Ascent

[HorrorFighter]

Note: Since walking away from TSW months ago, I regretted not saying goodbye properly. I left my toon in limbo, and I left good people hanging. That has been eating at me. As corny and egotistical as it may sound, I never got or gave closure. I RPed my character for years, and for better or worse, he became part of me, I became part of him, and together we became part of the TSW RPing community (albeit in a small way).

A proper farewell is in order.

This is going to be my final story about my toon. The story itself is becoming much larger than I had initially anticipated, so I've decided to post in smaller chunks. That should make it easier to read while also giving me the opportunity to publish as I continue to write.

For those who know me and played with me, I hope this story delivers a nice closing chapter. And if you have no clue who I am (or don't particularly care about my character), I hope you'll enjoy the story nonetheless. I provide enough history to give you a sense of who (and what) the character is. I also give additional insights that might change the way you think about him (and me).

Being honest with myself, I know there's a small (and dwindling) number of players who remember or feel a connection to the character. This story is for them as much as it is for me.

And even if no one reads this, I still had to write it.

Because even a bad guy deserves a good ending.

I hope this story does him justice.

Hugs and kisses,
--HF

 

[HorrorFighter]

1.
The man was alone on the mountain. The guides had sneaked off while he slept, taking the supplies with them.

The man didn't blame them for abandoning him. He didn't forgive them either. If he made it back down, he'd kill them and all they held dear. But the likelihood of a return trip seemed slim. If the man got what he wanted, his search would be over. And depending on what he found, he might not have anything to return to.

The man looked up. If this mountain indeed held the truth, that's where he would need to go.

Up.

Without any equipment, the climb would require strength, persistence, and luck. The man had plenty of the three, although his appearance wouldn't suggest it. His expertly tailored clothes were shredded. Cuts and callouses crisscrossed his body. Blood smeared his face. His sweat had turned to ice. His lungs ached from the altitude.

Most people would not have reached this height. Most people would have been dead by now. If the treacherous temperatures and sharp rocks didn't kill them outright, they would have succumbed to the damage that those things caused.

Most people would have collapsed from exhaustion, shivering and panting until the cold claimed them.

But the man wasn't most people.

Something buzzed inside him that made him different.

Something buzzed inside him that he needed to understand.

 

[HorrorFighter]

2.
When the man had arrived days earlier, far below, the villagers had eyed him suspiciously. Here was a man not dressed for the elements. He wore a suit, a tie, expensive shoes, a thin, wicked smile, and nothing else.

They whispered among themselves, nodding at his attire, wondering how he had managed to survive the elements. They beckoned, inviting him to share their fire. He shook his head. He stood on the outskirts of the village and waited. The merciless winds whipped him, and his pale, exposed skin was already showing signs of frostbite.

He didn't seem to mind.

"He can't be a man," said a villager in his native tongue. The villager was huddled by the fire as he watched the flames cast shadows that darted and danced over the ground and across the stranger's body, making him appear to flicker in and out of existence.

The villager's observation wasn't entirely wrong, at least as far as the man was concerned.

The man was a man, but he always viewed himself as an evolutionary improvement upon one. The way he saw it, he was on top of the food chain. He took what he wanted, did what he wanted, without pity or remorse. Unhindered by the pull of emotion, he moved freely, accumulating wealth and enemies, leaving piles of dead in his wake.

Killing had always come easy to him. It became even easier once he himself was incapable of dying.

He was immortal.

He was tired.

He was angry.

And he wanted an explanation.

He had a simple question, frequently asked yet notoriously difficult to answer:

"Why me?"

 

[HorrorFighter]

3.
Months ago, the man had walked away from it all -- the desire for power, the betrayals, the politics, the broken friendships. All of the vast disappointments.

He hated so many now for failing him. He despised himself most of all. He had put himself in vulnerable positions where people could actually affect him. He had grown sentimental, allowed himself to become close to others, when he always believed that he was meant to live as a solitary predator. Yet he ignored his finely tuned instincts and sought companionship. He connected. He trusted.

His weakness sickened him.

He had tried to be something he wasn't. Something he was never meant to be. Something he couldn't be.

Normal.

Or so he told himself.

He had lovers, but he would not love. He made friends, but he would not care for them.

He watched as his relationships fractured predictably from his deliberate impassiveness, leaving nothing but a bitter taste in his mouth.

He should have known better. He did know better, in fact. But an unexpected gift from Gaia -- the immortality required to fight an ancient cosmic darkness -- made him think that perhaps he should change to fit the forces of light. He was capable of it. And he had tried on a few occasions. But he always arrived at the same conclusion: He didn't want to change. He saw no reason for it. He saw no reason to surrender his perfection.

In opposition to those who decried his murderous actions, the man declared defiantly that he was as natured intended -- born and groomed to conquer and kill and sleep soundly. But he had been drafted into a three-ally army that expected more from its ranks. They could fuck and scheme and act out their little dramas like adolescent superheroes, and some higher power decorated them for their pettiness and silly games. But a soldier who relished the kill, who was capable of making the decisions others could not, who did the things others would not? There was no place for him.

He was sneered at.

Despised.

Labelled a monster.

The lack of respect ate at him. He wanted more. Deserved more. As much as he welcomed an excuse to get his hands bloodier, he didn't want to squander himself completely on the front lines. He craved a position of command too -- the one that his family long denied him. The man was part of a celebrated bloodline known for its immense wealth and influence, and yet he was cast out from the empire. His father and brothers only opened their doors to him briefly when they could exploit his homicidal talents. They knew what he was and made use of that. They ordered him to silence their enemies -- and he did as demanded because rebellion would cost him dearly -- but, in their eyes, he would always be a defective embarrassment to their house.

Rejected by the familial hierarchy, the man invested his own resources into the establishment of his own domain. He lived in luxury, dedicating himself only to the finest and most expensive things. He enjoyed the very best life had to offer. He enjoyed the very best deaths he could devise. He obeyed no laws other than his own. His art was sadism. His pursuit was pleasure. His goal was dominance.

The man felt destined to rule, and when he discovered a secret world filled with factions that served as humanity's protector (and, in the case of his faction, also operated as humanity's hidden puppeteer), he thought he had finally found the opportunity that had evaded him. In this war against an unspeakable evil, he could finally prove his worth and ascend to a position of leadership.

It was not to be. He watched fools rise up the chains of command, whereas he attempted to scrape and claw out from the trenches. He saw himself as a king, but any form of authority -- while sometimes momentarily grasped -- always managed to elude him.

It was frustrating to the point of madness. Some might say a greater madness. His sanity had long been the subject of heated debate, and he often stood solitarily when arguing in defense of his mental clarity.

The man insisted he had a sound mind.

He tended to kill those who disagreed.

Upon confessing this to a therapist, the man asked, "Is it so crazy to eliminate those who criticize my mental health?"

When the therapist hesitated before responding, the man scalped her.

The therapist was just another in a long line of detractors. The man had grown weary of justifying his actions and explaining himself to those who defamed him. No one would recognize the obvious superiority he recognized in himself. Quite the opposite. Even after the man made a job of war, troops told him he was undeserving of the gift of immortality bequeathed to him. He was called weak. He was called a mistake. Cursed by his family, he was now also cursed by his career.

At constant odds with his supposed comrades (and his laughably inept "superiors"), the man had to consider that maybe he had selected the wrong side in the war.

Or maybe the wrong side had selected him.

The allied armies tried to break him. They sent people into his life whom they hoped might be able to adjust his attitude, make him more pliable, and encourage him to comply with their sense of duty. He played along with their plots (the transparent ones, at least), although he had plans of his own. He tried to corrupt those they had assigned. He would not change for them -- they would change for him. It was sport. In this moral tug of war, he found himself drawn to those who wanted to turn him into something else, and they, in turn, circled him -- his black soul becoming the light that lured them in. Sometimes he failed and fought the feelings that he began to develop for them. Sometimes he succeeded and warped their goodness. Most often, both parties -- he and the others -- found some middle ground, even if only temporarily. He modified his behavior and at times came close to affection for them, and, in return, he poisoned their purity. He wallowed in the toxicity, claiming victory when, deep down, he knew he had sacrificed part of the strength he valued most. He traded his savage bloodlust for the company of those who assuaged his doubts by claiming to see his uniquely lethal genius.

They became like a drug he constantly craved -- an addiction to the positive reinforcement long denied him. They lay beside him, lips pressed to his ear, whispering of his greatness, and he would nod and smile brightly in the darkness and bask in the warmth of the recognition.

They saw him as he saw himself. Or so they claimed.

Often they lied -- or so he suspected. In his presence, they lost their humanity, but they also manipulated him by massaging his ego. Because he permitted it. Worse, he invited it.

And then, when he was most susceptible, when he had altered his actions slightly to keep them, he felt that they slipped away. If they stayed, he guessed that they stayed not for him but for some ulterior motive. To control him more. To force some fresh insult into his life -- some person or thing or concept they expected him to embrace as important.

He would eventually conclude that he had been tricked and trapped. If he could, he would tear apart those who wronged him. More frequently, they escaped his grasp, and he seethed over his stupidity -- for once again opening himself so easily to deceit.

The man considered that maybe his own confidence was his downfall. He found no faults in who and what he was, so he resisted all efforts to tether him. He couldn't accept why so-called allies refused to accept him. He knew his conduct horrified, but wasn't that the point? To fight the horror with horror? If not, then what was his purpose in this war? If he had so much to offer, why were so many so quick to recondition him? If he suffered flaws, why was he among Gaia's chosen? Why had he received the bee that granted him the immortality necessary to combat the thick, crawling blackness when those around him often strived to strip away the deadly proclivities he brought to the battle?

On some level, the man could appreciate their rancor. He wasn't a nice person. He didn't deny it. If anything, he took pride in it. Nice people weren't winners. They were victims. The man acknowledged that he hurt the innocent and conspired against those who stood in his way, but what of it? He was pledged to the Illuminati. His faction's religion was greed and its church was built upon suffering. The Illuminati spent centuries suppressing and abusing to amass fortunes. They appointed and assassinated kings, made and broke pacts, stabbed backs, and dug tick-deep into the fabric of all societies. Their machinations influenced governments, banks, and the very fate of nations.

In short, they decided who got rich, who lived, and who died.

And he was the bad guy? They should have seen that for every civilian killed, he killed score more of the enemy. The latter was his job, and he was exceedingly good at it. The former was just a hobby.

As far as he was concerned, his amorality was a shining example of everything the Illuminati stood for. They should have given him a corner office overlooking the city. Instead they locked him in the basement.

It made no sense to him, so he set out to find those who could make sense of it for him.

 

[HorrorFighter]

4.
The journey that had brought him to the hidden village at the base of the mountain began on the other side of the globe, in a place that was a stark contrast.

In a desert.

In his customary suit and tie, the man trudged and sweated across sands baked to burning by the fierce sun. He marched for days, eventually losing track of the sunrises and sunsets he had witnessed. At times, he questioned his decision and, although well provisioned, he deliberated turning back. But he was not ready to surrender his search at the outset.

Before the first step of his journey, the man had taken great care to get the right names and locations. He used all his resources to compile the list. It wasn't easy. It required diligence. The man was driven. He would not be dissuaded. He spoke to contacts. He spoke to the contacts of contacts. The cooperative received payment for their information. The uncooperative paid a price in pain.

The man loosened tongues however he could -- even if it meant threatening to remove them.

He made good on that threat on more than one occasion, then enjoyed tasty dishes inspired by his favorite lengua recipes.

"Waste not, want not," he said to the people who contributed the necessary ingredient.

They said nothing in return.

They really couldn't.

Gurgling and gagging on their blood, they came to regret their silence, while those who spoke often profited from the man's affluence.

Either way, the man got exactly what he wanted.

Since the man hoped to understand why Gaia had chosen him, he needed to talk to those most attuned with Mother Earth. His list included powerful witches in swamps far from civilization, mystics who drew vigor from the ground beneath their bare feet, sprites who built barrens in the densest forests, madmen who claimed to touch the earth's core, hermits who meditated tirelessly on tangible reality, priestesses who protected all that grew green, and free spirits who cavorted with the manifestations of ancient energies. All of them served Gaia, and the man saw them as potential conduits who could get him the answer he longed for.

The man charted his course, choosing this desert as his first place to visit. According to his sources, a holy woman lived alone here. He was starting to doubt the validity of the information though. Referring to a paper map and compass, he checked his coordinates and verified that he was close to the spot. He put the items back into his Prada rucksack and removed a satin cloth that he used to wipe his forehead.

As he cleared his stinging eyes, he saw a shape in the distance.

It looked like a hut.

A canteen -- one of the many he had packed -- dangled from a strap across the man's body. He twisted off its cap and just to ensure that thirst had not clouded his judgment, he took a slight unscheduled sip. He didn't need the water to survive -- momentary deaths were merely an inconvenience nowadays -- but he found that the liquid provided some comfort against dehydration. So he had rationed his water carefully for a round trip through the desert.

The man wished he had minded his wine as equally well. He had finished his last bottle nights ago -- a 2008 Screaming Eagle Cabernet Sauvignon.

Much to his despair, the man discovered that it didn't pair with scorpion tail -- one of the few foods plentiful in the desert.

He wondered if he should have brought more jerky.

There was no shortage of meats in his freezer.

From all kinds of animals.

The man wore a pair of Zeiss binoculars around his neck, and after sealing the canteen, he raised the binoculars to his eyes and scanned the horizon.

The air shimmered from the heat, and for a moment, he lost the hut in the haze. The man brought the image into closer focus and centered in on the structure. He could make out the finer details of the small, simple shelter, constructed haphazardly from misshaped and poorly balanced rocks. The whole thing looked like it might suddenly topple.

As the man studied the hovel, a woman came twirling into view. She was tall and thin, with long straight hair. A flighty grin stretched across her leathery face and her wide eyes gazed emptily up, out, and beyond. She was spinning in some sort of dream-like dance around the hut's perimeter. As she swayed, the sheer rags she wore coiled around her lightly.

The holy woman.

It had to be.

Not what the man was expecting.

Or hoping for.

The man grimaced.

"She's a hippie," the man thought.

His grimace tightened.

The man lowered the binoculars. Without the benefit of their magnification, the hut became a miniscule speck in the hot ocean of grains of sand.

It didn't matter.

The man knew where he was going now.

And he knew what he was going to do once he got there.

Whistling a happy tune through parched lips, the man pushed forward with a renewed sense of purpose.

 

[HorrorFighter]

5.
When the man was within a few yards of the hut, the woman had just completed another circuit. She spotted his approach and stopped moving around her humble home, although she continued to dance in place. Watching him curiously, she slowly extended her arms and reached for the sun. Her hands twisted in lazy circles at the wrist. Her head rocked from side to side and her hips gyrated in welcome.

The man sighed.

"As far as erotic dances go," said the man, now mere feet from the woman, "I've seen better performances on amateur night in a burn ward."

He added, "No offense."

The woman didn't react to what the man said. She spun slowly toward him, keeping her eyes locked on his with each unsteady turn. As she drew closer, she reached out to take his hands.

"Have you come to dance?" she asked with a high and brittle voice.

The man took a step back.

"I most assuredly did not," he replied.

The woman did not pursue him. She shimmied and scrutinized him. She cupped her ear, closed her eyes, and smiled.

"Don't you hear the music?" she asked.

"I am afraid I do not," the man said, "but if it would help, I could turn on my make-believe radio and tune to Crazy FM."

The woman's eyes snapped open and she regarded the man with disgust.

"You're a mean person," she declared.

"Really?" he asked with barely concealed sarcasm. "That comes as quite a shock. I've never heard that before."

"I feel sorry for you," the woman jeered. "You can't feel the beat. You don't recognize the song."

The man grinned, and although his teeth were perfect, the smile hinted at something unpleasant -- a private joke probably best left unheard, a thought that would give someone nightmares, a harsh and haunting memory impossible to forget.

"I am more than happy to discuss your taste in music," the man said, "but I had rather hoped I could ask you a question first."

The woman looked perplexed.

"Why ask me?" she inquired. "The answers are all around you. Around us. Around me."

"I am sure all manner of things are around you, but you must pardon me for not seeing them," the man observed. "I fear our perceptions differ at the moment. You must grow excellent peyote out here."

The woman stomped the sand. The man wasn't sure whether the movement was part of her dance or an angry protest against his comments.

"If you can't feel the answers," she snapped, "then there is only one way to open your mind."

"There is no reason to complicate things," the man said. "I only have one question, and if you can answer, I shall let you get back to your private party. I want to know…"

The man didn't complete his statement.

He was distracted by the fact that the woman was stripping. But not in a sensual way. She was tugging and pulling off her thin clothing with the same tenderness applied to the removal of an adhesive bandage. She dropped her rags unceremoniously on the sand and stood before him naked and unashamed.

The man's eyes moved over her body. He noticed that the arid elements had left her skin bronzed and shriveled.

He also noticed something else.

"So," he said. "No razors out here? If you'd like, I can leave and come back with a box of BIC shavers. Or, at this point, perhaps a hedge trimmer would be a better option. I'll be gone a few months, but well worth the trip if you ask me."

The woman seemed oblivious to the implications of his comments. She spread her arms, as though to embrace him, and lurched forward.

"Let our energies converge," she said in a faraway voice, "and we can conceive all answers."

"I have not been particularly lucky in the conception department," the man grumbled.

The back of the woman's right hand brushed against his cheek. The man flinched slightly but otherwise made no effort to retreat.

"The physical gives birth to the spiritual," the woman said softly. "Plunge deep and find what you seek. Unlock everything with me and within me."

"Tempting," the man said.

He placed his hands delicately on her bony shoulders.

The man smiled at the woman.

She smiled back.

"But I must politely decline," the man said.

He shoved her. She stumbled back, lost her balance, and fell into a sitting position.

The woman's shock and discomfort immediately amused him. As he knew it would.

The man laughed loudly, and in this empty, soulless region, the sound carried far -- until a desert wind swept it up and dissipated among the dunes. But although the hot air robbed him of his mirthful noise, the man could not -- would not -- stop laughing. And he laughed alone, as he often did. The man knew his humor was an acquired taste -- as were most of his tastes -- but that fact didn't diminish this cruelly joyous moment. He found the situation funny, and as was often the case, his opinion was all that truly mattered to him.

The man coughed and regained his composure.

"Lying there, I believe you'll find why I prefer to remain dressed in the desert," he said. "Sand can get in the most awkward of places."

The woman snarled, and crawling on all fours, began to gather up her clothes.

"Now if you are quite finished," the man said, "would you mind listening to my question?"

The woman ignored him. Clutching her clothes, she raced into the hut. The man considered following her, but dismissed the idea after deciding he didn't particularly want to see the condition of the interior. Personal hygiene didn't seem high on the woman's list of priorities, and even imagining the slovenliness and smell of the hut was enough to turn his stomach.

The woman emerged, once again fully dressed in her flowing rags, and without regard for the man, resumed her dance around the hut.

The man followed her. He noticed a groove in the ground around the hut, suggesting that the woman danced almost endlessly in long winding intervals, her feet digging deep into the sand to mark her way.

"Excuse me," he called after her.

The woman paid no attention to him. She focused fully on her dance.

"Giving me the silent treatment?" the man asked.

The woman didn't answer.

"I'll take that as a yes," the man said.

The man jogged to her and kept pace, walking beside her. Her dance went on. The man waved at her, but her vacant eyes stared through him into nothingness.

"Is this because I refused your offer?" he asked. "Please understand: I was flattered, but I find you utterly repulsive. Does that make you feel any better?"

The woman said nothing.

The man frowned.

"One simple question and I'll go," he said.

Again, nothing.

"You are starting to test my patience," the man said.

Nothing.

The man stopped in his tracks and watched as the woman danced around the hut and out of his sight.

He squinted up at the sun. It would be setting soon.

This trip seemed pointless.

He could head back.

He could.

He should.

But he wouldn't.

Not yet.

The man took a few steps away from the hut and dropped his rucksack. He squatted and rummaged through it. He pulled out a folding camp shovel.

There really was no reason to bring the shovel, but the man made a habit of keeping one close by.

He never knew when he'd need a shovel.

And he needed one fairly often.

As he did now.

The man drove the shovel blade into the ground and began the long task of digging.

 

[HorrorFighter]

6.
Dusk came.

The sands cooled.

The stars provided the only light -- and it was scant.

The woman and man labored in darkness. She danced throughout the night. He dug.

They went about their business independently, with no mind for the other. They didn't speak. The woman was lost in herself on top of the sand. The man went deeper and deeper beneath it still.

Even under a sunless sky, it was hot work. The woman's perspiration dropped and momentarily moistened the circular trail she had formed. The man's sweat pooled into a puddle beneath his feet as he drove his shovel down and up, down and up.

The hole widened, the dance arced, as both man and woman fed their individual obsessions.

When the sun rose, miraculously neither showed the slightest sign of exhaustion. And as the rays of dawn revealed the man's accomplishment -- a hill of sand beside a large hole -- the woman became aware of him again. She ceased her dance and came close to inspect the man's handiwork.

"What is this?" the woman asked.

"What does it look like?" the man answered.

The man sat on the edge of the hole, his feet dangling down, the small shovel resting across his shoulder.

The woman walked around the hole, staring into it as though it might provide clues about the man's motivations. Her dance was done and each step was deliberate. Her analysis complete, she stood next to the man and looked down at him.

Upon his initial arrival, she had shown curiosity. Now her expression showed only sympathy.

"It looks like," the woman said, "desperation."

The man rose and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. The morning was already promising an oppressive heat.

"Why do you say that?" the man asked.

"Digging for the truth?" the woman said with a smirk. "You tear into the earth in search of wisdom? How far have you drifted from her touch? All you had to do was listen. All you had to do was feel."

The man noted that even with her cryptic comments, the woman seemed more lucid now. Her eyes focused clearly. Her voice was calm and even. He wondered if the dance had put her into a sort of waking trance or if she had danced to cast a spell. Had she controlled the dance or had the dance controlled her?

"You seem different this morning," the man said.

"As it should be," the woman said. "Every morning is different. The dawn of a new day is an opportunity to change."

"So no more dancing?" the man asked.

The woman began rocking again to a silent rhythm.

"The music never stops," she said, "and neither does the dance."

"But you're sitting this one out?" the man asked.

The woman stopped moving.

"We are speaking," she said, "but my heart is dancing still. Tell me -- does yours even beat?"

"It stops occasionally," the man answered, "but never for long."

The woman nodded.

"I know what you are," she said.

"And what is that?" he asked.

"Blessed and wasted," she replied.

The man winced.

"And what are you then?" he asked.

"You told me you have one question," the woman said. "Is that the question you want to ask?"

"No," the man said, "it is not."

"Then perhaps you have more than one question," the woman said. "Perhaps you don't even know which question to ask."

The man yawned. He wasn't tired. He was bored.

"So many questions," the woman continued, "and none you'll dare answer yourself -- even with the answers already available to you."

The woman peered back into the hole.

"Go down as far as you wish," she said. "If you dig long enough, eventually you'll come out on the other side. And all you'll find there is you. Otherwise you'll dig and find nothing."

The man shrugged. "Maybe I'll strike oil," he said.

"Men dig," the woman said, although she was speaking into the hole now, not to the man. "They uncover earth to search for and plunder her treasures when her true wealth is much closer. None is so poor as the greedy. None is so blind as those unable to look within."

The man chuckled. "You should write fortune cookies," he said.

"Fortune," the woman said, raising her eyes to meet his. "What do you know of fortune?"

"Would you care to see a bank statement?" he asked.

The woman shook her head. "No wonder you can't find anything here," she said. "You don't even understand what you're looking for."

"I understand more than you give me credit for," the man said.

"Do you?" the woman challenged. "Then tell me what you'll do now. Will you jump into your hole? Do you expect to find answers down there?"

"Not at the moment, no," the man said. "But I shall."

The first blow from the shovel stunned the woman.

The second blow knocked her out cold.

 

[HorrorFighter]

7.
The world returned in a blur of blinding colors. The focus brought pain. The focus brought muddy objects. The muddy objects became shapes. The shapes became identifiable.

The man's face was close to hers. It was dirty, yet handsome.

His face wore a smile. It was bright, yet unfriendly.

The woman blinked. Her head felt wet. Her eyes felt dry.

Her skull screamed.

She tried to move and found she couldn't. She tilted her head down and discovered that she had been buried up to her neck in the sand.

"Oh, good," the man said, his cracked lips almost touching hers. "I was starting to worry I had hit you too hard."

He waited a moment, then added, "Not that I worried too much."

The man was squatting so he could look her in the eyes. He was taking great care to keep his bespoke dress pants from touching the sand. It seemed futile considering that the desert had already ruined his clothes.

The woman ran her tongue along her lips, hoping to wet them. It did no good. Her tongue had no moisture.

She tasted blood.

"Let me get that for you," the man said. He poured water from his canteen on a silk cloth and gently blotted away the blood on her face, wiping up toward the source of her pain: a wicked wound across her lower scalp. When finished, the man tucked the cloth into his breast pocket.

"That's a deep and nasty cut," he observed. "You may want to get stiches. I can see bone."

"You hit me with a shovel," the woman said.

"I did," the man said.

"You buried me in a hole," the woman said.

"I did that too," the man said.

The woman stared at him in shock, expecting him to elaborate on why he had done what he had done. But the man said nothing. He only continued to smile and stare back.

"Why?" the woman asked.

"Why what?" the man asked back.

"Why did you hit me with a shovel and bury me in a hole?" the woman asked.

The man's smile widened. "To get your attention," he replied.

"I do have your attention, don't I?" he added.

The woman nodded. "Yes, you have my attention," she said. "You made your point. Now please dig me up."

The man shook his head. "I think not," he said.

The woman struggled to get free. She couldn't budge. She was packed in tight.

"You don't need to do this," she said.

The man shrugged. "Maybe I don't," he said, "but when you were above ground, you seemed so distracted. You wouldn't acknowledge my question. You were fixated on your dancing, and I must tell you -- you're a terrible dancer. So, if nothing else, I have stopped your pathetic prancing. I -- and anyone else unfortunate enough to stumble across your destitute accommodations -- will be spared the sight of your dancing."

The woman's rapturous look returned. Her eyes glazed over, and her head bobbed and weaved loosely on her neck.

"My dance has not stopped," she said, her serious tone now high and fanciful. "My body touches hers, and we move together. Every essence of my being hears -- feels -- her music. She is the perfect partner, and she leads my movements with loving care."

The man exhaled slowly and rolled his eyes.

"Not this again," he said.

The man leaned forward and pressed his thumb against the laceration on the woman's head. Hard. The effect was instantaneous. The woman's eyes showed surprise, then panic, then pain. Her dreamy, slack face tightened with agony. She tried to pull away, thrashed her head, but she could not escape his touch. He pressed harder. His thumb parted the cut flesh, dug deeper into the wound, and awakened new torment. She tried to gasp, to suck in relaxing breaths, but her sandy prison prevented her from expanding her lungs fully. She choked and whimpered.

"No more," she cried softly. "Please. No more."

The man's thumb pushed forward one last time, for emphasis, before he pulled his hand away quickly.

He smeared the blood on his thumb across the woman's forehead in three rough strokes. He drew two lines parallel and horizontal, a single line perpendicular in the center connecting them both.

The shape looked like a letter.

An uppercase i.

"I bet that hurt like the dickens," the man said. "If it makes you feel better, you got off easy. Under normal circumstances I would have removed your eyelids and let you bake in the sun for a bit."

"Why didn't you?" the woman asked weakly.

The man sighed. "I forgot to pack my scalpel," he said.

The excruciating experience had left the woman exhausted. Her head dipped down.

"Are you focused now?" the man asked.

The woman nodded slightly.

The man slapped her across the face

He said, "Are. You. Focused. Now."

The woman nodded vigorously and raised her head to meet his eyes.

"Good!" the man said.

He clapped his hands together and rubbed them.

"Now, I shan't take too much more of your time," the man said cheerfully. "I have one question and if you answer it satisfactorily, I'll dig you out. Do you understand?"

The woman nodded again. She continued to meet his eyes.

The man scratched his chin.

"I believe I should provide some context first," the man said. "Otherwise, my question may not make much sense. Do you mind if I take a few minutes to explain the nature of the question?"

The woman nodded at him. The woman stared at him.

"I appreciate your cooperation," the man said.

"Where to begin," the man said.

"Let us start with our earlier conversation," the man said. "You said you know what I am, didn't you?"

The woman looked away and said nothing.

The man smiled kindly. "Please speak freely," he said. "Telling the truth won't upset me. Evading my questions and being dishonest will. So I'll ask you again: Did you say you know what I am?"

The woman turned her head to face him. There was defeat in her eyes and a lack of emotion in her voice.

"Yes," the woman said. "I said that. I meant that. I know what you are."

"See?" the man said. "We are making progress. This isn't so hard, is it?"

"No," the woman said. "This isn't so hard."

"I am relieved you agree," the man said. "You also said that I am blessed and wasted. Do you recall saying that?"

The woman sobbed.

The man punched her in the face.

The woman's head snapped back, then lolled forward. She made a gurgling sound as blood oozed from her shattered nose.

"Do you recall saying that?" the man asked.

The woman lifted her head to grin at him. Her teeth were red from the blood that had flowed from her nostrils, over her lips, and into her mouth. She spat blood out on the sand and spoke. Her latest injury had reduced her voice to a twang, but her nasally delivery did not mask her defiance and disgust.

"You are," the woman said disdainfully. "You have received a blessing. And look how you've wasted it. Abomination. You disgrace our Mother and what she bestowed upon you. You spend your power and eternal life on the pleasures of torture."

"Guilty as charged," the man said, spreading his arms in a gesture of accepting accolades.

Despite her harangue, he had brightened considerably.

"You must think I am a horrid person," the man said merrily.

"You are a horrid person," the woman said.

The woman's response seemed to delight the man further, as her statement offered more support for the point he was trying to make.

"You are not alone in this thinking," the man said. "And that brings me to my question. If I am such a horrid person, why was I chosen? This gift could have gone to anyone. Why did the bee come to me?"

The woman raised an eyebrow. "Why are you asking me?" she said.

The man's good cheer melted away. He became agitated yet refrained from further violence.

"Because you seem to be on speaking terms with 'our Mother,'" the man said, forming air quotes with his fingers to highlight the last two words of his statement. "You must have insights into her motivations that can help me understand."

The woman snorted and more blood dribbled down her face. "Her motivations," she said.

The man jumped to a standing position. "Just tell me!" he shouted. "Just tell me why!"

The woman looked up at the man, squinting as the sun shone brightly behind him. He was haloed in the light and she had difficulty gazing at him. She looked down, comfortable in the shade he provided, her eyesight spared.

"I almost thought you got it," she said sadly. "When you dug the hole, I thought you were breaking through. Forming a circle. Respecting the circle."

"What are you babbling about?" the man said.

"My dance around the stones," the woman said. "I dance in a circle. I dance around in a revolution. Revolution after revolution. Each step along the way is different, even if the path isn't. Even when arriving back at the beginning, I repeat the dance, but the dance is never the same. Just as Mother Earth spins slowly around the sun, day after day, year after year, over the centuries and through the millennia, the orbit remains unchanged, but the opportunity for change is constant. You can be who you are and still be someone else. The end of a beginning, the beginning of an end."

The man frowned. He was prepared to rail and strike. But when he opened his mouth, no words came out. He was speechless as his mind abruptly raced. Something the woman had said had triggered a painful reminder, but the man could not grasp it. Worse, he was unsure of what he was trying to recollect. He was equally unsure of the veracity of what he sought to reach.

Would he finally find realization in something long repressed? Or would he fall prey to a false memory, acting out ignorantly in response to a cruel inaccuracy?

Then, just like that, a dawning burst.

A flash from a distant darkness.

A brief glimpse of his worst enemy.

Then, just like that, it was gone.

The man struggled to understand the significance.

Was he his own worst enemy?

Had he once in some life in some place and time fought with himself?

Had the battles carried him through cycles of victory? Through cycles of loss?

The mental fog momentarily cleared, and the man saw a face, a mockery of his. He tried to hug the thought tightly. It escaped in an instance. He fought to interpret. Had he witnessed an embodiment of self-loathing? Or had he discovered the hidden impression of an embarrassment thrust upon him?

What was the name? Was it his?

The man's brain could not make the connections. He juggled the snippets of an incoherent story that might or might not be his. He felt the truth almost enter his thoughts, then slip away. He felt the torment of almost knowing on the tip of his tongue.

After all the fervor and fevered thoughts, only one word sprang forth.

"Ouroboros," the man whispered.

The woman's eyes lit up, acknowledging that he had stumbled upon meaning.

"The serpent devours itself," the woman said. "To eat is to live. To be eaten is to die. But what of the immortal whose life and appetites are endless? Does he create or destroy or both? What is in between his mouth and tail? Who is in between? His children? Splinters of himself? Remnants? Does the snake become a caterpillar? Does the caterpillar become a butterfly? If so, what of the snake remains? What of the snake should remain? Poisonous fangs and newfound beauty?"

The woman smiled knowingly. "Can the scorpion keep its sting and still spare the frog?" she said.

The man's eye widened. He knew the fable all too well.

"What did you say?" he snarled.

The woman's smile never faltered.

"I said," she answered, "all that I am going to say."

The man was taken aback.

"You may want to reconsider your stance," he said. "I suggest you stop with the riddles and answer my question."

"But I did answer your question," the woman said.

The man remained stunned.

"No, you didn't," he said.

"I'm quite certain I did," the woman said, "even though there was no need. You already knew the answer. The answer you really wanted was for the question you were afraid to ask. And I answered that as well."

The man squatted, so that he was face-to-face with the woman again.

"Is this the part where I am supposed to push you to explain your vagueness?" he said. "Very well. I'll bite."

"You want me to tell you the question that you didn't ask and I answered?" the woman said.

"No," the man said. "I meant, 'I'll bite.'"

And he did.

The man dug his teeth deep into the woman's right ear, tearing away flesh and cartilage. To his amazement, however, she showed no signs of surprise or pain. She offered no resistance.

He didn't care.

The man leaned back so she could see him eat. He chewed the gristle slowly but without gusto.

He swallowed.

"As I suspected," the man said. "You are bland. Tasteless. And utterly useless."

The woman drifted again. Her response came from that faraway place.

"Usefulness is a matter of perspective," she said, sounding dizzy.

"I couldn't agree more," the man said.

He began to gather up his things. He kicked the sand from his shovel and returned it to his sack.

"Leaving?" the woman asked.

"Yes," the man said.

"Leaving me like this?" the woman asked.

"Yes," the man said.

He slung his rucksack over his shoulder and took a long drink from his canteen. The man watched the woman the entire time. He hoped she was thirsty. He hoped her longing for water was unbearable.

When the man had finished draining the canteen, he dropped the empty vessel in front of her face.

"We really should do this again some time," the man said.

His eyes suddenly twinkled -- the effect boosted by the sunshine.

He chuckled.

"Something just occurred to me," the man said.

His chuckle became a loud laugh.

"You're a holy woman in a hole," the man said.

He waited for the woman to comment. She didn't. She looked up at him blankly, seemingly anticipating more.

The man shook his head.

"Well I thought it was funny," he said.

Now it was the woman who shook her head.

"You failed," the woman said. "You know that, don't you?"

The man pinched the bridge of his nose.

"What I know," he said, "is that I have a long list of names and locations. I shall visit all of them until I get the answers I want. I am starting to fear, however, that my frustrating experience here with you will simply repeat itself again and again."

The woman smiled wistfully.

"Will that still make each experience the same?" the woman asked.

The man ignored her, turned, and started his trek back. He hadn't gotten far when he heard a great rending sound from behind him. He wheeled and saw that the woman was gone. He saw that her home was gone as well.

He also saw a large, lumbering figure -- a giant assembled from stone -- marching away from that place, as the woman danced happily around it. The rock creature towered over the woman, yet she seemed unaware of its existence. It seemed unaware of hers as well. Despite this disconnection, their movements were oddly conjoined -- but by something far from mindless instinct. They shared something that simply was and always would be -- a oneness as acutely innate as it was unexplainable. In that moment, the man knew that their separateness served as an illusion for their actual singularity -- pieces that appeared independent yet unquestionably formed a whole.

She was her home, and wherever she went, her home would be.

In the distance, a sandstorm was approaching, and flesh and stone were heading toward it. Neither balked. The dance and march would never cease.

Before the storm engulfed the thing in its path, the woman looked back at the man.

He could have sworn she waved at him.

Then she was gone -- it was gone -- as the sandstorm passed. And the man knew the storm would soon be upon him.

The man fingered the stone in his pocket. He could call upon its magic to transport him from the desert -- to take him deep down the roads that spiraled through the center of the earth and touched its surface. Agartha. But he couldn't go there. He had too many enemies who congregated in the heart of the world. Too many people he simply wasn't ready to face.

The man would need to leave the desert as he had arrived -- by walking.

The man pulled Oakley goggles over his eyes. He removed the silk cloth from his breast pocket and tied it around his face to cover his mouth and nose. He could smell and taste the woman's blood on it -- salty and bitter.

He wondered whether he could squeeze blood from her stones.

Before the storm buffeted him, the man thought he heard a single word carried in the howling wind.

"Monster."

The word faded -- if it had even ever been -- and the storm swallowed him. The man raised his arms to welcome its coarse embrace, became one with it, and trudged in the same direction it blew. Their furies intertwined, moved in lockstep, and dedicated themselves to the purpose of traveling to destroy someplace else.

There would always be someplace else.