Sam0126

"What's up?", the angel with one wing asked the hunched figure, drawing in dirt on the ground.

"There's a war, " came the answer. She scratched her head, then erased the drawing, looking up with a retarded goofy smile. "There's a war and I'm going, you wanna come with?"

He shrugged. He'd been locked away for so long after having fallen. Fallen, of course, was a polite way of saying it, he was kicked out, just because he knew he was prettier, smarter, stronger and sang a whole lot better than those newbies--what were they called again? Oh yeah, humans-- and made the mistake of saying that out loud to their maker. "Another war? Didn't we just come from one?"

"Oh, that was a thousand years ago. I've rested enough. You?"

He shrugged again, lighting a cigarette. "Been that long, huh? No wonder I'm bored. Yeah. Okay. Humans suck."

"Oh goody, " she clapped. Another retarded smile, and she got up, opening the gates. "Come. Now."

He blinked. The gates were unlocked. Had they always been unlocked? He shook his head. Nah. He followed her out into the lifeless desert.

Something was missing, though. Maybe she forgot again, he thought. Always been absent-minded, that one. Forget her head if it wasn't screwed on. He'd even had to fetch it for her a couple of times before. He tapped her on the shoulder. "Hang on. It's a war, right?"

She raised an eyebrow, making him feel as retarded as he always thought she was. "Y-e-e-e-e-s?"

" We're going to war, where's the sword?"

"Oh." She sighed, impatiently rolling up her eyes. "You're it."

Hyena

Did you hear that?

It is the sound of a glass breaking, but don't worry, we won't tell. You invited us here, we respect the invitation, and we will never bite unless you ask.

We will cover the sound of the glass breaking with the sound of laughter , because in the wee hours of the morning, the slightest clink can be heard in this graveyard of dreams and old gods, where, during daytime, ivory hunters and other scavengers roam fighting over the last remaining tusks and bones.


Did you hear that?

It is the sound of someone crying, but don't worry, better tears shed than blood, and we will pretend not to hear.

It is alright to cry, there is enough cigarette smoke to serve as an excuse. If that is not enough, we still have mirrors, although chances are, you will not see our reflections in the glass. And if that is still not enough, we will go out, find something and bring it back.

Did you hear that?

It is the skritch-skritch of a razor, as the were shaves, hair falling, revealing the face that smiles, and pretends to be human. His ears are not as sharp as ours, but he can smell the blood of wounded prey from far, far away.

We do not like them. Unlike our kind, they do not need invitations, or maybe just do not respect them.

They hunt only the weak , the walking wounded, the kind ready to shatter in a million pieces at a touch and toy with them, the weaker, the better,

They run sharp claws over the wounds lightly, just to hear your whimper of pain; and then once more again, this time harder, until the pain envelops you so completely, that you are unable to think clearly, and the only thing you hear is the sound of your voice begging for death, because that is the one thing you can muster up enough courage and strength for.

And so you ask, because you think he will be doing you a service, and are grateful, when the truth of the matter is that it is what he had been waiting for.

It is easier to kill someone who is on the verge of dying, and even easier to kill someone who holds up their neck to your teeth, heart in hand, waiting gratefully to be put out of their misery.

There is no honor in it, but while honor is everything to us, he has never cared much for that.

Our kind hunts in the bright of the new and full moon, but he hunts when the moon is at its darkest, when the goddess that protects your kind sleeps, with her face turned away. Or during the day, as scavengers do, while the rest of us sleep, especially our queen.

Did you hear that?

Most likely not. There is nothing to hear, no one is moving.

Yet.

But when the time comes, you will still not hear the flutter of wings, the sound of teeth against flesh, nor the gurgling of blood dripping on the floor.

You will perhaps hear us howling at the moon, but we will let you think it is just some joke about staff houses and such.

The moon is still dark, but a silver sliver is beginning to appear at its outermost edge, so we wait. We are good at waiting. We are hunters, after all.

Pour us a glass as we wait, little girl.

Red, this time.

Not white.

Red.

It will give me a headache that will be like the screaming of a million damned souls ringing in my ears, but that is alright, I am used to that by now. It is petty penance for what I do.

Pour us a glass as we wait.

Red.

Not white.

Jotei

The empress looks out on the empire.

It is large, stretching as far as the eye can see, and as far as the eye can see, it is a prosperous one.

She was never a commoner.

You know that, because diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies and topazes and pearls drop from her mouth when she speaks. They discovered that a while back, and so they locked her into a room, and made her a princess, and speak until her lips and tongue bled, because diamonds and sapphires and rubies and emeralds and sapphires have sharply cut edges, and can rip your lips and tongue and throat into shreds. (Pearls won't, and they make you whiter if you grind it up into a white powder and drink it, but those are made of mermaid's tears--but that's another story.)

For the good of the kingdom, they said. So she spoke and spoke until she couldn't stand it anymore. One day, when the sky was dark, and silver lightning struck the west wall, she ran away, off to a tower, in the middle of the kingdom, right in plain sight, close to the palace, but out of reach.

In the tower they found she could spin hair into gold. She liked spinning hair into gold and turning pig-faced farmers' daughters into princesses for balls, dressed in the gowns of gold and silver and starlight she made from coffee sacks . She could also turn overripe pumpkins into ballrooms, and she liked doing that too.

But the kingdom was in turmoil, and duty called, and princesses, being princesses, are able to turn a deaf ear to love, but never to duty.

So the empress, that time, left the tower, and went back to the little room, and spoke and spoke until her mouth and lips and tongue bled, dripping diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies and topazes and pearls.

She spun hair into gold and when the hair ran out, she spun straw and dry leaves and twigs and horses' tails instead. Once in a while she would turn a farmer's horse-faced daughter into a princess for a night, dressed in the gown of moonlight that used to be a potato sack before the sun went down. But mostly she spoke, until the kingdom was filled with the diamonds and such. (The pearls, she kept for herself, because they were mermaid's tears, and basically, because she could. If you grind them up into powder and drink it, it turns you white, but all this is another story. )

Anyway.

The empire is prosperous. It is large, stretching as far as the eye can see.

There is a speck at the farthest corner, which if you look closely, if, perhaps, you were a baker opening a shop in the early morning, or a country goosegirl feeding your flock by the roadside, and thus, only a few feet away, would recognize as the cloud of dust, made by the hooves of a horse galloping at full speed towards the castle.

The empress does not see this, of course. It is morning, time to go into the little room and speak, while diamonds and emeralds and sapphires and rubies and topazes and pearls fall out of her mouth, all the things that a prosperous empire needs to maintain its borders.

It is her duty.

She is the empress, after all.

Somewhere, in another tower, in another kingdom, a dwarf she once found broken and bleeding by the side of the road and nursed back to health, and sent on his way with a loaf of bread, a slice of cheese and a story, takes out the ring with one wish left in it. He rubs it on his hat until it shines, until you can see the words written in dwarvish on the inside, and speaks the words, thinking of the empress and the fact that it is the empress's birthday.

Someday, your prince will come.