  Iott stopped at the north view. "When I hear dat you wife was havink a shower for fe girl, I dought, maybe I brink my family. But, of course, dey are far away in Jokfaf. So I say to myself, 'Iott, why not brink you ofer family?' Und so, I did." He brought several of his own servitors who arrayed on one of the long tables a large, central fountain, bubbling with frothy Jokthathi Spice Wine.

  "Of course when I heard that Iott was on the guest list, I had to come right away." Ashabell Kreatt, who represented Jeskatch, Jokthath's sister-kingdom, rubbed his hands together. "Wherever there is that fine Spice'd Wine there must be gloam cakes!"

  "There's supposed to be children, too, you know," Arlen interjected. "Can't have a ton of drinking and beer-food."

  "How insulting," Ashabell scoffed. "Gloam cakes are not mere 'beer' food. They are among the greatest traditions of our people. Frankly, I'd be proud, if I were you. It's not every day a politician's son gets to have the best thing he's ever eaten before he turns eleven."

  "Your mother's the best thing I've ever eaten," Arlen muttered.

  "Oh, blow me, you murderous Swankard," Ashabell sneered.

  "I would, but that'd be too much of a compliment." Arlen grinned.

  "You're right, it would be, coming from a frat-dropout —"

  "Boys, boys!" Kiosiss Radsean, Mistress for the face of Ilumanyea, stepped between Arlen and Ashabell, pushing them apart by a hand splayed on each chest. "Must we engage in politics? Besides, who here has the bigger penis?"

  Ashabell's hand shot up.

  "You're an idiot, and you know it," Kiosiss said. "So I brought some gifts for the children, if you don't mind." She smiled at Arlen.

  He shrugged. "Yeah, so long as someone remembers to keep this kid-friendly, other than me, I'm good. Remember, I'm not discussing anything, and I expect the same from my contemporaries. Tonight's about Lel and our daughter. I don't care which fat-butted head-of-hierarchy wants to know who's going to shove their prodigal penis up Konstania's poon, not tonight. We clear?"
r />   The three representatives nodded.

  "Good," Arlen sighed. He grabbed a glass of spice wine and returned to the couch. Before long the rest of the guests began arriving, and Arlen greeted them, each one, as they came in. So did Marqisian, imitating his father. When the last of the children went past him, he smiled at his dad. His accomplished grin faded, gradually, as he noticed the glossy, wet appearance of his father's eyes.

  Arlen put his fist over his lips.