In Real Life

((OOC/author's note: This isn't a usual story. This story was created by Ryn and I one morning when we discussed what our characters would be like in real life and somehow met each other. Before we knew it, a story appeared on the screen. Is it weird to write your own fanfiction? Probably. We agreed to write the story down, each our own version. Here is what I came up with! Enjoy, maybe. I hope!))

At some point in the diner's life, it was a 1950's themed. Nowadays, loneliness edged into the cracks and began eating it away. The only thing that seemed sort of authentic was the kitsch electric Coca-Cola clock in the corner and the jukebox that never worked.
It was never very busy, except early in the mornings when the truckers stopped in for their greasy coffee and short-stack of pancakes.

It seemed like there was never a time when Annie didn't work there. That was close to being true. She began working at the diner when she was still seventeen and it had only been open for a year. It was a lot busier then. However, she still managed to scratch out a fairly good living with tips.

Annie had been really pretty once. She was the kind of woman with Lucille Ball red lipstick and always smelt faintly of Shalimar perfume and menthol cigarettes. But like the diner she worked in, her age began to seep through.
But, she tried. She tried every day even when her feet hurt and her shoulders ached from carrying trays. She almost always had her chestnut hair in pin-curls and always made sure her waitress uniform was clean. Even if the diner wasn't really themed anymore, Annie had a sort of vintage beauty about her. She was really proud of the small, natural birthmark on her cheek that was reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. (Never mind that she had a splattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose that detracted from it.)

That's because she was a pin-up girl, once. It was a good summer when she fell into that opportunity. But then, her ex-husband happened. He was the photographer. And her son came along. Later, her daughter. And then the dream ended.

The diner had a set of regulars that Annie knew by name. She never called them that, though, because to her, everyone was "honey" and "sweet-heart." It earned her good tips. She had been doing it for years, now, and it made everyone she crossed immediately feel as warm as the food she served.

There was one regular, however, whose name she didn't know. He never failed to come in, not even on the holidays. He'd never order anything but coffee, and sometimes, wheat toast and scrambled eggs.
But, she didn't need to know his name to know his story.
She had gotten pretty good at reading people.

He was an older man. She pinned him to be in his fifties, judged by his long, salt-and-pepper hair-- usually tied in a tight ponytail,  and the age lines on his brow.
He was something, too. She couldn't quite place it. Maybe he had a hint of Latino or Native American blood, not that she judged. Annie never judged anyone, really. Not by their race or what they were like on the inside.
Even the brooding, silent, sort of scary ones like him. People were just people, and everyone wanted the same things. They wanted to be cared for and loved.
She could tell he was an ex-con. He had to be. He had that steel look in his eyes and had apparently learned to keep quiet, because he never said a word. She also saw some faded old tattoos on his thick, large, hairy fingers. She never could quite read what they said.

He was just the stranger that she called 'honey'. He didn't have a real name, as far as she was aware. She never asked and he never volunteered. He was polite, and tipped good. He always came in wearing a worn out, black leather jacket--which was probably just as old as he was. It went with his vehicle. He drove a silver and black Harley, even when it was cold and rainy, like it was now. She knew the motor like an old song every time he came up. She always got his coffee ready for his usual booth before he entered. Black.

That's because it was December and the holidays were right around the corner. Annie used to love Christmas. It was harder now, since she was alone. Her daughter was away at college--and she was so proud of her--and her son was married and lived up in Colorado.
Now, she was alone.

They decorated the diner in ugly, faded, holiday window-clings. Annie loved to help. She brought in some decorations from home. A small, plastic Christmas tree that lit up and rotated when it was plugged in, and a fat, flaked Santa that danced and sang when you stepped too close.

Christmas usually lent itself to bigger tips, but slower business. So, it tend to even out. She often wore her festive light-up pins and sometimes even her reindeer antler headband. Christmas eve, however, was always dead quiet. This year was no different.

The manager, Tony, never closed. Even on holidays. He was a oily, fat man who always carried a stale scent of fish. His Greek accent was thick and he was a good cook. But, he always barked at everyone even when he was in a good mood. He liked Annie, however. Everyone did. He trusted her with the diner many times and allowed her to lock up for the night. He was spending Christmas with his step-kids and complained about the price of electronic gadgets that they had asked Santa for.

It had been three hours since a customer came in. She shut the grill down and decided that she would only serve pie and soup until closing. Outside, it was dark. The weather was somewhere between rain and snow. The brown water-stain on the ceiling was growing. She heard the incandescent hum of the lighting fixtures, and the buzz of the Coke wall-clock.
It was all shattered by the puffing, noisy purr of the familiar Harley motorcycle.

Immediately, she slid from the booth and went to fetch his coffee. She wasn't bothered, per say, that he would be keeping her company. Except she was bothered. He was no company at all because he never said a word, and truthfully...? he spooked her a little. Since there were no other customers, they would stand around in awkward silence until closing.

He came in, soaked from the rain. He sat down at the counter, in front of his steaming cup of coffee. Annie smiled at him, as she always did. Sweet as syrup and warm as fresh milk, she winked at him before she spoke.

"Quite a night out there, eh, honey? So much for a white Christmas. Raining cats and dogs."

The ex-convict merely lifted his dark eyes and looked at her. They weren't so much brown, as they were chips of flint. He said nothing, just as she expected he would.

But, she still smiled and chatted on. She was really good at that. She talked about absolutely nothing for about fifteen minutes before she decided she really wanted a cigarette.

She needed to kick the habit, badly. It was raining outside, and the price of a carton was not getting any cheaper. She already moved to the cheapest, and they tasted terrible and she knew it wasn't improving what she had left of her looks. She was noticing fine lines near her lips and her fingers seemed slightly stained. She coughed, too, every once in a while, even when she wasn't sick.
She sighed longingly, and glanced to the pack that she had smiled at her from the opening of her beaded purse on the counter. She began fiddling with the box, counting the death-sticks she had left. She had five.

"I don't care." He said finally in a voice that was all dirt and gravel. He probably smoked, too. But something more harsh, like cigars.

She turned to him with a raised, penciled-in brow.

"I don't care," he repeated. "If you smoke inside."

What a relief. She hesitated, but then lit up. She'd never smoked inside before, against the rules. She looked at him. True to his word, he didn't seem to mind. She used an dirty coffee mug to ash in.

The stranger finished his coffee. She refilled it twice before offering him pie.

"On the house," She said, "It's Christmas." She smiled her pin-up girl smile. She thought she saw a smile in his eyes, but wasn't entirely sure. It might earn her a few extra dollars in tip.... and for a moment, she felt cheap.

He accepted the piece of cold cherry pie, and it opened the door to conversation.
She sat down next to him and finished the five cigarettes. She told him about her son and daughter, Stacy and Ben. Stacy was a journalist major. She went to community college before she transferred to Arizona State. She was the first person in her family to go to college. She was so smart and talented. Stacy could be anything she wanted. Sure, she has her problems. Her car always needed fixing, she is always asking for money, and don't get her started on her boyfriend. But, Annie was proud of her.
It made her glow inside.
Ben was always busy. He drifted to office job to office job. He could never hold anything down for long. He worked as an insurance claims adjuster, but then got fired. Afterwards, he was a secretary for a small heating and cooling, locally owned business. That didn't work out, either. So, he worked as a propane salesman and then for a call center. She never understood what made him so angry all the time. Like his father, she guessed.
But, Ben's wife was a sweetheart.

She never got to see either of them as much as she wanted to. Stacy at least called to wish her a merry Christmas. Except, she couldn't talk for long.

The stranger listened until it was closing time. She learned his name was Rick and he lived really close by, but that was about all she learned about him.

Annie sighed and took his cup and used plate. She wiped the counter down and decided she wasn't going to do much more than that. The dishes and the register could wait until after Christmas.

It stopped raining at least, she noted. Her truck often didn't like to start when it was damp.
She asked the stranger if there was anywhere he needed to be.

"No." He replied. "No where I need to be." He said as he slid from the bar-stool.

"Then, want to come home with me tonight?" Annie's mouth seemed dry and a flutter was in her stomach. Her lipstick had worn off, she couldn't taste it anymore. The way he paused and looked at her made her suddenly question her impulsive decision.
She never really asked men to come home with her. It wasn't about sex. In fact, the last time she got laid two years ago was when her friend dragged her to the bar and she got too drunk on whiskey. She got about six phone numbers, but only one of them called her back. He was too young for her, but he liked her cowboy hat and the way she knotted her shirt up under her bust. She never saw him again after that.
She just... knew she didn't want to be alone for the holiday. All the talk about her family made her realize just how big a hole she had in her tired heart.

"Sure." He said after some deliberation. It made her sigh that he didn't seem too eager. Maybe he wasn't a rapist, serial killer, or thief. Maybe she even judged him too quickly. Maybe he wasn't an ex-con. Just looked like one. Maybe he was just once in a motorcycle gang or a construction worker of some kind. Something as tough and hard as his old leather face.

She drove. Her blue truck coughed, but started up on the first try. He stared out the window the entire drive home, and didn't say a word.

She tried pressing him for conversation. It was like squeezing blood from a stone. His answers were always short. It didn't seem like he was avoiding talking, it was just that he wasn't a talker-- like she was. That didn't bother her. She had enough words for the both of them.
The air was cold and the heat didn't work properly in her truck. The scraggly, taped leather seats carried the stale smell of her cigarettes.
She was glad the ride home was short.

She lived in a trailer with her two cats. One was old, fat, and gray. The other was orange and just out of kittenhood. The home smelt of cigarettes, damp mold, and uncleaned catbox.
Her home was small and filled with cheap knickknacks she had gathered over the years. There was a painting of Jesus smiling in the corner that above a hulagirl lamp.
Her TV was an old tube in a wooden box that dated from the 70's and the knitted afghan on her sofa was extraordinarily ugly. Despite all this, her home had a sense of warmth in it. There was a lot of love and affection waited to be given, stashed away in the small plastic smiles of her dated tastes.

She invited Rick to sit down. He did. And then he offered her a beer, which he accepted. He didn't take off his coat until he was invited and only used the bathroom after he politely asked.
She asked him a few more questions and learned that his father was a Saudi Arabian and his mother was Canadian. It explained his dark hair and black eyes. He grew up in Montreal, and only moved to Flagstaff, Arizona when his mother found someone new with a stable job. He had duel-citizenship, which Annie thought was exotic and interesting. The only thing he knew about his father was his name, and what he looked like back in 1945 when the picture was taken. His step-father was a used car salesman, and a good man.

And he had no kids and had never married. The rest of his family was still in Quebec, He was alone for Christmas, too.

He was honest with her in her follow up questions. Yes, he had spent time in prison. It was fifteen years. She felt more comfortable after he explained the circumstances.

Like all convicts, he was innocent. Except he wasn't. But, she believed him. He used to have very young, loud neighbors that lived in the trailer across from his. They would drink until dawn and fight. On a sticky summer July evening, one fight was particularly bad. It was out in the open. Several cars passed by and no one was doing anything. He heard a girl screaming. She wasn't angry, she was scared. He looked out the window and saw four men on her.

"How," he thought out loud, "Could someone not DO anything?" he asked rhetorically. He went on to explain that her shirt was ripped open. He went out into the back of his trailer and grabbed a heavy lead pipe.

He didn't kill anyone, but one of the men was now permanently attached to a feeding tube and not expected to wake up. Because of his prior, smaller, convictions, he was sent away because of the brutality. No one missed him.

He spent the time in prison learning about everything. From theoretical physics to learning to speak fluent Arabic. He spoke three languages, now.

After he was done talking, Annie leaned over. The two and a half beers were getting to her already. Annie wasn't a big thing, after all.

"Do you mind if I..." She paused and gave a sloppy smile. "Kiss you?" Her eyes were heavy lidded and for a moment she looked exactly like the pin-up girl she used to be. A lick of chestnut hair curled across her forehead.
He didn't say anything. He didn't say yes, because he was already kissing her and tugging her cardigan off. One of the pearl buttons fell off and rolled under the couch.
She was wearing old fashioned hose and black garter belt under her uniform. She just liked them, and thought they were sexy. She didn't wear them every day, but she was glad she did this time.

He made love to her on her couch. They knocked over the hulagirl lamp, and it broke in two. They were reckless and laughing as she ground into his hips. She liked the way that the crows feet pulled in the corner of his eyes and the way that his too-long gray hair framed his face.They both felt like teenagers in the cold backseat of a hatchback car. She rode him on the floor, which gave her rug-burn on her knees. They made love again in the pale-blue dawn of Christmas morning on the kitchen tile.
Annie felt alive again. It was the best gift she had ever received in decades. Her cheeks were tinsel red and every step she took she felt just a little younger.

He made her eggs in the morning and brewed her coffee. He put cream and sugar in her's without asking how she took it. He got it right.

She took him back to the diner and gave him free coffee and pie. He left a larger than usual tip. She smiled and winked and blushed when she walked away from his table. He watched her while he ate, like a schoolboy with a crush on a girl in the lunchroom. They passed flirtatious smiles and glances. Everything seemed just a little bit brighter.
It even snowed that day, washing the world into a clean white.

He took his motorcycle and went home.

A few days passed, and he didn't come around. Then it was weeks. Before she knew it, it was February and she hadn't seen him.
She took down the Christmas decorations after the New Year. She replaced the red and green bauble window-clings with over-sized candy hearts and cupids. She shut the irony out from her mind, because it made her ache. This year was no different from the ones before, she told herself. So, it didn't matter that she didn't have a Valentine. Didn't matter last year, wouldn't matter this year, either.

It was a lumpy gray day, and around six in the evening during dinner rush when Rick darkened the diner door. She heard his Harley grumble and thunder in the dirt parking lot  Her heart jumped a little in her throat. It is someone else-- she chastised. Someone with a similar bike. Nothing more. Couldn't be him. She didn't get her hopes up because she didn't want to be disappointed. She didn't look up when the door opened. She was making her rounds with the coffee pot. Don't look up, she threatened herself.

But the smell of his leather jacket and the feeling of his presence was unmistakable. He sat down at his usual stool at the counter and put a small black box on the counter top. He didn't say anything.
She jumped at the chance to fetch him coffee. She felt scared for some reason. Adrenaline was shooting through her veins like a sugar rush.

She set his coffee down and slid it to him.
In return, he slid her the velvet box, like some sort of a hostage exchange.

She froze. She could hear her manager, Tony, say something to her in the background. She didn't hear. She stared at the black box as if it was a hole leading to a netherworld. He nodded to it. Open it, his face seemed to say.
So, she did.

She immediately knew it was old. It was an antique, white gold lace ring with a touch of age around the edges. It was small, and only fit on her finger with a squeeze. The black diamond in the center was both expensive and remarkable. It caught every color in the spectrum and caused them to dance in the light. She had never seen, let alone owned, anything so beautiful and nice in her life.

He told her it once belonged to his grandmother, on his father's side. The diamond had come from somewhere in the desert of the Middle-East. It was hand made, and very old.

If she wanted, she could be his wife. And he'd take her anywhere in the world she'd like. He'd never treat her poorly, he promised. He only wanted to see her smile. If she declined, he would take the ring and never see him again. But, he wouldn't be upset. He would understand. But he couldn't stick around. Inwardly, she knew, he would be heartbroken.

"Oh, honey," she whispered with tears swelling in her eyes. She tore her apron off and dashed around the counter. She wrapped her arms around his neck. He was so tall, she could barely reach. She kissed him for her answer.
He swept her off her feet, and carried her as his bride out the door of the diner.

The stranger put her on the back of his motorcycle. Neither of them looked back.

They first rode to his trailer. It turned out he lived down the road. She had passed by his ramshackle home a dozen times without knowing. It was smaller than her's, and sadder. The overgrown lawn hid a dozen or so rusted out cars and trucks that had become houses to raccoon and opossums. They were greeted by a friendly German Sheppard. He made love to her a dozen times more.
And then they packed.

They drove to Vegas and married in a cheap, tacky chapel. But, they couldn't be happier or more perfect.

It was rumored that they traveled all through the mid-west, central, and south-west of the United States. Annie made her own postcards along the way. She wore Jackie-O sunglasses, polka-dotted scarf, and bright red lipstick in every shot. She posed on the back of his motorcycle.
She sent them to her friends and family, and signed them with a kiss mark.

A lot like a pin-up girl would do.

Goldcrest

Goldcrest had asked me to tell a story about myself, a personal story this time.

While I have a lot of interesting tales to tell, the ones that are more personal are difficult.

My friends and I were sitting around a campfire one night. (These were the days where I was wandering and essentially homeless. I did anything for a copper. I stole, I gambled, I did small jobs and large jobs. I sometimes went hungry or ate from rubbish cans. I ran with a group of criminals who were much the same.)

And my friends and I were exchanging stories.
"What was the worst thing you ever lifted?" My burly friend asked. "As in, worthless. Couldn't squeeze a silver from it."
"That's easy," Said another. "There was once I broke into this old ladies house. I figured that an old woman would have something of value. I got in, and there was nothing but cats. Cats everywhere. So, I grabbed one."
"You stole a cat?" I asked in disbelief.

He nodded, and prodded the camp fire. It sparked and hissed back to life. "The stupid cat bit me about fifty times. I was never able to sell it."
"So, that's how you got your cat?" I laughed, and he nodded. We fell silent again, all of us amused about the origin story of our friend's feline companion.

"What about you?" I asked my other friend. He paused and scratched his ruddy, dirty beard and smiled. "What's the most worthless thing you ever stole?"

"Wasn't so much stole." He answered quietly. "As took. I took it. This girl's virginity! Was a year ago. The foreman's daughter, when I was working construction on the road running out from Booty Bay."
We all laughed at the lewd joke, although we knew he was completely serious.
"But, that isn't worthless." Another one of my criminal friend's pointed out. "Good, clean pussy. Always worth like, a million gold."

"Oh, it was worthless." He said gravely. "I now occasionally get bumps on my lips, because of her."

"...She probably wasn't a virgin, genius." I pointed out sagely. The entire group exploded into laughter. You could hear the joyous, loud, masculine peels across the entire beach, carrying through the night.

After the laughter slowly died down, my ruddy bearded friend looked at me. Another log was tossed onto the fire, and more liquor was passed around.

"What about you, Kia? What was the most worthless thing you ever stole?" He wondered.

I paused and thought and considered the question. "These." I said, removing two chiming stress balls from my pocket. "Yesterday, actually." I said darkly. One ball was black, and the other was white. There was no ornamentation, however they tinkled softly like little bells when rolled in the hand. "I thought they were made from ivory and could get a gold or two. I took them to an appraiser. And they're nothing. I went to a lot of trouble to get them. I listened to this old crone go on and on for hours. Babbling about shit. She was an employee from the Darkmoon Faire. She was just an elderly, lonely woman who wanted to bend someone's ear for a while. I swiped them on the way out. Payment for my troubles. Completely worthless." I complained with annoyance. Then, I tugged from the liquor bottle.

"Let me see them." My friend to my left said.
I offered them to him.

My friend examined the chiming stress balls, rolling them in his hand. They tolled like small silver bells as they moved and twirled in his palm. I watched in silence as he twisted and turned the stress balls in his hand. We were silent and watched the fire burn itself out. We drank and sat after the conversation came to a lull, merely enjoying one another's company to fend off the darkness of night and loneliness we felt. We continued to drink until every bottle was dry.
Someone mentioned something about the fire needing more wood as it was on the verge of death.

My friend then grunted and threw the white stress ball into the smoldering ashes.

The fire came to life, spurting like a small volcano. From the flames the vision of a bird rose. She was made of ornate orange and gold, every feather burned. The bird screeched and called out as she rose to the stars. We were all in a shock and panic. I was the only one who did not run.
I watched until the phoenix dissipated into the darkness. Ashes flowed from her magnificently long tail. After a while, she was gone and all that was left was a roaring fire and scattered embers that sparkled in the sand.

I found the black stress ball and tossed it in. I am not sure why, but I did. Perhaps it was because I was slightly drunk, or maybe I was curious and a little self-destructive. I did not know what to expect to happen. Yet, nothing did. I stood there, alone, and watched as silence consumed the night. There was no burst of light nor magic igniting from the fire.

I fell asleep on the beach shortly after.

When I awoke, the fire had burnt itself out. I shifted through the ashes. I found the remains of the white stress ball, cracked, broken, and nothing but cinders.
I also found the remains of the black stress ball, broken in two and not burnt. Like two pieces of obsidian  they were cold to the touch. Whatever it was had hatched and escaped.

I swiftly left then. I was not sure what was the opposite of a phoenix, but I knew I did not want to stick around and find out. Whatever had escaped from the ashes was now free, black and undying and unleashed upon the world. Maybe in our hearts, but certainly smoldering in the fires of the soul.

The end

To Nikklaus

It was grander than any comet, and far more beautiful than a shooting star. The bright streak sliced across the night sky as if it was to render the world in two. Nikk followed it, but then, so did everyone.

Everyone in town chased the white, glittering line that dazzled the evening. The crowd ran north, while he headed west. He was alone when he traveled through a grove of broken tress and scorched earth.
When he finally found it, all hope of gold had left his eyes. Nikk had assumed he would have stumbled across a piece of the heavens and would have been able to sell it to the highest bidder on the black market, or to perhaps a collector.
There was a small smoldering crater where it had landed.
He did not find a stone, but instead a small girl perched on a rock. She was crying.

She was so pale she was nearly translucent, with hair that was a pearl white. Each curl shimmered with every color of the rainbow. She was nude except for a small robe that seemed to have torn in several places from the branches. What was most startling about her was her magnificent wings. Each feather had a sheen that caused it difficult to focus his eyes upon. Like a mirage, sometimes it appeared as if she had a dozen wings, other times it was just the wilted two. Each wing was brighter than the moon and just as as large.

"Hey." He said as he stumbled across the warm crater to the winged girl on the rock. He spoke hesitantly, as if she were a frightened animal that needed to be calmed.

The girl sniffed and lifted her porcelain face.

"What... what are you?" It may have seemed like an offensive question, but he was a blunt man and didn't know what else to ask. A part of him told him to flee.

"What's it look like?" She wept. He climbed upon the rock beside her as she answered him. She motioned with a fluid arm to the sky. "I'm a fallen angel."

He blinked at her, unsure what to say. "Why are you crying?" he asked.

She looked at him with a deadpan expression. Even in the milky light with a perfectly angelic face, he knew that she thought he was stupid.

"Because," She hissed. "I can't go back. Ever. I've fallen." She paused and buried her face in her hands. She sobbed a heart-wrenching, dreadful wail. He sat there stupidly until she was ready to speak again. With her face still buried in her palms she asked him, "Who're you?"

"I'm Nikk." He then pointed vaguely to the east, "I live in the city over there. I could take you, if you want. Get you some clothes. Something to eat."

"I don't wear your clothes and I don't eat your food." She snarled, "I'm an angel."

Silence sat between them for what could have been eternity. Nikk listened to the crickets sing, undisturbed, unknowing that a piece of the divine had fallen and walked among them. He too, felt small. How could one contemplate something so god-like, perfect and huge sit beside him? She was a sun in the darkness, emitting her own small, quiet light. She was an angel, he thought, and he knew it to be true.

"...Why did you fall?" he asked finally. She seemed to have been waiting for the question.

"You wouldn't understand." She replied softly, patiently, in a sigh. "And I can't go back."

"What if you redeem yourself?" He asked, clinging to a small bit of hope. Seeing a sad, weeping angel broke his heart a little every time he chanced a look at her. He kept his eyes forward and his feet swinging, as if they were two children sitting on the docks on a warm summer night.

"Redemption." She echoed. She then smeared away the last of her tears on her cheeks before she looked at him. He could feel the press of her stare from her molten silver eyes. "How do you redeem yourself, Nikk? Have you ever found redemption in your life?"

Nikk paused for a long time to consider the question. When he finally answered, he felt smaller. It was strange. Most of the time in his life he carried himself with a cocksure attitude and a half smile. Around her, he could hide nothing. With a mere stolen glance the angel could see through him.

"I tried." He croaked. "Once."

"And what happened?" the angel asked. Her wings brushed his side and he could feel an icy chill followed by  a slow, soothing burn. The pain snapped through him with a coarse of pleasure, as if his muscles suddenly eased by the breath of her feathers.

"I... well. There was this girl," He said, feeling foolish. "And I loved her. But, I was with someone else. I cheated on her. I broke her heart. I apologized, but she didn't accept it. I did everything I could to make it up to her, to redeem myself. But, the damage was done." He said back on his palms and exhaled. "I even asked her if there was anything I could do to make up what I did. It was too late."

"Ah." The angel said. "See, there is no redemption. Only change. Redemption is for the selfish. People seek redemption only to make THEMSELVES feel better once they have wronged someone. When you do something, you can apologize, and even feel truly sorry. But, there is no turning back what you have done. You can't undo anything. Ever."

"So, there is no going back for you?" Nikk wondered as he continued swinging his legs off the edge of the stone.

She paused for a while, her wings gliding back and forth. At times, he thought the feathers were small eyes that slowly opened and closed. Other times, they were tongues of a thousand flames. When he blinked, they were white down feathers once more.

"...No." She said in a near whisper, "Once innocence is lost, it can never truly be regained. I can try repenting, I can smear ashes on my face and speak only honey on my lips. I can travel the seas of a burning cinder pit and purify myself."

"But...?" Nikk wondered.

She shook her head. "But, nothing. Our actions were known before they were done. He knew I was going to rebel. It was all part of His ineffable plan. Redemption will do nothing. It was meant. We change. We all change. Everything changes, nothing is lost. The same is to you, Nikk." She said as she looked at him meaningfully.

"So, what happens then?"

"The best redemption or salvation we can find is meaning." She said as she slid herself from the rock. He noticed that her feet never quite touched the clay.

He blinked at her as she began to walk away. The shadows of the forest consumed her. She glanced over her shoulder as she gradually began to fade away. The bars and pillars of the trees seemed to consume her.

"Wait." He said as he, too, climbed down from the rock. Patiently, she stood. He could see the darkness of the forest through her skin as she began to evaporate into the world.

"How do I find meaning in my life?" He asked as he stepped forward. But, even as he approached he could see that she was no longer tangible and was almost completely translucent. If he reached out and touched her, she would have been as intangible as a ghost.

"You fall." She said softly, her voice carrying in the mist of the air. "And then, you get up again. You may not fly, but you get up. Get up, Nikk."

When he opened his mouth to yell at her that he did not understand, she was gone.
Nikk looked around at the broken forest of trees and the crater that was left behind. He sat up on the rock, the same rock that he and the angel were perched. He sat there until dawn began to bleed from the sky.

A villager came, and then two, and then four. They searched the area for a stone. When they found nothing, they demanded that Nikk had stolen it. He denied it. Eventually, they left, bitter and empty handed.
Cold and tired, Nikk decided to return home himself. He slowly stood, stiff, hollow, and exhausted.
As he rose, a small feather drifted out from under him.

He caught it. It had the same soft, mother-of-pearl sheen to it as the angel's wing. He smiled to himself and pocketed it, leaving an oddly warm feeling against his leg.
At times, the feather would burn like a lash of fire, or blink at him like a third eye. It eased him, calmed him, and gave him a sense of understanding.
It would never bring him salvation, but he remembered to get up when he fell, even if he had tumbled far from the sparkled heavens of perfection.

Yet another story

So, I was asked the other day, "Whatever happened to the fire elemental princess, Kiaphus?" from Goldcrest, who heard my story.

The fire princess, who was the only truly free elemental in the world.

The short answer is, a lot of things. She had traveled and seen many adventures.
However, she was destined for a difficult life. Her powerful and cruel father, the Fire Lord, soon found out that the magician boy did not sacrifice her, and she had run away to be free.

She fled, and her father sent an army of other elementals to search for her and bring her home. But in the end, she knew she could not run forever. For no matter how far she went or how obscure a place she found, there was nowhere that she could live and where fire could not reach. She could not hide on land, for fire consumes all things on the ground and they could find her easily. She could not live comfortably in the air, for the winds cut through her flame-skin.and she certainly could not live in the sea, for the water could destroy her.

Lost to despair, the princess sought a more permanent and more drastic solution. To keep her freedom, she must become something other than what she was. She would need to trade the flame-skin of a fire elemental and become human.

So, she went to the old crone. She was a witch who lived near a lake of lava, and was said to be older than the stars and more powerful and wise than any mortal. The witch sat in front of her stone cottage home, turning a spit with a worg haunch for her dinner. The witch told her that if she retrieved a magical down feather, she would be able to cast a spell turning the flame-princess human.

The flame-princess did not delay and went to find the feather off of a giant thunder-bird that lived in the tallest peaks of the world. The thunder-birds were wise and ancient, and gods among the birds. They were magical and listened to her tale of fear and woe. And, were all too willing to help. They gave her the feather she desired.

She returned to the witch and presented her with the spell component to make her human. But, the witch betrayed her. All this time, the feather was the final ingredient the witch needed to turn the princess into a sheep so she could easily transport her back to her father. Using the thunder-bird's feather, the witched turned the princess into a small, helpless sheep. The Fire Lord promised the witch endless power for the cost of returning his daughter.

The witch and the princess-that-was-now-a-sheep traveled across huge stretching planes and across winding rivers to get to the Flame Kingdom. The princess saw her opportunity to escape when a shepherd was crossing the road with his massive flock of sheep. The princess leaped from the witch's wagon and lost herself in the crowd.

The princess lived among the sheep for several days, grazing and socializing with the flock. Yet, she was not happy as a sheep. Sheep tend to gossip and have nothing important to say or do. She wandered away from the shepherd.

Then, an eagle came and swept her up in his talons. She was alone, and sheep that wander from their flock were fair game to predators. The eagle took her back to his nest to shred her with his claws and feed her to his young. The princess cried out in fear. "I am not a sheep!" She implored. "I am a flame-princess!"
Not knowing what to do, the eagle took her to the thunder-birds to decide her fate.

Once more, the princess told the thunder-birds of the betrayal of the witch and how much further away she was from her goal to become human. She wanted only her freedom, and nothing else. Now, as a sheep, she was in even more danger than before and far less happy. The thunder-birds listened, and deliberated.

Although they did not have the power to make her human, they could give her the freedom she wanted in another way. She could soar in the air and taste the sky on her wings, and be free from her father forever. They took her among their people, turning her into a thunder-bird. She would remain powerful, like a fire-elemental. And nothing was more free than a bird.
She lived to be old and wise. The tribal humans of the planes prayed to her. When she sang, her voice cracked out in lightening. When she flew, her wings drummed in thunder. The air elementals bowed to her, and she was never troubled again.

The end

A small story

Another story, you ask. Another encore. You exhaust me. But, fine. This one is a far more upbeat tale than the one before.

In the old days, boys had to woo the girls they loved through acts of bravery and heroics.
There was one such boy who was all but incapable of such things. He was small and skinny, and lacked any hair on his chin. But, he was a clever boy. He was interested in magic.

It was not the sort of magic of warlocks and mages. He actually had no talent there, either. He enjoyed tricks, slight-of-hand and optical illusions. He had his sights set on the fairest girl in the city.
She was tow-headed and fair skinned. She was a beautiful girl who had her choice of any male in town. When the boy came and asked for her hand in marriage-- she laughed at him.

She jokingly told him she would only marry him if he was able to bring her a vial of actual magic. But, not just any magic, she wanted a pure and volatile element, the essence of what makes up the World. She either wanted the Breath of the Wind, the Tears of the Water, the Core of the Earth, or the Embers of Fire.
Mockingly, she sneered and went away.

The boy was challenged, but willing to try. He left her a love note written on one of his trick playing cards-- the Ace of Rogues, to be exact. He told her he would find one of the elements to prove his love. He left it unsigned, but nailed it to her door knowing that she would know it was one of his cards.

The boy first traveled to the Palace of the Earth, far below. He spoke to the Prince of Stones and explained his plight. He asked for one of the Prince's elements to show his intent to his lady love. But, the Prince of Stones was a hard man and refused. He told the boy he was too soft and that love would not move his heart.

Then, the boy traveled to the Sky World to speak to the Princess of Clouds. He begged and pleaded her to relinquish an elemental into his custody to show his heart to the girl. The Princess of Clouds was sympathetic, and told the boy that his air was true. Yet, the elements of air always remain free.

Undeterred, he went to the Planes of the Ocean. He swam through great length and rode the sea creatures to speak to the Emperor of Water. With the use of an enchanted shell, he spoke through the depth of the sea and requested an elemental to accompany him to the dry lands above. He politely made his argument on why he needed the assistance to help him woo the most beautiful girl in the world. But, the Emperor was a logical man, and knew that none of his people would survive. He needed to protect his water elementals, and told the boy to be on his way.

Lastly, the boy went to the spiked, scorched volcano that was the Kingdom of Flame. It was a horrid place where everything was burned and ash. He addressed the Lord of Fire, who was known to be a cruel man. When the boy bravely told him what he wanted, the Lord of Fire laughed in his face. "Of course. I will relinquish one of my elementals to you. But, know this. Proving your true love will kill my daughter. Take her with you, and if you truly love this woman, capture my daughter in this magic vial in front of your woman. Your lady will see that you have proved yourself in blood and flame."

The boy escorted the Lord of Fire's daughter to his city with the magic vial in hand. Throughout the entire journey, he was torn. He did not wish to kill anyone. The Lord's daughter, too, did not wish to die-- but she was in no place to contest her father's wishes. Then, the boy had an idea.

He knocked on the door of his lady love. When the girl answered, he told her he had the Fire elemental she had requested. He would place her in the vial, too, in a great show of genuine magic.
With his cloak, he preformed the greatest and largest slight-of-hand trick. It was all illusion and grandeur; and with a flicker, the daughter of the Fire Lord was gone, and the vial was filled with smoke, ashes, and fire.

He handed the warm vial to his love. She was surprised and astonished by how he truly captured an element of the world and went through the trials and tribulations to prove himself a man. She agreed to marry him.

The elemental lived free from the torment of her father and was not sacrificed by the boy. To this day, it is said she is the only free elemental of the world, burning in passion with her own will.

A short tale

((Wyrmrest Accord))

Another story?

Well. There is one other. A tragedy, really. Not... a comedy. A very sad story, but. I hear it is a true story. Sometimes the saddest things in life are the true things.

There once was a gnomish couple. The man was elderly, and lived his life with a love of all things mechanical. He was like most gnomes in that way, except he was brilliant. His machines never blew up or malfunctioned. They were beautiful gems of art and function.

What he was most passionate about was recreating life. Improving it, perhaps, as machines did not make mistakes or do things they were not programmed to do. And, if they broke, they were easily fixed-- unlike people.

What he made most often were automatons. They were creatures, like spiders and cats. What he wanted to do most was make a perfect humanoid automaton. He began to do exactly that. He worked day and night on it. Months. Years. He worked alone and in his workshop behind the small cottage he and his wife shared creating the perfect humanoid automaton.

His wife was becoming lonely and isolated from him. She came to him crying, saying he ought to give up the machines and spend what little life they had left together. They argued all though the night. When, finally, she broke and accused him of loving the machines more than her.

To hurt her, he agreed. Even though it wasn't true.

His wife sobbed in her chair in the living-room. She was inconsolable, and wept through the night. He tried to comfort her, but it was no use. Finally, he went to bed without her.

When he woke, his wife was stiff and cold in the chair. She had passed in the night. She had died of a broken heart.

Distraught, he sought comfort in his machine. He continued building the automaton, now alone in the world. The more he worked, the more the creation began to look like his love. He smoothed the lips into the perfect heart shape his wife had. He made the eyes the same sky blue and the slope of her nose just right.

When it was finally completed and perfected, he thought to take the creation before a panel of judges, as so they could see the magnificence of his machine. Before he left, he wanted to feel one last kiss from his wife. Perhaps it was to apologize, or perhaps it was to say goodbye. He felt compelled, drawn by the idea of her warmth and love.
He pulled in to kiss her, and tasted the copper and the cold steel. Then, suddenly, he felt a hard and painful crack against his chest. The machine had hit him, very hard, right in the center of his core where his heart thumped.
He was thrown across the room with a giant welt to his chest. The machine had killed him, broken his heart, just as he had broken his wife's.

They were together at least, together and bound. Two shattered hearts beating as one.

A story

((Wyrmrest Accord))

Allow me to tell you a story my father used to tell me as a boy.

It is a fairy-tale. But, it is not the sort of fairy-tell that they tell children now. It is a raw story, to teach a lesson through blood and pain.

If you're willing to listen, maybe you will even hear what it is that is meant to be learned.

There once was a cave. Within the cave, the Earth Mother gave birth. From her loins sprang all the gods and goddesses there ever were. From the cave and her womb was all the things that ever came to be in the world. From joy and happiness to death and change.

Centuries passed, and a large kingdom and small village was built near the Cave of the World. However, no citizens dared ventured near it. For the cave was a sacred and hallowed ground.

But, the kingdom and the village were in dire strife. A drought had killed the crops and threatened to destroy the people.
Within the kingdom was a large castle. The castle housed the king's massive army and noblemen and women. The king would not let his army starve. Even though the village was on the brink of collapse, he still had grain and water to feed the people closest to him.

The village would not stand for this. They demanded their king come and address the issues of the drought.

The night before the king arrived to speak to his people, a bold girl within the village traveled to the Cave of the World. She prayed to the Mother Goddess and all of her children.

The girl heard a voice. And the voice told her to take a rock from the cave and strike the king when he came to speak.

Only a fool ignores the voice of a god.

The king came. He was a greedy and wicked man, and when the people called out for food, he laughed at them and told them to make their bread with sawdust and ash.

Out of anger, the girl threw the rock from the Cave of the World. It soared through the air, above the villagers and soldiers alike. It struck the king in the temple, and he fell dead.

Days later, the king's son took the throne. He was a generous, kindly man. He took all the grain from the castle and distributed it to the villagers. And they were happy.

But, the soldiers and noblemen noticed their rations being depleted from what they once were. One soldier in particular found the rock that killed the king. Out of a sense of irony and justice, he struck the prince in the back of the skull and killed him with the stone Of the World.

Both the castle and the village were now facing disaster. Both were starved and leaderless. Both were set to collapse.

The bold girl of the village found the cursed rock from the Cave of the World. It was the same stone that had tasted the blood of the gods, the blood of the evil king, and the blood of the benevolent prince. Out of bitterness, she threw the unlucky stone off a steep ravine.

Then, the voice of the gods whispered to her. If she threw herself from the ravine and sacrificed more blood, all would be forgiven.

She had no choice. She could kill herself and follow the will of the gods, or she could starve. The girl threw herself off the cliff. Her heart was crushed against the stone, and her bones turned to seafoam. The stone devoured her blood as it promised.

The next day, rain began to fall. It was a hard, weeping rain that cleansed the world and swept the drought away. Crops began to flourish, and the seasons harvest was in abundance. Both the castle and the village was saved.

And that is the end.