BBeast
Lord Zee
DracoLunaris
Frettzo
Cyclone
Vec
Torack
ROSALIND
RAGING ROSA | THE DANCE-DEMON | FEVERFOOT | LEAPING LINDA
Rosalind the Feverfoot was quite stuck. She had wandered the length of the shore for days and had not been able to find her oar. By a stroke of luck she had happened upon the boat, half-buried in the sand and surrounded by happy, yapping seals, but of the oar there was no trace. So she sat down, at last, on the edge of the boat and huffed. The boat was of no use without an oar.
She sat thinking there for a time, seals leaping on by or lazing about, until at last her reverie was broken by a great startling boom that echoed from the far mountains. It was only a few seconds after it sounded that she realised it had been a voice - and that it had spoken. “I should have known… You'd be here...” it rumbled. The goddess stared at the mountains, eyes wide and feet trembling.
“I- well- I didn’t mean. I was just- I was about to leave.” She stammered, getting up.
“That’s right!” The voice exploded, even louder this time, making the dusk-haired Feverfoot jump.
“Ye- Yes, that’s right, I’ll be right on my wa-”
“-you have arrived at your doom!” The mountains clapped, and the echo of the deathly declaration resounded through them and into the earth, resounded even in the depths of Rosalind the Feverfoot’s hammering heart. She swallowed, trembled, and tried to speak, but her tongue was frozen and all she could think to do was run. She turned and the sea sprawled out before her, and it might as well have been a wall extending into the endlessness of the heavens. Behind her the mountains cracked and whatever it was that sought her doom spoke once more - calmly, coldly, conclusively, “fight me.”
“I- I can’t! I’m sorry! Please-” Rosalind cried out, turning to her boat and pulling it desperately towards the water. The wet sands squelched beneath her and gave easily enough, and the seals - heedless of the sound or unafraid - clapped and barked and danced around her.
“Come!” The mountains insisted, but Rosalind shook her head and pulled her boat into the waters, deeper and deeper until it was afloat, and then dragged herself - the boat rocking precariously - in. She looked back and paddled with her hand - which seemed a futile act - while the waves carried her slowly, but surely, from the coast. The mountains leered at her, and she heard that terrible voice only once more. “Fool,” it lambasted her. She swallowed and looked at the roiling waves all around and the great dark ocean extending into forever. Perhaps she was.
She sat tight as the waves carried her. They were far calmer than she had known them to be back when her boat first landed and she fell into Ao-Yurin’s furious grasp. Calmer, too, than they were during that terrible and terrifying chase to which Aletheseus had subjected her. But still, they were waves and obeyed no one now that Ao-Yurin was truly dead, and oar-less as she was they carried her hither and thither as they pleased. No waves were favourable to a boat without direction.
Rosalind the Feverfoot only sat in her boat and sighed as the waves rocked her now here and now there, and from time to time she looked up, surveyed the horizon, then slumped back down and placed her chin on her hands as day turned to night and night to day. Now and again a school of fish would pass glistening by, and the goddess would watch them in wonder and fear as they passed on. The odd pod of dolphins would leap far off or at a stone throw's distance, clicking and whistling, and at one point a great black and white beast - which she knew to be an orca - came nudging at the boat. Rosalind was rather relieved when it lost interest and let her and the boat be. She certainly did not want another dip in the waters.
Not all visitations were fated to end as well as that with a curious orca, however, for Ao-Yurin’s realm was home to things of an indubitably more sinister disposition. On one fair night, when the moon hung like a great, broken, bright pearl bedecking the broad chest of the cloudless sky, and the stars twinkled as they do only in children’s rhymes and mothers’ lullabies, a wet pair of clawed hands latched onto the side of the boat - too silently for Rosalind the Feverfoot to hear - and pulled a terrible blue-eyed visage from the murky depths. The two bright blue eyes observed the land-creature, and its face broke into a sharp-toothed smile.
“Well, hello there.” It said, causing Rosalind the Feverfoot to cry out, jerk in shock, and very nearly leap out of the boat.
“Oh! Oh my! My heart! I- what- how- you-” she scrambled away from the terrible visage, all the way to the back of the boat. “Who- what- are you? What do you want?” The creature only observed her with its unblinking crystal blue eyes- and then it suddenly blinked, which only proved more unnerving.
“My, what a pretty little morsel you are - and so many questions. I don’t mind chatting though - I’ve been awful lonely, see, no one to talk to when you’re an exile, see? The Exile, mind you - that’s me.” It dragged itself further up, its movements so gentle that the boat hardly rocked at all, and it became apparent from its manly torso that it was a male - though what species it was, Rosalind could not know. It was not of the sort - like seals and dolphins and orcas - that she simply knew, not like Voligan or Aletheseus or the Monarch whom she had simply known. “As for what I am - you look very confused, maybe you’ve never seen my like? Well, it’s no matter, for I’ve never seen your like either. I am of the Ao, and all this about you - here and here and there - all this, the Mer, it belongs to the Ao. It is our realm, our domain, our watery kingdom, and you are in it. And what of you, pretty little morsel, what form of creature are you and by what name do you go?”
Rosalind relaxed slightly, but her wary eyes remained on the Exile. “Well, I’m Rosalind. And, well, I’m not sure what form of creature I am, exactly. But my siblings are all gods so I think maybe I should be too.” She scratched her temple and moved a black strand out of her face and watched as the Exile’s smile widened.
“Ah, Rosalind the God are we? How exciting. I’ve never met god before. Here now, let me see you better.” The Exile moved his head forward and scrutinised her. “But why, what is that great black stuff erupting from your head, Rosalind the God?”
Rosalind placed a hand on her hair and half-chuckled - it became rather a quick and purposeful expiration. “Oh, but it is only hair. Do the Ao not have it?”
“Oh no no, we’ve no such thing. It looks almost like seaweed - but black! And it moves here and there, how odd - what is this hair? Is it so many tentacles, perhaps?” The Exile frowned and stared at the threadlike growth with his piercing eyes.
“Nothing like tentacles, no,” Rosalind giggled, relaxing and running a hand across her hair and bringing it over her left shoulder. It fell with a great whoosh as far as her knee and the Exile let out a whistle of admiration. “It’s just… well, hair. It doesn’t move of its own will, only with the wind and only if I move it with my hands or if I twist my head or jerk this way or that. And if you cut it, it doesn’t bleed; if you pluck it, it doesn’t much hurt. It looks pretty, but you could probably go without it if you liked.”
The Exile nodded, his eyes gleaming with a soft curiosity. “And what does it feel like? May I?” He extended a hand and Rosalind frowned. “Ah, but is it rude to touch another’s hair?”
Rosalind cocked her head. “Well, I don’t think so - but it would be odd, I think. You can’t just feel another person’s hair. Well, maybe if you liked them.”
“Ah!” The Exile exclaimed, “well, that resolves it then - for I do like you, Rosalind the God, I like you very much! You look so different and say such interesting things too, and you’re such a pretty little morsel! Wipe that frown away and let me see your smile, and if you’d honour a poor exile I’d love to feel your hair.”
Rosalind sighed and seemed unsure, but the Exile only smiled and nodded, and so she relented with reluctance. “Well, I guess it’s okay, if only a bit.” She slowly got up, stepped over the centre thwart, and sat herself down by the Exile. He leaned down on his elbow and extended an upturned hand and waited. Rosalind smiled in appreciation and took a small handful of dusky hair and placed it into the Exile’s palm. He cocked his head and felt the velvet curls.
“Now that… is so soft and sleek, I’ve never felt anything like this.” He half frowned and half smiled, incredulity lighting up his eyes. “There is nothing in all the Mer like this, nothing I’ve ever felt or seen! It is beautiful, Rosalind the God.”
Rosalind reddened slightly and her feet tip-tapped against the bottom boards. “Thank you, Exile. You are too kind.” She glanced down at the flowing locks in his palm for a few silent seconds, then a question lit up her eyes. “So, why is it that you’re an exile?”
The Exile continued to stroke the silken strands she had handed him even as he let out a great sigh at the question. “Oh, it is terrible, simply terrible. Loneliness is a terrible punishment, Rosalind the God - I would not wish it on my most hated foe, no! To be alone in the world, to be away from loved comrades and kin - what crime, however execrable, could warrant such a barbarous punishment? Away from the familiar climes of childhood, from those places one calls home - what crime, however detestable, could warrant such a heartless penalty? Shower me as you wish with shame, cast me into the abyss of lowliness, but do not rend me from those faces and places for which the heart yearns! What did I do, Rosalind the God? Is it so evil, as to require this torture, that I felled a fellow Ao? Had it not been greater mercy if they felled me as just recompense? I would have preferred that by far and justice would have been served, would it not? Why torture me lifelong? What did the slain suffer that I should suffer such? Is not death but a moment - does the one who dies even feel it? And here I am, suffering still. Were I worse than I am - that is, were I a coward - I would have slain myself, Rosalind the God, I would. But ah, the strong do as they wish and the weak suffer what they must.” He sighed and fingered the goddess’ hair.
Rosalind stared sorrowfully at him. “I am sorry for your suffering, Exile - I am sorry that you carry this name. What were you called before this all?”
“It is of no importance now. It is in the past and I am resigned to my punishment. Why, I am not just resigned - for now I have cause for happiness; had I never been cast out then I never would have had the pleasure of coming to know you. Perhaps it was destiny - the waves all flow to a destination, it is not mere whimsey, and the waves of our lives have carried us that we both, at this very moment, should meet right here.” The Exile smiled broadly and his eyes twinkled, and Rosalind too smiled.
“You speak so lucidly, I love hearing you.” She sank to the bottom boards and placed an elbow on the centre thwart even as the Exile continued to caress the dusky strands. They did not speak for a while after that, content in one another’s silent company, until the Exile glanced behind him and let out a sad sigh.
“Much as I would love to stay with you, Rosalind the God, I must leave you now. My breath grows thin and I grow hungry too, and so I must go see to my needs.” He looked sadly down at her, and she frowned and raised her head.
“I understand. It was a great pleasure to know you, Exile. I hope that your people will take you back in one day, and that you will see the faces you love and the places for which your heart yearns.” The goddess spoke sympathetically.
The Exile nodded slowly and was silent, looking at her wistfully and stroking her curls. “But before I leave, grant me only another wish - I do not know if I shall ever see you again, or someone of your kind.”
“Of course, ask freely.” Rosalind responded readily, rising to her feet and approaching.
“I have known the sleekness of your hair, but now I wish only to feel your skin. It looks nothing like that of Ao - look at me, scaled and gilled - look at these hands, webbed and leathery. Look at yours, pleasing and soothing on the eye - pleasing and soothing, surely, on the hand.” He let go of her locks and extended his hand once again. Rosalind scratched her cheek and smiled shyly.
“If that’s what you want, although I don’t think it’s as special as you think.” And so saying, she placed her hand in his palm and he wrapped his webbed and clawed hands gently around her hand, then let out a contented breath.
“Ah, with that then, farewell my sweet morsel. Farewell to you, Rosalind the God.” He descended slowly into the waters, his hand still gently about her own. She leaned forward to watch him go and as his body sank beneath the waves she slowly released his hand.
But he did not release hers. With a gentle pull - for she was leaning so far forward that all it took was a gentle pull - she hurtled head first into the briny darkness. She did not even have the time to yelp or shout in surprise. Water hurtled up her nostrils and clawed at the back of her throat, and she felt the Exile’s grip - now a vice - on her hand. She felt his form against her, felt his other arm wrap almost lovingly about her. She felt a coolness against her neck followed by quick sharp pain which exploded into agony as he ripped the flesh away. The tilting dark brine sang crimson with the blood of the divine. “Farewell, my pretty little morsel, forever farewell. It is but a brief moment, see, then I will suffer eternally while you run light and free. Can’t pass up god, see?”
And the terrible truth was that Rosalind the Feverfoot did not even mind. In fact, after the initial shock and confusion, once his teeth sank into her and she understood, she felt a sort of great relief. Now no one would think she was a coward - perhaps they would grieve her and say a few kind words, something about a tragedy, something about never again, something about too young and too soon - but no one would know she was a coward. She smiled and raised her chin, offered herself up to the Exile and awaited his next bite with nothing but a single tear that sizzled away in the cold water.
What came, instead, was a nudge and Rosalind felt herself dragged here and there for a few brief seconds before the Exile’s grip loosened and she floated bloodied and free. She opened her eyes, and through the crimson she could see the shade of the Exile swimming swiftly away, and all about her were little dancing creatures, pulsing and murmuring. Some were tiny, while others - like those that even now chased and quarrelled with the Exile - were of great size. But those ones were dwarfed by the dancerfish that rose from the depths beneath her and caught her on its nose so that she rose swiftly through the waters and soon found that she had broken through the surface and was beholding sky and sea as she sat on the enormous dancerfish’s head. She looked down at the great form of the thing and thought it more massive than even the biggest whales she had seen while floating aimlessly on the seas.
The goddess quickly scrambled for her boat, leaving a trail of golden-crimson ichor behind her, which permanently coloured the great dancerfish mother’s great head. “Th-thank you.” Rosalind managed, once she was in her boat, and turned to the dancerfish. The colossal being beheld her with unblinking eyes of turquoise.
“Like tears, Rosalind the Feverfoot, we answer the cry for help.” It spoke with soundless voice. The waves danced gently before it and little dancerfish swirled in the water, and from their midst a single familiar oar arose. “Like tears, Rosalind the Feverfoot, when lost can ne’er be found - except by tears.” Rosalind stared at the oar and her breathing came shallow as her eyes grew wet. She gulped and restrained herself, however, and reached down and took the oar. She gripped it and almost sobbed. “Like tears, Rosalind the Feverfoot, hot and true and ever with you. Like tears.”
Rosalind nodded, smiled, and shed the dancing pearl tears of creation. “Like tears.” She affirmed. And, for no reason that anyone ever quite worked out - not even those kynikos at the Academy or who ranged about, not even Epsilon, not even Yudaiel or the serpents and mushrooms and barken-visages she saw - dancerfish were never known as dancerfish again, but as laektears.
And then Rosalind the Feverfoot rowed her boat, and she found that all waves were favourable to a boat with direction.
