"When is it going to end, Grandpa?"

"Soon I think."

"Really?" Elsa perked up with a bright smile, a contrast to the dark hour.

"Do not let joy win your heart yet."

"Why?"

"We are losing."

"Should we pray, Grandpa?"

"It's past the time for prayer."

"But, isn't that what you do?"

"Not anymore." Somehow he knew, an instinct playing a discordant tune against his heart. Tonight the walls would fall. The realization confirmed Alfred's certainty, his granddaughter would see death. He just hoped death would not see her. Lilly clutched the hem of his woolen jacket, reminding him of how she held her mother's scarf as if it could replace the parents she lost.

"Grandpa, what will happen if the fighting comes here?"

"Terrible things. It's war, you need only know that." What would a man give to save his only blood? Alfred didn't know what he could do, but he would do all he could bear. His son and daughter-in-law deserved the sacrifice. He owed them.

Down his cobbled street, lantern poles cast shadows in accord with a vivid moon, the light cutting across the mill of frightened people. The spectacle convinced him how futile it would be seek refuge in the city center. He grimaced, disgusted at the foolhardy of his neighbors plying their way to a vane hope, possessions clipping their heels and slowing their steps. "Fools."

"What, Grandpa?"

"Nothing. Let's get inside." The edge of his oak door pinched between his aged fingers. He pulled the frame open with a scrape of wood on stone eased by the dew.

"I don't like it here. It isn't cold, but the air still makes me shiver." Lilly took a couple small steps backwards into their house, the front of her pink dress bunched in her fists. A warm glow from a single lantern flickered from behind her, casting her shadow in a dark sway at her feet.

"Neither do I." The door creaked mournfully as he began to close it, pausing at the distant howl of a horn. One blast, then two, and finally three the horn blew. He shivered, old bones and all. "Lilly, run upstairs and..."

"What was that sound?" She cut him off, her usual demanding approach to discovering what she didn't understand.

"It doesn't matter. We might be able to exit the southern gate." Alfred closed the heavy door and dropped the latch with a clang. It wouldn't do much, but it might give them a few seconds. "Now run upstairs and grab the pack you use for picnics and fill it with clothes and everything you can't leave behind."
"Are we not coming back?"

"No we're not."

"Where are we going?"

"Remember my friend Mildred?"

"Yes, she makes great soup!"

"She does. Well, we are going to sneak out the castle and head up the eastern road till we get to her village."

"But, won't that take awhile?"

"It will. A couple of days probably, but not of concern. Now no more questions, go!"

Her face paled with shock, she spun and ran up the steps to her small room.

Alfred felt bad for yelling at her, but haste or the lack thereof was deadly. A scream came from outside. His neighbors would have to take care of themselves. Ignoring it as best as he could, he shuffled through the house as best as he could, his limbs tender to the rigid movements forced on them.

A banging on the door drew his attention and he grabbed the nearest item he could use as a weapon, procuring a poker from the fireplace across the room. The banging didn't stop and someone yelled on the other side of the door, but he couldn't make out what they said. Sweat streaked down his cheek as he moved the distance to the door. "Who is it?"

Lilly came running back down stairs. "What's going on?"

"Don't worry yourself. Go back upstairs."

"But..."

The banging continued and Lilly hadn't moved. "Go! Stay upstairs till I call you. Now go!"

She sprinted up the stairs.

He placed his ear to the frame and the voice became discernible.

"Let me in you old fool."

"What?"

"I said let me in."

"No. Who are you?"

"You really are getting senile, I'm your next-door neighbor, Henry. Unlock the door!"

Alfred snorted. "You're not coming in." He didn't trust Henry a wit, and besides, the man smelled of dusty books.

"Have it your way. I just wanted to tell you the southern gate is blocked. There is no way out of the city. Messengers are running down the street, saying the city has surrendered and all citizens are to go to the Central Square."

Alfred almost spit, but refrained, thinking of Lilly. He stopped a lot of things since his granddaughter moved in. "Of course! They would want us in one big circle. Easier to kill us. Henry, don't tell me you're following this foolhardy? You were smarter than most of the lot around here."

"What choice do I have? It is better than running around like a cat and dog, before I get cut down. I would rather take a little chance of survival than none at all. They say we're going to become citizens of the Empire. As long as they leave us in a peace I'm fine with that. You must go. You have to think of Lilly. Give her a chance!"

"Foolishness." Alfred shuffled from the door, effectively muffling Henry's pleas. He went about his packing, trying to figure out another way out of the city. Within a few minutes the man outside ceased his banter. Lilly  inched down the stairs. Alfred lifted his left eyebrow in question.

"The man outside stopped yelling and you didn't say I could come down so I thought I would check and see if it is alright."

"Hmmph."

"Can I come down, grandpa?"

"I don't see your pack, so the answer is no."

She darted up the stairs, ebony curls dancing behind her.

"Change into something better for traveling!" Alfred tossed his jacket in the corner, walked to his desk, and pulled back his chair to sit, banging his knee in the process. It knocked him off balance. He teetered, grasping for the chair before he fell. The world spun. He tried to break his fall with his arms, but then he knew he would need his hands more than any part of his body, and he let his hip take the brunt of the fall while his shoulder the rest. Pain erupted in his side and his vision went black.

When he opened his eyes Lilly sat beside him, but he couldn't hear her. Finally his hearing returned and he noticed tears stretched like long lines down her face. "What has got you all a fluster?"

"You were on the floor, and and I was worried and I don't know what to do."

"Hush yourself. Now help me into my chair."

She tucked her small frame under his shoulder pushed up with her legs, while he grabbed the edge of the desk. With a bit of grunting, Alfred sat upright in his chair, left out of breath. His granddaughter crumbled at his feet, exhausted. A pain walked along his chest. At first he worried it might be his heart giving out, but he quickly realized it brooded deeper, beyond his physical ailments. He gave Lilly his hand, pulling her to her feet. A fresh stab of pain in his side drew his attention. He couldn't walk and even sitting in place hurt.

"What now, grandpa?"

Alfred had no idea. "Do you have your pack with you?"

"Yes." She held out a small satchel with a stuffed doll sticking out of a corner.

"You remember the picnics we used to go on?"

"Yes."

"Good, I want you to gather all the food we normally take on a picnic and stuff it into your bag."

"But grandpa, there's no more room in my bag."

Another jolt of pain shot through his side and he suppressed a wince. He didn't want to frighten Lilly and so waited a moment to regain his bearings. "You'll have to take some out. Be quick about it and go!"

She ran around the steps into the kitchen without arguing.

Alfred exhaled a sigh of relief. Now to figure out how to save her. He dug into his desk, opening drawers and threw everything about him in such haste it seemed like a waterfall of paper, quills, ink bottles, and more cascaded over his shoulders. He withdrew an old piece of parchment wrapped around a copper tube and almost tossed it aside before an itch of a memory made him stop. He laughed, a deep chuckle escaped unbidden from his chapped lips. He knew the idea was absurd, but it felt right, much like he used to feel after hearing good news he had prayed for coming true. It was an outrageous project he spent a number of years working on, while never quite getting it right. Eventually, he had set it aside for later speculation and must have forgotten it.

Unrolling the parchment revealed scribbled notes along the edge of an intricately sketched tube with the purpose of transforming time into fire. It would transfer the prayers of the wielder into a burning luminance of a desired shape by shortening the time it would take for the prayer to come true and filtering it through the device as a fiery projection. Originally, he hoped it would become a holy relic, a tool of immense power to smite evil, along with blessing him with praise from his fellow clergy.

Alfred set the parchment on the table and held the instrument in his hands, the cold metal chilling his sweaty palms. The chill reminded him of death. He shivered. Could he get it to work? The light could only enter from one point, where it was supposed to exit, a magnifying lens he procured from a rare spyglass. The device would be easy to wield, even Lilly, with her small hands, could use it.

A strategy for escape built in his head, hinging on the device, as a smile creased his lips. Once the bulk of the army passed their house, Lilly could slip out and leave the city, using the device to fend off straggling soldiers. Then she could head north to the country village of Hampsteep, which has skirted most of the fighting. But, how to get the light into the tube?

"Grandpa, I was able to get food in the pack."

Alfred hadn't seen her come back in the room. "That's good. What did you take?" The doll still stuck out of the bag, but with more of it exposed.
"The rest of the loaf of bread we got from the baker yesterday, a small block of cheese, two apples, a small sack of rice, and a couple carrots."
Some of Alfred's concern eased due to his surprise at how much she was able to pack. "Well done. Now Lilly, I need you to do one more thing."

"Sure, grandpa."

"Run into my bedroom and in the closet you will find my coffer. Can you get it for me?"

"Why do you need it?"

"Because, we'll need the money for our trip."

"Alright." Lilly gave a quick nod of satisfaction and darted across the room slipping into the door to the left.

Returning to his desk, he opened the device, pride swelled his chest, the inner mechanism was more intricate than he remembered. He even designed a miniature grinding stone to create a spark, which created small flashes of light, but not to the effect he hoped. He adjusted the gears to leave room for a final instrument, as to what he didn't yet know. The rolling thump of countless footsteps echoed up the street towards their house. He hoped the soldiers passed them unnoticed. Where was Lilly? She should have been back with the box. After a quick inspection, he saw a lump in the curtain of the window next to the door. "Lilly get away from there! We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."

She backed away, stumbled, fell, and lost her grip on the box, which spilled its contents on the floor in a wild spray of letters, trinkets, and jewelry. Lilly's face was ashen and her mouth opened and closed in a slow motion much like a dying fish out of water.

"Lilly! Come here, come here." Alfred knew if he left the chair he might not be able to get back up. But, his granddaughter laid on the floor, shaking and terrified as if the life already drained out of her. Alfred dumped out the contents of a box and put the device inside it, set it on the floor, and shoved it in Lilly's direction. He then tried to inch himself towards the floor using his right hand to grab the edge of the desk, but as soon as his full weight pulled on his arm, he collapsed and struck the floor on his injured side. Shock splintered his vision and pain quickened his pulse. He thought he heard a thudding sound, it could have been the sound of him hitting the ground or someone striking the door. He ignored it, forcing his eyes to narrow on Lilly. A whimper release from her lips, the only sound so far and not one to ease his worry.

Alfred dragged his pain-wracked frame towards her, pushing the box in front of him as he scattered trinkets, dashed on the floor earlier. Something wet oozed down his leg, but he dared not look. He must get to Lilly. Pulling himself the last few spaced, he reached her side. He let a hand rest on her small quaking shoulder. "Lilly, it is grandpa. Don't worry I'm here. I need you to look up at me, please."

After a moment she lifted her eyes, smeared with the wetness of fear. "You don't know, grandpa, you don't know what they did...what they are doing."
"It's alright, don't think about it. I want you to concentrate on something. Clear your mind for now. Think on...think on..." Alfred searched both around him and in his thoughts for a suggestion to help his granddaughter deal with her grief. Then he saw what he needed on the floor. A small trinket, full of meaning and history, a ring, old in its design, passed down to him, then to his son, his son to his daughter-in-law and back to him. He couldn't explain how it would make the device work. Maybe, because it symbolized an unanswered prayer, which went dark with the death of his child. He just knew it would bring the weapon to life, a gut feeling, which turned his innards like a mortar and pestle, grinding the herbs for an unique and rare elixir. The golden ring glowed from a deep green emerald intricately mounted as its centerpiece. With a bit of biting and bending he was able to get the gem out. "Now Lilly, this was your mother's. I was going to give it to you on your birthday, but now...just consider it an early present."

She grabbed at it, but Alfred snatched it behind the closed fist of his wrinkled fingers.

"No, I want you to imagine it. Capture its image in your mind. Close your eyes. Do you see it?"

She nodded her head.

"Good. Now take that terrible memory and place it inside the jewel for safe keeping so you don't have to think about it till you're ready. Now open your eyes. Better?"

She hesitated, but finally responded in a pale whisper. "Yes."

Banging sounded at the door followed by yelling.

Alfred opened up the device, took the system of gears, fixed the gem to one end, and inserted it into the tube. The banging on the door increased.
"Grandpa, they're coming!"

He closed the tube. Nothing happened. Lilly stared up at him with red-rimmed eyes. It must work. He shook it, but still no light. The door started to crack at the hinges.

"Grandpa!"

"It must work!" Alfred prayed and prayed pouring himself into the device. Then something caught as if an invisible force from inside the weapon latched onto him. He opened his eyes, and to his amazement a flicker of green light appeared inside the lens. He closed his eyes prayed some more and it grabbed on him as if it took a part of his spirit and filtered it into the light. His energy drained and his head spun, but to his amazement and delight the device projected a long green blade of light curved at the tip shinning like the rays of a foreign moon. It reminding him of the sword he had seen at the Grand Temple Hall during his inauguration into the priesthood. "Now Lilly, put on your pack, take this weapon and leave the city. If anyone tries to hurt you point this at them, pray, and it will glow so bright it will scare them away."

"What if they don't run?"

"Then swing it at them and they wont be able to hurt you."

"I'm afraid."

"Don't be. Run to your aunt's house in Hampsteep and you'll be safe."

"But what about you grandpa? I can't leave without you."

The pounding change to splintering thunks as the assailants used sharper tools to breach the door.

Alfred didn't know how to answer her. He couldn't move and he was afraid she wouldn't leave as long as he was here. "I'll be with you, but...inside in this." He dreaded the thought, but he saw no other option.

"How?" Tears fell down her face, dark curls matted to her cheeks.

"Just...trust me. Feel inside this device and you will find..."

The door crashed open, splinters of wood flying over their heads as two men stumbled in, swords gleaming in an eerie green light. Alfred prayed. He prayed with such devotion his soul seemed to cringed in pain as the nature of his being fought his very will. He had never been so intent in all his life so driven with purpose. Letting his whole being fall into it, he gave his soul to the device. He felt no pain, only a sense of losing oneself, of melding or becoming something else. He heard a distant voice.

"What do we have here?" The soldiers laughed to each other. Alfred couldn't discern their actions, but anger built in him cudgeled by the men's arrogance and his granddaughter's danger.

Green brilliance, screams of pain, and the soft padding of small feet was all Alfred knew. He could see very little, but he moved. He heard a soft voice calling to him, yet he couldn't make out the words. It's as if life became a dream. Fear oozed into him like oil over clear water. He was trapped in a boundless world with only a verdant radiance for companionship. Then a soothing warmth slaked his panic. It was Lilly. Somehow she was able to reach him with her thoughts.

Alfred didn't understand what was being said, but he did know she was safe. He had become the device, scorching luminance, the weapon to her salvation and death had not seen her nor shall it.

Their pale blue shadows stretched towards her like ethereal hands, clawing a trail around the refuge of her home.

Momentary silence and her mind drifted. "Where did I put that change?" Cassandra tossed a plastic Kool-Aid bottle to her left and peeked inside a broken TV, poking at its innards with gloved fingers. Her misty breath obscured her vision, making the quest all the more difficult. The street lamp feebly scattered the night, offering little help. It seemed the TV would produce no treasure today, perhaps tomorrow.

The shadow-cut alley whistled. The chill bit to the bone, seeping into her frayed clothes and tattered boots. She wiggled her toes to improve circulation. A scarf needed to be garnered soon, before winter's minions tightened their tiny grips. Maybe a cup of coffee too.

Yes, she liked the idea of that. Coffee to soothe her rigid fingers and brittle tongue.

The laughter ignited once more splaying a cacophonous tune in her direction. Cassandra winced. Ignoring it as best as she could, Cassandra snatched what she hoped to be a weapon, but instead procured her lucky Pepsi bottle.

When it jingled under her grip, her tension evaporated, left behind by the excitement of finding her savings. The laughter continued, but she gave it no heed, intent on her meager wealth. Over the last couple of months she scavenged the lost, forgotten, and discarded to garner this jingling hoard. She pulled the crumbled plastic out of the mouth of the bottle, used as a makeshift stopper, and dropped the coins into her left hand. "Two pennies, one dime, eight quarters, and four dollar coins." Pride split the premature wrinkles of her face into a smile. Beauty still lingered under the tarnished matte of her sun scorched skin, but none cared to notice nor would she want them to. If her counting skills still proved competent, she had earned enough to attempt her escape plan once more. Even now, jabbing at the innards of a broken TV, she dreamed of her escape from the clutches of poverty's cloying grasp.

Daily, Cassandra made herself forget where she hid the coins just in case the boys came back. She never remembered the specifics from their visits. The lingering aftereffects painted a vivid enough picture for her to ascertain what happened. The wretched vermin stole all her money, usually crushed her lucky bottle, and left her with bruises as a keepsake. They didn't exclusively come to see her, having overheard a few of the other speak of it. Somehow, knowing she shared the experiences made it better, like she participated in a secretive community of the tormented. It was one of the ways she dealt with the beatings. Besides, they weren't even boys. They were rats, nothing more, vile creatures with bottomless eyes, never with a glint of empathy. They didn't see her as human and she didn't see them as human. A fair trade, she thought. If only she found a way to rid herself of them.

They approached, shoving aside piles of refuge in their way.. Deep shadows cut the edge of hard jawlines, which could be construed as handsome or even beautiful to some, if it didn't expose the twisted grins smeared across their vile faces. She felt a tingle crawl up her calves and along her spine as they got nearer. She slipped the bottle inside her trench-coat. If she threw the TV at them, their ugly grins would stop menacing her. A smile sweetened her lips. Last week she crushed a rat in a similar way, a pleasing comparison of tiny rat boys squeaking underfoot as she dropped the TV on them. No more vermin, big or small.

Cassandra sneered and spat at their feet. "Hey Billy, how are you and your rats doing?"

***

"I'm going to throw out the coffee. Do you want me to save a cup to bring to that homeless girl?"

"No, I'm too busy. I need to get something faxed before I go home." Jen finished filling the ketchup dispenser and then handed the bottle over the counter to her coworker Gayle. The sun lazily drooped in the sky. It glimmered through the windows of her work, a limpid cage of daily economic dependence.  She only had an hour at most before the sun set. It felt weird finishing work with the sky darkened, like she lost the day before it began. Besides, she felt guilty. This morning she rushed and didn't visit her homeless friend. The beggar woman seemed bat crazy, but she wanted to do the right thing. Something to do with karma, she was sure.

Fighting against her resolve to always be happy, the day burrowed a nice ache in her back. She forced a smile and bent down to get napkins from the cabinet at her feet when a flash of pain rattled up her spine. She grabbed the edge of the counter to keep from falling and bit off a squeal.

"Jen, you OK?"

"I'm fine." Jen waved Lisa away. It could have been worse. It had been worse in the past. "I just need a moment...to let the pain pass."

"You should really consider retiring. You've worked here how many years now?"

"Fifteen, but I want to wait a few more years." Jen lengthened her spine gingerly with her left hand supporting the small of her back and the fingertips of her right hand preparing to use the counter again. "To help my pension along and such." That wasn't the real reason, but it suited most people. She liked her work, even if she hated the customers. This was her social life, her only life. It beat reading trashy romance novels. On most days at least.

A group of boys shouldered open the doors, letting their cocky laughter spill into the restaurant. Jen thought she recognized one of them as Billy Galliard, the son of the drunkard football coach for the local high school team. The father beat his son bloody in a parking lot after a lost game. The police found him drunk in a bar that night and threw him in jail. The boy spent the next few days in the hospital. It made headlines in the local paper. She glanced over her shoulder at the clock. "...five minutes before we close," she mumbled under her breath. As the boys approached, she slapped a plastic smile on her face and began the prerecorded greeting logged in her head. If she got out of work soon enough maybe she would bring the beggar a cup of coffee after all. She needed something to make herself feel better and it might assuage her guilty conscience for forgetting this morning.

***

Billy sat at home, melding into the couch as the TV blurred in front of him and the afternoon sun cut hazy rays across his dingy living room. A McDonald's bag and its moldy inhabitants sat next to him. Earlier in the day, he skipped school and ran home, it took him an hour of feet slapping against pavement, but he didn't care. It gave him time to think. He knew he should have stayed, it was the right thing to do. He grew tired of the moral banter flung at him daily. It seemed every step of his life he must measure, calculate. He was smart and he knew it. He figured out the best choice without someone's unwanted input weighing him down.

He spent so much time reading, he never spent any time living. That realization caused him to create the Rebellion, a group of friends who did everything in opposition to society and the norm. He figured if they, his group, did everything wrong they would understand what it meant to be wrong and would then be able to make decisions based on reality, not pointless theory or archaic tradition.
When he hung with the Rebellion, he felt more alive. They could do anything. No one could stop them, and if they did, he accepted the consequences whatever they panned out to be. Life was immediate and clear. Action and consequence, experience and result. The simplicity of it made him laugh, not caring who overheard. He laughed so hard tears streamed down his face.

He can't believe at one point he followed the oppressive traditions of right and wrong, the old prodding beast. The moldy shape of its archaic form held little appeal to the lively youth of the Rebellion. He noticed the time displayed on the flickering jabber of the Fox news channel and his pulse sped up. Fifteen minutes and the rest of the crew finished school for the day. He wondered what they would do. Each day reared its head differently, some grimacing with pain, some licking ice cream off its lips, and some bearing its fangs. He did his best to lead, but things always took a more organic turn. "In the moment," he called it when recollecting such events. "You get lost, separated in a way as if you're not there, you're not really the one doing it, which makes it so easy." He knew talking to himself should be a warning sign for some mental impairment, but he couldn't think of a better person to understand himself than himself.

Billy stood, stretched, and ran out the door, leaving the TV to flicker behind him with reports of the communist doings of Obama and the radical decline of our culture. He didn't slow as he worked his way to the daily meeting spot. He ran by a woman in a business suit, most likely walking back from work, he grimaced and she ignored him. He hated Suits. Money grubbing pigs, nothing human about them. His stomach rumbled and he remembered he hadn't eaten today. The Rebellion should snag a bite to eat before going on the prowl. Besides, he liked the older clerk, she reminded him of his grandmother, the only worthwhile human in existence.

***

Cassandra's sneer was answered with a fist slammed into her stomach. The air blasted out of her lungs and before the pain could grip her voice someone kicked her in the face. Her vision blackened and the world spun. Her shoulder pressed against the cold pavement, blood dribbled over he lips. She spit a piece of tooth and pushed herself up on her elbows. The boys were getting rougher than usual.

"Can't you put up a fight?"

She tried to stand. They never let her. Cassandra did her best to kick, bite, scratch, claw, and scream, but it seemed to only invigorate their efforts. They taunted her, as if they wanted her to win. Some of them cheered her on.

Afterwords, as she laid on the ground wheezing from her lungs being impaired by a sharp pain in her ribs and dull aches everywhere else, one of the boys got a grand idea in his head, which started an argument. She didn't care what bothered them. "Rats!"

"What did you say, bitch?"

"Cut it. We had our fun, let's go."

"Rats." Cassandra repeated with barely a whisper.

"Ya, whatever, I always knew you were pathetic, Billy." The boy raised his hands in question. "What, our big leader wussing out?"

"What are you doing?"

Tighter, Cassandra curled into a ball to lessen the pain or make the rats forget her. She hugged her knees to her chest, but it did little to assuage the fear and pain building in her chest.

"Stop it!" The voice was the one they called Billy.

At first she thought they were urinating on her as a wet stream coated her face. Cassandra licked her bloody lips. It lacked the salty ting she expected, being bitter instead like vinegar or liquor. She spat and frantically wiped her face, but the substance wouldn't come off. The boys started yelling at each other. It looked like Billy walked away and kicked a trash can, but it might have been someone else.
A bright flash of orange light engulfed her vision, licking her with a molten tongue. She screamed. It seared into her skin, her eyes, her clothes, and her mouth, like being dragged naked over coals. Her flesh peeled away and her heart quickened with vain attempts of perseverance. The fire hurt, the fire ate, the fire was. She didn't know anything else. Her mind had become the pain and the pain was the fire. She could no longer scream, see, or even breathe.

Then the agony faded, her mind momentarily cleared. She thought of days picnicking with her mom, of nights eating ice cream with her father at the local dairy shop, of early mornings with over-easy eggs and pancakes with too much syrup, and so much more. She remembered it all and nothing. She knew where she was, but also knew she wasn't there. She saw irony, even as her last vestiges of thought faded into the after. Like sipping coffee in the chill of winter, the heat consumed her. At least she wouldn't be cold when she died.

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

"Welcome to the Archive. I am Arhatta, but if it suits you call me Arhat." Stillness kept the calm soothed, stillness of my heart, untouched by calamity, vice, or vitality. Death not kin, but rebirth conquered by the brahmacarya, by the culmination of life. "I have peace, I have harmony with all things, and with the upward twist of my lips the world shall know me through my visage. For I am neither what I was nor what I am. I am the visage. I am Lohan, the Arhatta."

"You will begin to know us. We are the Archive. We each have our tale. For I, Arhatta, have known the age of mongols, when the Yuan Dynasty shun, and when the Ming Dynasty prevailed over them, until its iron will was brought to the blade by the hardened hands, which tilled their soil." My story is long and words can only mire the mirth of my nirvana. Know me in thoughts or do not know me at all. Words leave to petty banter the unchecked heart, which frolics like the puppy nipping at an imagined butterfly.

Think on this in your thoughts, but not in your words. Stillness. Think on honor, for we attain it not by our deeds or what we achieve, but by what people give unto us. Honor is a golden prize which weighs down your brahmacarya. I received the name Arahan, worthy one, but they always read the absent words. Foe destroyer, they whispered. I'm neither worthy nor destroyer. I am the visage. Being worthy is subjective to world you live in. I no longer worry on such things. I am worthy of everything and nothing, for I no longer live.

Namo Tassa Bhagavato, Arahato, Samma-sammbuddhassa—Homage to him, the Blessed One, the Worthy One, the perfectly enlightened Buddha. "We are what we seek. I sought mirth, I am mirth."

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

My palace has fallen, my subjects gone, but my family is with me. At least I have solace. I was from the Singa Raja Palace. I was King, I am King, but with no throne. "Call me Bamci." He scratched his shoulder, his eyebrows turned inward with annoyance, the never ending kind. "Sorry it itches. It always itches.” He stole a glance upwards and smiled at the ceiling above. "At least I need not fear more of the white bombs from the sky."

Bamci went silent as if confused or lost, thinking on some minor thought. "The itching, it is so much at times it fuddles. Please sit and talk awhile." Taking lead, Bamci sat cross legged on his glass stand. "It's not the most comfortable, but it suits my needs. I've come to...respect what little I have. Where was I? Yes, you are correct, I was speaking on my kingship. It was a splendid palace, as all palaces should be, in the grand country of Indonesia. I spent a good four hundred years there before my travels took me here."

A bit of green dust brushed from his knee, Bamci leaned forward and rested his elbow against his leg, and with his hand cupping his chin. Regal some would say, with the gentle glaze of the indifferent eye. If it wasn't for the decay of his bronze skin, one might believe his foolish pose. "Those were good days, but we have cheerful company now. The Archive suits me and my wife Rajni, and the skies can no longer spit their venom. Oh, what I would do for a cloth."

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

"Ha, I escaped the flame and the bity ity tatanua floats away. No harm to me. The soul whispers death to ears. I'm Cik." Rattling in place, as he shifted from foot to foot on the paved floor, Cik broadened his smile to a splendid row of teeth.

"I've many things to do. I'm with the Archive you see. I'm Cik. Nice to meet you. You ask what I do or where I'm from. Ha, I care not what brought me here. I'm warrior, Guardian Against the Flame. I control the Sacred Red Box. No flame can lick, our flesh unscorched."

These questions flicked in Cik's thoughts, his purpose intact and his heart juddering confidence. The hateful flame held no will over him, as long as he watched the Sacred Red Box. It was his duty, and as a warrior of the Malagan and now a member of the Archive, to be steadfast in his resolve to prevent the fiery from consuming them all. "Tick or tack, I'll quench the evil if it dares to come. Tick or tack. Flame a petty thing as long as Cik be near."

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

We are united, we are one. We are neither nor the either. We are the tutelar, we are the ana deo, the ancestral pair. We speak as one, without loss of the other. We are one.

Our home, off on misty shores, broods in our mind, thinking upon how fair they fare without us. We used to guard and protect the house of spirits, the heda. We lived at the greatest heights, not in flight or size, but in other things of much more concern.

You may not understand this, for we are one, and neither are we whole or together, but we still stand as the bars to a land so holy. As we stood barring the entrance to such a great house of spirit, we stand still vigilant till the day time test our will, and we become one in dust together. If only we didn't now guard a wall, at least give us a closet a corner or even a lamp, but still we stand, always vigilant. No evil shall pass, no evil shall harm the holy wall we protect. For holy it is, for why else would be stand so still so long? Forever, till dust brings us together.

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

What is the place you call the Archive? Hmm, I like it not. Easily broken. Too astir, too active for the likes of me. I'm from afar like us all, but I find myself more content than most. I'm almost a thousand years old. Pity those years steered by so fast.

But, this is splendid company I keep. Many tales they have, which are worth your ear. I advise, listen, and learn, but keep calm within for the unsteady heart cannot bend ear to good use.

Oh, have I forgotten to introduce myself. Pity on me, time sure does move fast. I'm Iyo if you catch me right and Tena if you catch me wrong. I hope you find our community welcoming, but I'm not of this Archive you speak, and if it has anything to do with Ms. Kitty, well, I smile on such things.

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

"So you want to know something about me? Well, what fancies ya?" Kala sniffed, his lava rock nostrils flaring.

"I'm from Bali, but not originally mind you. I've been many a place and Bali wasn't my favorite. Not a bad sort, just not my favorite. No, I'm from Java, the old Java when times were dust and people vain. Eh, things probably haven't changed much have they?" Kala's eyes ground in circles, itching the ear.

His eyes stopped, he crunched his teeth together, and let his stone tongue run across his lips as if parched. "You know what, I could go for some greens. Do you have any greens? Spicy stuff and not right once inside, but the taste,  now that is hard to beat. You're not a spirit are you? I hope not. I'm supposed to eat you if you are. I get awful hungry. You're probably not a spirit though. You best leave before I do get hungry. Come back again though. Not many people talk to me. Eating them probably doesn't help."

Tatanua

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

The Malagan is a story. It is a telling of times which were; a telling to guide the spirits to the beyond. It is a celebration of unity and a blessing for those gone. I'm that memory of a tale, which should carry the wild spirit of he who has passed. Yet, my story is forgotten, I'm not a tale, nor a memory or a thought. I'm haunted by the tatanua I've betrayed, the spirit which doesn't see the land of the golden sun.
I see him walking amid the tall pines, a wisp of smoke in the twilight breeze. I see him skidding over the white capped waves. His whisper sings in the twilight. His breath cuts between brittle leaves. He is always there and I always remember what I have forgotten. I'm the outcast. I've not tasted the flames, where my brethren become one with their spirits, with their tatanua. I stand cold and barren, with hidden eyes and the knowledge of what I've lost.

I'm named for that which I've betrayed. I'm the evil spirit, the twisted tatanua, which has no tale to tell and a life of tainted remembrance.

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Kelirieng

Written in conjunction with the Watermill Grimoire Project.

"I am Kelirieng, I was and always will be Kelirieng, no matter what tongue twists the words of my name. Death be to those who defy me the honor of my name. I am Kelirieng and always will be. I want you to remember. I want them to know so I don't become forgotten."
Kelirieng felt adrift, weightless, but not like floating on a cloud of glee or lifted in a spring breeze. He felt apart, separated, because he was in six pieces, to be precise. He thought it would hurt, the axes chopping away at his feet with sweat and bitter spit till he fell amid the low brush he used to scorn for lacking sight and vision. He remembered it should hurt, but he wasn't sure anymore. Days faded, both now and before. Without purpose all became the same, all became nothing.

After breaking or splitting me, whatever you want to call it, into the rough long shapes of six segments, five bipedal hairless creatures carried me away from the jungle and the long shadows of my dear mountain friend. They took me out of the lush land of my heritage and brought me over rolling sea, which licked its salty tongue against my carved hide, until they reached the dusty shores of my sterile entrapment.

They shoved a metal pole into my hollow heart to pull together the parts of my fragmented self until I was one once more, yet little of what I was is left. I stand tall still, but against foreign winds, which lingered of the taste of water's deep. Around me, I'm surrounded by similar captives and new friends, not much different from the fur-less ones, who dragged me here. Those of a smaller variety dig their tiny claws into my aging skin to climb the tall slope of my heights until I catch them unaware, and snap their existence from the bitter torment of their lives. At least then I can guide them to a better world, like I once did for the Kejaman.

His stern resolve to persevere brought him little peace, but at least it gave him purpose. "Welcome, I am Kelirieng, servant of the Long Litan, watcher of the Kejaman, the Death Whisperer, and Keymaster of Renewal. I will bring you into death and renew you into life, but first you must answer me, what do you deserve?"

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