FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Note to people who don't like spiders, a teeny bit of bondage, and not quite completely female entities taking top bunk, you may or may not be disappointed. Am not responsible for higher doses of salt in body's bloodstream as a result. Cheers.

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I. Road's End

Under an early morning dawn, little sunlight was to be seen through the shroud of fog that permeated the stretch of road ahead as two figures made progress through the wispy trails of the old forest. The two were largely silent in their journey, keeping an avid pace as the only notable sound to be heard was the clanking of gear in the heavy packs they shouldered and occasional branch dwelling birds.

The fog around them seemed unnatural, purposefully blinding the path ahead of them as if to obscure their progress, leaving them wondering if they were walking in circles or if perhaps the fog itself was endless. Fortunately for them, others had come before them, and it seemed they too had once had the same dilemma.

And so the solution presented itself. Along the old path every few hundred feet torch posts were planted. The pair was passing one of them now. They were hard to miss in the fog. How could his eyes ever hope to miss the brightly colored marker? Most had gathered stones around their bases. Some were painted, some adorned in bright ribbons and tapestry, candles and small shrines for worship to the Gods. Others had twines of string stretching all the way out into the murky gloom until the next marker, tied tightly so that one would not lose their way even if sight failed them.

The pair continued on silently, following the brightly colored markers and their clues that pointed to the next one on the path before the man in front stopped. He held his hand up silently, signaling a stop, turning back to his younger associate. The older man's eyes peered aimlessly through the fog before drifting back to the younger man behind him who waited patiently.

“Can you hear it? Listen closely."

The younger man shook his head. He heard nothing but the echoes of birds in the mist and the slight sway of trees on a calm wind.

“Someday you might. Remember this always, boy. Do not stray off the path, no matter what you hear. No matter how alluring it is. The road we walk is the only safe passage through. We must respect the laws of this place and tread with care."

The older man nodded, as if to reassure himself rather than his younger colleague before setting off once more. The younger man followed while pondering the words. He'd heard them before of course, but for once, today he examined them with more thought.

“What lives in the mist, Uncle?"

The older man continued walking as he spoke.

“Dark beings. The fog is their home, and it is no place for the feet of men to tread. Those who do so will never come out. Their ghosts fill this forest. It is our duty to respect the laws of this place and to follow the path that was laid for us. Stray off the path, and you will be at the mercy of those that live in the fog."

The pair continued forwards in silence, the younger man pondering over the words once more, but helplessly all the more curious to their true meaning. The older man forged on ahead, eyes on alert for threats. They still had a long way to go before they cleared the mountainous footpath that constituted the Trail of Whispers that wound through these forests before they emerged back onto the regular trail of the mountainside.

---

Fog closed in all around him like a suffocating blanket, the familiar path beckoning him onwards as it stretched out ahead of him. Small trinkets clanked against the pack on his back as he walked the old footpath, following along his Uncle from beacon to beacon.

In the last few years, this path had become more familiar to him. It was the fastest way to make the trip from his small fledgling village to the larger ocean trading ports on the southern edge of the continent. Horses faltered at the edge of this old forest, skittish of the murky fog, and to this day it was only travelers on foot that were successful in reaching the end.

He was the youngest in the family, save for a younger brother who had not the strength to carry a pack yet. If his father could have his way, he wouldn't be out here with his Uncle. But there was little choice as it was his family that was marked by the signing of ink to paper, as it was to all who called his village home. His father had fallen ill and was unable to carry the weight of prize goods for trade.

Rather than risk the ire of the family bloodline who claimed ownership over them, to save their hard earned position in the hierarchy, he had volunteered to fill the position of his father. It was stepping into the boots of a large role, for his Father and Uncle were both prized for the speed of which they journeyed, the weight they could shoulder, and the appearance of unwavering loyalty that always resulted in the return delivery of prized wealth the Lords of the land sought.

Most men would deign to flee at their chance for freedom, but not Uncle or Father. They served faithfully, in part due to their loved ones. The wrath of the Lords would not direct itself on the perpetrator of a crime, but the family and friends. But speaking of loyalty, the younger man was of another matter.

He often dreamed of freedom, of being able to choose to go wherever he wanted to in the lands, unrestricted by the binds that trapped his family. When he was younger, he had once shared many arguments with his Father over their fate. That servitude was not their lot in life. It must have been ironic to see him now stepping in to fill the role his Father once played.

As the fog parted along the trail, a clearing became ever present. He'd been here before. It was the first base camp for travelers along the old path, a waypoint of judgement of how much farther the journey would take. It was a small clearing in the dirt and the trees, trampled down by many boots of many travelers, with an old and weathered central fire pit, and circular indents in the dirt where tents had been placed repeatedly over the years.

With a long sigh, Uncle unshouldered his pack, and taking it as his signal, so too did the young man. A pile of firewood had been left near the old circle of stones, a long standing tradition upheld by those who passed along the trail. Clean up after oneself, and leave something behind for the next souls who would brave this road.

The shroud of fog among the thickening trees obscured a true sense of time as one could not see beyond it, and had only to rely on the subtle changes in light. By the ever darkening tone of things, it was the appropriate time to call an end to a long day's journey. As he began unpacking his gear, Uncle set to work on coaxing the first beginnings of the fire that would keep them warm for the night.

Although the trees provided shelter from the harsh winds that prevailed along this mountain range, the fog permeated everything with a dampness that found a way to seep into everything. Nights were often cold. He smiled to himself as he began unpacking his tent. In a way he liked it out here on the roads. There was an essence of urgency in their travels, but on the other hand, it always felt like when he was out here, he was one step closer to a freedom he daydreamed about. Maybe one day he would have it. But for now, not today. Not while the sun faded, at least.

Uncle was a quiet sort of man, matter-of-factly and to the point, but he did take his time to tell some stories around the fire pit while they ate dried foods and salted meats. They were tales of his travels on various roads beyond this one, mostly cautionary ones about the dangers that lurked in the corners of the world. And then it was off to rest for the night for the long road ahead tomorrow. The fire would drive back the fog, and ward off those that dwelled within the mist. But it would not properly reveal the sun in the morning through the smothering blanket all around them. And for that, Uncle deigned that they needn't worry about a set time for waking up.

Tomorrow was a day of rest, and that prospect filled him with joy. As much as he enjoyed travelling, the journey could be tiresome. It was what enabled him to sleep soundly during the night in comfort in his old bed roll despite the pervasive dampness that tried to invade everything in spite of the dull flames that flickered in the campsite's fire pit nearby.

It had been a night of comforting rest, for a time.

---

II. Dead Futures

Somewhere in his sleep he was dimly aware of the stirrings of Uncle, adding more to the fire in shifts to keep it going. So when the pervasive chill of the fog swept into the campsite, and there were no stirrings of Uncle to be heard, he woke up on instinct. To his sleep throttled mind, it was a surprise that the fire burned brightly in the circle of rocks. More alert now as he pushed off his blankets, he spotted his breath rising in the night air.

Why had it gone so cold? He peered out into the murky gloom around the campsite, and then it dawned on him. The chattering of the birds had vanished. Not even the wind swept through the old treetops above. The crackling of the fire became unnerving to him, as if in the silence of the murk, eyes would be drawn to the only other sound.

Uncle had never specified on their travels what exactly called this mountain trail home. But he had been privy to some of the stories told by the older men back home. This old forest had seen much bloodshed at one time long before he was born. And the rocky mountain slopes had a habit of claiming travelers before the trail was established that led to safe passage.

It caused him a momentary pang of fear as he wondered what was out there in the fog. And then he saw it. Dim at first, but it grew stronger in brightness. A light not unlike a lantern lit up a point in the fog out in the trees. The light was a pale blue, casting shadows among the trees as it neared. Yes, he knew it was coming closer for certain.

The air seemed to take on a frozen still as he watched, spellbound by the approach of the light. Rather than blind him as it approached in the fog, the point of light became more defined and smaller, until at last it emerged through the gloom. He smiled from under the blankets wrapped around himself.

A pale little mote of light, enwreathed in swirling wisps of smoky blue hues emerged into the clearing of the camp. It moved slowly towards the fire before stopping above it, hovering there on invisible strings as if it had been discarded by a puppeteer and left unattended to.

He peered into the light at its core, and for a moment, he thought he could hear something. The wispy tendrils of bluish smoke that gently whirled around it drew something out of him as he stood, reaching outwards slowly to the light. He needed to touch it.

The pale light flickered like a candle, and he got the impression that it was somehow weak, like the very last embers of a fire struggling against the dark. His fingers slipped into the wispy shroud that surrounded it, feeling as if he was dipping them into a pool of cold water, and he touched the core of light.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he hadn't really touched it. His fingers passed through it, leaving him with a dissatisfaction that wanted to be filled. He wanted to close his fingers around it, to contain it, actually hold it. But when he touched the very core of the light, something struck him.

A flash of images, bright like the mote itself, of what he could only describe as another person. And then everything burned. From his fingers to his hand and downwards, frost coated his skin as it spread. He fell backwards with a gasp of pain that woke Uncle, and in a moment the man was on top of him.

“Damned fool, why would you touch such a thing! Have you no sense!"

The feeling in his hand had all vanished and been replaced with a burning as frost traveled down his arm slowly, but at a slowing rate before it finally stopped. Uncle pulled his sleeve up to his shoulder, shuffling around the camp as he gathered blankets and poured water into a pot to place it over the fire pit on the cooking rack, ever mindful of the frail creature as it hovered above the fire. Wrapping his arm in a blanket, Uncle sat down beside him with a sigh. His weathered features looked at him in brief contempt that cut deeper than even the cold, eventually replaced with a smile.

“You know you're not supposed to touch the dead, boy. They're not like you or I. They're not longed for this world any longer. And yet you go and do it anyway. Rookie mistake, just like your father."

He cradled his arm in the wrapped blankets.

“Really?"

Uncle smiled, yellowed and missing teeth showing as he laughed.

“And me."

His eyes peered up to the mote of light as it circled the fire aimlessly.

“Damn things can kill you if they get you in the wrong places. You're lucky you were an idiot and tried to touch it. Just your hand that'll need to heal instead of your body if it had passed through you."

He winced as he tried to curl his fingers through the burning.

“What is it?"

“The last spark of a man. Or a woman. What did you see when you touched it?"

He blinked, trying to recall the images as they'd all come flooding in.

“I don't know. A man, maybe. I think he died in a fight?"

Uncle nodded.

“Old soldier then. Must've seen the campfire and come wandering."

He was about to ask Uncle how it could possibly be that the swirling remnants of a person above the fire could possibly even see it, when a shriek of mangled vocal chords shattered the still of the forest. It was like nothing he'd ever heard before. It was human….but something was wrong. Uncle muttered under his breath as the air suddenly became supremely chilled, pressing to exposed skin like millions of miniature daggers.

“No…."

With hardly a word, he sprang to life, rushing over to his tent to pack things in a scrambled hurry. Despite the pain in his hand, he pushed himself up to see what was wrong with Uncle, and the man only replied curtly,

“Pack your things now, we're leaving."

His hands were shaking thoroughly, and the air seemed to be cooling down faster now.

“I don't understand Uncle…"

The man turned, gripping him by the shoulders firmly and staring directly into his eyes.

“Another dead one is coming. It is unnatural. It wants to feed on the lesser one, but if it finds us-"

Another blood chilling scream echoed through the trees, this time so close that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Uncle's skin had gone pale and cold. Both of their breaths practically crystalized into snow instantly, and a thin layer of frost was beginning to creep across the ground, the heat of the campfire managing to hold it at bay.

And then he felt it, deep in his gut, and in his heart. A sudden realization. What if this was his life? This trail through the mountains, over and over again, like Father, and like Uncle? He was going to watch himself age, year after year in servitude, until his life withered away into nothing, and perhaps he would wander the forest like one of these dead souls who returned to the world of the living.

He fell to his knees at the realization that this was it. The epitome of his life playing out before him, forever bound in shackles. Uncle tried to pull him up, shaking him.

“Fight it boy! It is the work of the Banshee! We must leave now!"

But it was too late. He felt its presence without even laying eyes on it. The frost crept along the ground and began to overtake the edges of the fire pit itself. Ice formed slowly on his and Uncle's skin in expanding crystals. He teetered over the edge of a black abyss, and all he could feel was the abyss that watched him back, down, so very far down…

Branches and twigs snapped, and the Banshee emerged into the clearing. Both he and Uncle remained frozen in place, watching the shambling being lurch forward towards the fire. It was wreathed in dark shadows that swirled around it, not unlike the wisp at the fire, but it looked sickly and corrupted. It had been a man once, a soldier, clad in armor that had decayed to rusted hunks.

It was withered skin and bone, nerves and extremities twitching erratically, and flickering like an afterimage one would see in their vision after staring at a bright light for too long. Bony hands extended outwards towards the soul at the fire, and the little thing was drawn towards the shambling wreck, winking out of existence as the dead hands clawed for it, drawing it into a mouth that hung far too low for a man, the jaw having long since dislocated.

And then its eyes found them. Empty things of grey that streaked the dead creature's face in black tears as it let out another screaming howl of agony and pain, and it spoke in strangled whispers.

“Please gods…I want to go home…."

It stumbled, falling forwards into the dirt only to drag itself towards them with its impossibly skinny arms. Uncle broke from his trance, reaching out and slapping him upside the face. He stared at Uncle face to face, shaken from his stupor. Ice was coating everything from his eyebrows to his greyed mustache and beard.

“Run. I will catch up with you at the camp at the end of the road! Go! You must go!"

With waning strength, the man gripped him by the shoulders and flung him as hard as he could, if only to grant that much space over the creature as it clawed its way through the dirt towards them with a speed that was unnatural of a man, as it flickered in and out of a faded shadowed existence in a struggle that defied death and life.

Uncle seized a branch from the pile of kindling nearby, casting it into the fire pit to draw it out and toss it away to his younger charge before grabbing another branch and lighting it, holding it towards the oncoming creature like a lance. It reeled back from the flames in fear, letting out another horrid scream of agony, but as he watched, he could see that the creature was exactly like the fragments it had absorbed. The burning branch phased through it like it was a shroud of fog. The Banshee sobbed, reaching through the burning fire towards Uncle.

“Please gods…..I want to go home…."

He felt crushed in a way he had never known, struggling to retrieve the flaming branch at his feet, feeling the warmth of the fire at his fingers, pushing himself with everything he had to stand up. He wanted to help, and tried, but Uncle caught sight of him one last time as he held the unliving, sickly darkness at bay.

“Go boy! Do as you are told! Run!"

And that was it. He ran into the fog, flaming branch in hand. Ice crept over the forest, and the spine curdling sobs of the creature could be heard for miles in the darkness. In a panic, he had fled in the first direction his legs had managed to carry him, and he soon realized that he had become lost.

Fear could overcome him to turn back, but he moved forwards for fear of what may be hunting him, smelling his living flesh out, and tracking the warmth it emanated. As his branch began to smolder, he would frantically snap off another from some of the lower trees he could find, lighting himself temporary torches to keep the dark at bay.

In the fog, he could not see, and if his light went out, it would be the end of him. He pressed forwards into the dark aimlessly.

---

III. Sanctuary

He wouldn't have known how long he had wandered for, but only that he was tired, and that it had been taken perhaps hours for the screams of what followed him through the woods to finally fade. He was chilled to the bone and dampness of the fog did not help him. He pushed forwards blindly through the trees in the dark, struggling on keeping his torch lit and burning.

He knew he was going uphill at least, as the land sloped upwards in a fight against his exhausted body. He wanted to rest, stop and lean against a tree, but he pushed forwards. The thoughts that had visited him before still lingered in his mind. He was afraid that if he stopped, those realizations would grip him and hold him again.

And worst of all, he had no sign of Uncle. For all he knew, he was alone out here, and his Uncle had been killed, or worse. He stumbled through the fallen and brown leaves, winding his way over and around gnarled roots, and was finally about to give in and slump at the base of an old tree when he heard it.

Strings being plucked on an instrument, followed by the soft voice of a woman echoing gentle notes alongside them. He blinked, looking all around him in the mist, trying to find the source of the sound, and he did. He stepped one foot forwards halfway, pausing as Uncle's words surfaced in memory.

He had warned of alluring calls and sounds, and not to follow them. Was this a trick of another dead being who resided here? He listened again closely. Her voice was distant. Wobbling on unsteady feet, he made a choice. He had already strayed from the safety of the path. He was already hopelessly lost with no way to tell where he was going.

If it was some kind of trap, it hardly mattered anyway. And, for all he knew, if it was a trap that claimed his life, perhaps it would not be a bad thing. He couldn't imagine walking these roads for the rest of his life. And now that he truly knew what lay in the fog, he had been shaken.

He pressed forwards uphill, following the woman's singing voice and her lofty instrument's echoes. It was true. The gentle sways of the music that was played, alongside the quiet voice were alluring. As alluring as the fragmented wisp at the campfire.

He did not need to touch it this time, he needed to see with his eyes who it was that lived out here that was capable of such a beautiful work. Pressing through the mist and winding trees, in the darkness his eyes were finally able to make something out as he emerged into a clearing where some of the fog faltered.

In the middle of the cleared space lay an old spired and steepled structure of cobbled stone, its roof having long ago crumbled. The fog cleared so well that he could make out the shape of a mountain behind it, looming above him, and beyond that, the points of starlight of a clear night.

He would've have collapsed here to his knees, but in a last rush, curiosity spurred him forwards towards the crumbled structure. The stringed music was now the loudest it could be, as was the gentle singing of the woman. Large wooden doors greeted him, held together by old iron that had hints of rust. His torch fizzled to nothing as the last of the fire that burned its branches went out, and he was left in faint starlight.

Like it or not, now he couldn't turn back. He was about to press his weight to the doors to open them, when a thought struck him. Instead, with held breath he knocked three times onto the large door before him. The gentle music stopped, as did the lullaby voice.

He waited briefly, about to knock again when she spoke softly.

“Do come in, traveler."

He pushed aside the heavy wooden doors to reveal what needed to be revealed to him. An old place of worship, its stained glass windows shattered, the building largely cleared of anything, starlight shining down into the middle of the space through the decrepit ceiling. At the far end of the room among piles of rubble, among lit candles was a hovel where somebody had etched out a home.

And in the middle of the old altar space, there she sat, with a large instrument curved like a bow at her side. Rather than one string for drawing arrows, it boasted several. And it appeared to be made of intricately sculpted golden metal rather than wood.

But most peculiar was the woman herself. A shock to him, really. Her face was covered by a black veil, and she was adorned in the most regal of red robes etched in gold that covered her form as she sat at the altar, surrounded by many pillows, as red as her robes. Black strands of inky hair pooled out across the stonework everywhere, as if she had long ago given up attempts to contain it.

And in six red sleeves, their outline etched in gold, were six arms, as pale as moonlight. Her middle pair still reached out to the strings of her instrument. Her top pair were folded down into her lap in a polite manner, and her bottom pair gestured to him.

He froze, but she spoke again now in a gentle voice.

“Wary of my form? You have little to fear from me. Harm is not my intent. Come. Sit. Rest. You have had a long journey to find me."

Her voice put him at ease, and he stepped forwards across the old chapel floor, taking in details as her form grew close. Her hovel consisted of the raised alter, still under the protection of the roof in some form, and boasted a collection of various trinkets scattered about. A small fire pit with a collection of pots and pans strayed away from what was burnable in the far corner.

In the other corner, old shelves lined with books and bottles of liquids of many colors he could only guess. Scattered candles lit her abode in a soft glow, and he found that the further he pressed towards her, the more a wafting smell of something sweetly burning filled his nostrils.

All six of the bizarre woman's arms turned their attention to him, each unfolding five pale fingers tipped in elongated black nails that gleamed glossily in her immaculate gestures. Her face was entirely obscured by the black veil she adorned, but it felt like she was smiling at him. She certainly sounded happy.

“Good. You needn't fear me, young man. But firstly, a question answered for you."

Her six arms folded themselves into her lap.

“Your Uncle is safe."

He froze once more. Not out of fear, but of something else.

“How do you-“

A middle arm raised slender fingers to what he assumed was lips behind the veil.

“I know many things about you, traveler, as I know about a great many other things in the world. I know that your keen mind would wish to ask me to prove my claim to you in moments had I not interrupted your thoughts just now. Come, please do sit."

Her bottom pair of arms gestured to a mat that lay near the front of the altar she resided on. He was stunned to silence and inaction, but she waited patiently for him, and eventually, he sat down cautiously in front of her. He hadn't noticed it before now, as his body slumped. He was tired. Her head tilted, her veil shifting along with the many long dark strands of her hair that spilled forth from her head as she eyed one of his arms.

“I see that you encountered something terrible in the woods. You are quite fortunate you know."

His head was spinning with questions now and he simply blurted out the first one to arrive.

“What are you?"

Her laughter was strangely infectious despite how subdued it was. He could only smile as she responded back, not in a scolding manner, but one that was light hearted.

“Not what, young man, but whom. Who am I? Such an explanation depends on why you are here. But you offered me a courtesy uncommon of those who seek me, and for that you deserve my name, rather than my title."

He sat in curious silence as she unfolded her six arms with open hands.

“My name is O'ceelva. And your name, young man?"

“It's uh…Jonin."

O'ceelva nodded curtly from under her veil.

“Jonin. How befitting a name."

Jonin rocked on his feet, coming back to reality.

“My Uncle! You said he was-“

“Safe, yes. He survives his encounter with your dead kin. He will be waiting for you at the third camp, as he told you to go there."

“How can you know that? I don't understand."

O'ceelva laughed again.

“You possess a quality not common to your kin Jonin. Your Lords do not see it within you, and treat you merely as a transport, and your father sees it but cannot nurture it. Will you allow me to bequeath to you my second name?"

“Your second name?"

O'ceelva nodded.

“The name that men in the past have braved the fog to find me for, for I offer a chance most men are never so blessed to know."

“What is it?"

“I am an Oracle. A reader of the Living Threads."

Jonin blinked.

“Like a fortune teller? Or the Arch Seer?"

O'ceelva laughed once more.

“If only, Jonin. No, your human tellers of fortune are very rarely so blessed with the ability to see beyond eyes. But yes, if you wish to think of me as that, then you can."

O'ceelva's reply only stirred up more questions in him, and he stammered in comprehension of them. O'ceelva tilted her veiled head, studying him.

“You are curious indeed Jonin. Without even looking at the threads I can see the questions in your mind. Do not let such a curiosity within you die with time Jonin. That is the quality that your Lords do not see, that they are afraid of the most in their subjects. Do you wish to ask questions?"

“Yes, I do."

“As you would then."

“How?"

“My kin do not possess my quality innately. I am simply more attuned to the world than they choose to be, in their primitive circles and feuds. Jonin, tell me, have you ever heard any man or woman call something “The Old Arts?"

He shook his head. This was new to him.

“Sometimes your kin choose to call it that. I choose another set of words. I merely tap into the power of the hammer and anvil that forged us."

“What do you mean?"

“Willpower, Jonin. There was a force that gave birth to our world, to everything that ever is, and ever will be. That power still exists under the surface, buried by time immemorial already. One who can attune their mind can open doors to this power and manifest it. Magic, as it is often known to by the simple beings that most people are."

“So you mean anybody can do what you do?"

“A very astute question young man. In theory, perhaps. But some are born with an affinity to it, like a calling. They would not have to work quite so hard to earn the right to access those doors."

“Could I open those doors?"

O'ceelva only chuckled in response.

“Jonin, you are very tired right now. There will be time later for questions of that magnitude. You need time to recover. My home is yours, for as long as you need it to be, under one condition."

At the mentioning of it, Jonin felt it in him. His hand still burned greatly and his body longed for rest.

“Yes, name it please."

“The Little Ones. You shall not harm them, as they answer to me, and they do not seek to harm you. They call this place home as well."

“The little ones?"

O'ceelva nodded, pointing one of her middle arms upwards. With a growing sense of dread, Jonin's gaze fell upwards to what he had missed upon entering the old ruin. High up among the rafters, he could see them among an immense network of webbing. Small shining eyes and black carapaces, some of them the size of his hand or larger. Spiders. He had barely pushed himself up to his feet before O'ceelva raised a hand in a voice that commanded absolute authority.

“Cease Jonin! Should you leave my doors tonight I cannot guarantee your safe passage and survival in the forest. The creature at your fire still haunts the woods. And my kin are not so civilized to those that would break the oath your people once made to them should they find you wandering from the path."

Jonin sunk back to the floor, exhausted anyway. He looked upwards apprehensively to the multitude of many eyes that watched him in the gloom, then back to the strange woman on the altar. She nodded back.

“You can trust them. They are my kin. They have not yet grown to reach the stage I have in my lifespan yet, but they are still intelligent, as you or I. Let me show you."

O'ceelva motioned with one of her upper arms, and Jonin watched in silent apprehension as a single spider fell gracefully from the old rafters on a dangling line of web to land on the floor nearby to him. Eight small beady eyes faced him along with eight legs that scuttled its glossy black carapace over to him to stand just in front of him.

“Hold out your good hand, Jonin."

With another wave of apprehension and a deep breath, he held his palm open to the black creature that was roughly the size of it. A single leg moved with care and intent only to tap one of his fingers before retreating. The creature scuttled away silently across the floor, climbing up the altar to vanish into the pile of pillows behind O'ceelva. Jonin shuddered, but spoke.

“Okay. I promise."

“Your word is an oath Jonin. Break your oath and there shall be consequences. What do you promise?"

Jonin understood that better than anybody. His family did too.

“I promise not to hurt them. I can sign a contract with you."

“Such a thing is not necessary. Your word shall be sufficient."

With a sigh, his shoulders slumped. O'ceelva noted it.

“The Little Ones will build you something to rest in. I am afraid I have little provisions to offer you otherwise."

Jonin nodded quietly. He didn't particularly fancy the idea of using any of the collection of pillows behind O'ceelva for anything. So instead he watched as two dozen spiders descended from the rafters, and began weaving a collection of webbing between two pillars that still supported a portion of the old chapel's ceiling. It wasn't long before something like a hammock had been built, and lay suspended firmly waiting for him.

At first he was cautious of it, but found that the webbing wasn't sticky, as the spiders hadn't coated it, and the strands were remarkably strong as they succeeded in holding his weight off the floor. The hammock was actually quite comfortable. He would have liked to imagine that caution might have kept him sleeping with one eye open, but he was exhausted. This bizarre place would be good enough for him to rest in for tonight. And perhaps in the morning, there would be answers to his questions as the night's events replayed in the background of his mind and his dreams.

He had so many questions now that he'd never thought possible to begin with.

---

The dripping of water roused him to a dim light. The first breath from his body felt like he'd risen from a grave, as all the pains of the night revealed themselves in full. From his thread hammock, which was fortunately placed under still intact ceiling, he gazed upwards at overcast dark sky. Rivulets of water poured in from the hole in the chapel's roof as rainfall hammered outside.

In O'ceelva's corner, a fire crackled, wafting smoke upwards and dancing streaks of light in the dim chapel alongside lit candles perched on the ruins of old pillars and other debris. Another sweet fragrance filled the space. O'ceelva rested still on her alter, but had token notice of him. Six arms unfolded from her lap.

“Good day Jonin."

Her lowest pair gestured to a pack at the foot of her alter.

“The Little Ones found it and brought it for you. I do believe they are rather fond of you."

With some struggle, he pushed himself out of the hammock, across wet stone floor over the hole in the roof to the alter. It really was his pack. He stared up to O'ceelva and spoke with a hoarse voice.

“Thank you."

O'ceelva tilted her head.

“Thank the Little Ones. It was they who decided to search."

Jonin looked upwards to the ceiling's network of webbing. Hundreds of twinkling eyes watched him. He raised an open hand slowly in thanks somewhat apprehensively. Rummaging through his pack, everything was still there, untouched. He tried to shoulder it as O'ceelva reached a pale hand outwards.

“Jonin, there is tea by the fire. Rest. It is midday now. You will never find your way back in this weather before nightfall."

Jonin staggered momentarily.

“Is my Uncle…"

“My skill does not work like that, Jonin. But yes. He will be there, when your time comes to leave. I have not peered far into what lies ahead for you, but I know that that day is not today. Rest now. You have many questions. I shall answer them. We have time for it."

O'ceelva let out a quiet giggle.

“I have not had a guest in my home for some time. Surely I could not let you leave so early."

With some reluctance, he unshouldered his pack and made for the fire pit in the far corner. An assemblage of things had been set around the crackling fire. Cups and spoons, cloth and a pot, and hanging over the fire was a faintly whistling teapot. That was what smelled so sweetly.

He sat down at the pit, helping himself to the tea. The bowl of water was faintly warm, and he used the cloth on his hand, soaked in the warm water to grant some relief. The tea tasted sweetly, with a lingering aftertaste like that of some sweet alcohol. O'ceelva watched him patiently, waiting for him to return closer. Occasionally one of the Little Ones would scuttle out from under the mound of pillows behind her and she would greet it warmly with a pat.

Jonin inevitably returned to the space in front of her, sitting down carefully with a cup and plate in hand. The tea had eased him greatly, he could feel it already. He peered up to the elegantly garbed woman.

“Where did you get these fancy teacups? They look like what My Lords use."

O'ceelva's middle hands curled their fingers.

“I trade things with travelers in exchanges."

Her top pair of arms waved expansively across the chapel to the bookshelves that lined the walls in safety under the intact portions of ceiling.

“My collection came from a very scholarly man. That fine tea you imbibe came from one of his books. A most satisfying trade that was."

Jonin took a long sip from the cup he held, eyeing the twinkling eyes among the rafters above him.

“What are you?"

O'ceelva giggled.

“As I have already said. An Oracle. But I presume you ask what manner of creature I am?"

She gestured to herself with all six arms flowingly.

“My kin are taken to calling themselves Arachgumo. As you can see, you and I are distant relatives, sharing aspects of what makes a man."

“So…you're not human? Not…completely?"

O'ceelva tilted her head.

“Does that worry you?"

Jonin took another sip of tea.

“No, it's just… I only heard stories that there were…different people in the world. I didn't know if they were true…"

O'ceelva giggled once more.

“How quaint of you. Men of power who have visited my home have shown less respect. You are a charming man. It will be a fine day for the woman indeed who claims you."

Jonin blushed briefly, quickly sipping down more of his tea.

“Why do you wear that veil?"

“As you see, I am not entirely human. Being an Oracle, my name tends to reach the ears of people who seek me out. It is best if I do not frighten those too much who would visit my home."

“Can I see?"

All six of O'ceelva's arms folded across each other as her fingers curled closed.

“Brave too…are you so certain Jonin?"

He nodded back.

“Father says to keep my head up when addressing Lords. It doesn't really feel right that your face is hidden."

O'ceelva giggled quietly.

“I am no Lord Jonin. I have power beyond a Lord, but that makes me no better or worse than one. Very well, however. As you would have it."

O'ceelva's top pair of pale hands removed the black garb from atop her head, revealing a sight that caused him to stare. O'ceelva had a face like a normal woman. It was very clearly defined like a sculpture, as pale and as flawless as her hands.

A crease ran from the middle of her neck, up her jaw and to midnight black lips that gleamed like the glossy armored hide of one of the Little Ones. More pronounced and startling where her eyes. She had two where there normally would be one pair. And alongside them sat another pair on the outside edges of her head. And above her central pair, on her forehead, slightly slanted, another pair. They all gleamed eight little motes of light, as they were pitch black and unblinking. For the first time he actually saw a smile on O'ceelva's features.

“Now you see Jonin. Tell me. Are you reviled?"

“I don't know."

O'ceelva giggled.

“Well then. I do know. I know that you have greater questions at hand. You've been stalling this whole time, as you are a polite young man. But you've been wanting to ask the moment you woke. Ask what eats you Jonin."

He stammered momentarily. She was so strange.

“What's it like? Seeing people's futures?"

O'ceelva nodded with an unblinking smile.

“Not just people, Jonin. And not just futures. Refinement of my skill allows me to see what was, what is, and what may be. I see forwards, backwards, sideways, up, and down. It requires great focus for me to discern precisely where and when I am seeing things."

“Wait, what do you mean by sideways? And up and down?"

“Your memories Jonin, you view them as a line, don't you? You were a child. And now you are a man. One point to another like a straight line. My sight shows me that such a thing does not exist. We are all threads."

O'ceelva's upper arms grasped at some of the long black strands of hair that hung down to the floor.

“Like strands of hair."

She ruffled the hair in her grip into a frizzled mess.

“That is what I see when I focus on the life of but one individual."

“How do you make sense of that?"

O'ceelva smiled.

“With great patience. And waiting for its arrival."

“Can I learn how to do that?"

She giggled.

“Perhaps even better Jonin, I can simply tell you the question you seek. You won't have to learn how to harness the power of the Anvil."

Jonin rocked on his feet momentarily.

“You know it?"

“Yes, I do. And the answer is no, Jonin. You shall never be free."

O'ceelva laughed, reaching outwards with her middle pair of arms, hands raised towards Jonin as a look of supreme sadness overcame his features.

“Tis a joke, Jonin. So long as you live, the threads will always have you. You shall never be free of them no matter what you choose, for all the choices you ever could make are contained within them. But I do know the real question you seek. It is the reason why you are here, and why you have stayed. Without knowing of my existence you found your way to me. And that is how some men and women arrive at my doorstep. Fate ordained them here."

Jonin's features lit up.

“Can you tell me? Please. I need to know."

O'ceelva nodded.

“I can do better. I can show you, as I see. But you must understand Jonin. Seeing one's future, what may come to pass, is a gift. It offers us mortals an edge that perhaps we should not have. Therefore, were I to show you your future, it would come with a price."

“What's the price?"

O'ceelva smiled wider this time. Jonin caught a hint of needle like fangs.

“My price, Jonin, is whatever I deign it to be. Think of it as a binding contract. Perhaps I may ask of you a trinket of value. Perhaps you and I will peer into a future of so much grief and misery caused by your hand that I could not let you leave my residence. Perhaps I may ask nothing at all. I will know what to ask of you after it is done."

Jonin took a long sip of his tea quietly. O'ceelva simply nodded, folding all of her arms into her lap.

“I understand, Jonin. Take all the time you require. I've walked this earth for four hundred years now. I can wait a little longer."

He eyed O'ceelva up as he drank his tea quietly. Four hundred years. The things she must have seen in that time…. He waved it aside. He no longer doubted her ability. This was his chance to see, truly. A deep feeling of cold washed over him as he listened to the spatter of damp rainfall outside.

Like he was back at the camp. The dead creature stumbled towards him, dead gaze affixed on the one thing he had that was most valuable to it. A living soul. Shrouded in darkness was the being that had followed him. He remembered the thoughts. The grand realization that the apex of his life would be this pathway through the mountains until he died, or was too weak to walk it, like his father. He had been crushed. He wanted to die, right there. He looked up to O'ceelva.

“You know what a Banshee is?"

She nodded silently.

“What I saw, what I felt, when it got close to me, was it real?"

O'ceelva tilted her head, unblinking eyes focused on him.

“My understanding is that your dead kin radiates a reflection of who they were. It infects all life with the same despair that the poor soul exists in to keep itself “living." My eyes, Jonin, pierce beyond the meager abilities of emotion. They show only truth."

He nodded then. He had to find out. He had to know.

“Show me, please. I agree to your terms."

“Very well. You understand Jonin, that I must perform a ritual of sorts. It is a complex thing to channel my attuned abilities to one who is not versed in them. Therefore you must follow as I ask. You understand?"

He nodded, setting his cup down onto its plate.

“I do. Whatever you ask."

“I shall have the Little Ones gather ingredients to make a special tea. It is laced with a potent chemical that will help expand the confines of your mind. It will take some time, but it will be ready after dark. You are still tired. Rest in the meantime."

“Can I do anything to help?"

O'ceelva smiled.

“You are too kind. Thank you, but no thank you. I am the only one who knows the correct specifications. The tea I gave you should be helping. You probably feel drowsy even now. Rest, and you will feel better this evening. You will be ready for the ritual. It is a draining experience."

Jonin nodded.

“Okay."

O'ceelva stretched her three pairs of arms outwards with a yawn, and the pile of pillows behind her shuddered. From underneath them dozens of Little Ones scuttled outwards across the floor. Jonin froze instinctively, but made no moves against them as the shiny black tide passed him by to scurry up the chapel walls. When he looked up, he remained frozen.

O'ceelva had not in fact been kneeling on the altar, hidden under her red and gold garb. Her entire lower torso was an immense spider's body that had folded its eight legs underneath itself, and she covered herself in sources of relative warmth. Now as she emerged from a pit in the altar, she easily stood above his head on eight spear like appendages. Her fanciful garb covered a portion of her body, but not all of it. Her rear portion was bulbous and shiny, and had nary a scratch on it. Her carapace gleamed black, and looked as hard as iron or steel.

As her eight legs began to scuttle her form towards her fire pit, Jonin watched in quiet silence as some of her red and gold garb trailed along the floor underneath her like a sash, along with her incredibly long hair. The sight was one of confusion for him. He was reviled in a manner, but not in a sense towards O'ceelva herself. Her form was like something out of a nightmare and yet he couldn't look away at how it gleamed so smoothly in the firelight. Its edges and contours were so clearly defined. It was like watching a cutout in motion. Her entire form denoted “sharp" in contrast to the world around her.

He would settle into his web strewn hammock and watch in quiet observation for a time, occasionally turning his eyes to the hole in the ceiling or to the shining orbs above that seemed to watch him at every turn. What would Uncle or Father think if they had found their way here? And then he remembered Uncle's idle words. Could O'ceelva's musical instrument and singing be heard all the way below the mountain? Perhaps it echoed over the rises and in the rocks?

Uncle never seemed to give any inclination that a being such as O'ceelva existed out here, or that her kind filled these shrouded forests. Maybe he truly didn't know after all. And that may be for the better. Jonin knew what superstition and fear could do. He would dearly hate to see this place burned as unholy ground.

Although, watching O'ceelva's movements as she worked in conjunction with her following of Little Ones gathering at her tipped legs, he could tell that she could be agile if needed. And that alluring carapace looked thick enough to contend with just about any weapon man could create. He smiled to himself. Maybe she wouldn't even have to fight at all if she could see them coming before they arrived. In his idle thoughts, sleep claimed him as he swung lightly in the hammock.

---

IV. The Ritual

Night dawned without the passing of the rainfall. Jonin woke to the ebb of water once more under darkness and the dancing of dim motes of candlelight across the chapel. The fire pit had faded to embers, and throughout the space the slow notes of O'ceelva's strange instrument echoed gently, lulling him not to sleep but gently awake. In the dim light he caught her smile as her multitude of arms left its strings behind.

“I did not wish to wake you intrusively, but everything is prepared Jonin. Are you ready?"

In a moment he was up from his hammock and across the wet floor over the hole in the roof once more, back to the front of the altar. An excitement and apprehension filled him at the same time, like he was standing over the edge of a great cliff.

“Yes, I am."

O'ceelva chuckled.

“Not quite young man. Be calm. Now is the time of preparation for us both."

O'ceelva's middle pair of arms gestured to his feet. In the dim light Jonin could make out a circle filled with geometric lines, painted with acute precision.

“When we are ready to begin, you shall sit in this circle Jonin. The resin I have applied acts as a conductor of sorts. Do you know what that means?"

He shook his head, staring inquisitively at the lines around him.

“The resin permits an easier transferal of certain things. That circle at your feet will help bind you to the world at large. But our work does not end there. You and I must mark ourselves in order induce a transmission of my ability to you. I ask that you disrobe, Jonin."

He looked up, processing the request.

“Disrobe? Why?"

O'ceelva smiled at him sweetly with unblinking eyes that shimmered in the gloom.

“There can be no interference to the conduction. Worry not, I too must disrobe."

Jonin quickly blushed, staring at the elegant garb she donned across the human portions of her body.

“Wait-"

O'ceelva giggled, folding up all six of her arms.

“I understand Jonin. It is your first time seeing a woman. Well, portions of her. This does not trouble you, does it? You and I have not yet completed the ritual, and so should you rescind your portion of our bargain, I will demand nothing of you."

He blinked, still blushing.

“No, no, keep going. I want to see. The vision. Yes, the vision. I've just never done anything like this before."

“Worry not. All will be fine. I am hardly one to judge another's body. I shall not watch, if it comforts you."

“Yes, it does."

O'ceelva shifted her large form, scuttling over rubble on the side of her altar to the fire pit, speaking with her backside to him.

“I shall peek not Jonin, and prepare the substance for imbibing. I will have to face you eventually, but will minimize how long I stare."

With a somewhat nervous huff, Jonin overhead a quiet giggle from O'ceelva's corner as he began removing clothing slowly.

“Everything?"

“Yes, everything must be removed for maximum conductivity."

With a sigh he removed the last of his undergarments, fully exposed. The chapel's stone floor was cold on his feet, and he felt supremely vulnerable in the cool night air as occasional splashes of water caught his skin. He heard something slump against the floor, and caught pale skin in the corner of his vision. Six shoulder bones, bare arms, and a flawlessly smooth back.

Jonin stifled a gasp as O'ceelva turned quickly, approaching on her quiet scuttling legs. Jonin closed his eyes and covered himself with his hands as he stood awkwardly in the painted circle on the floor. He felt warm breath on his face, and the tingling of dark strands of hair brushing against his skin. Her soft voice was close now.

“I need your hands first, Jonin."

He knew he was blushing, but kept his eyes closed as he complied shakily and slowly so as not to accidentally touch anything with undue force. He hated being blind but was far too embarrassed to open his eyes. He shuddered lightly as warm hands grasped his wrists with a tender gentleness to them, only enhanced by the flawless, creaseless skin O'ceelva boasted.

“Palms open, if you would please."

Jonin complied, and felt something wet brush the middle of his palms, leaving a lasting residue on them that he had to fight not to scrub off.

“First, the hands. The instruments of which we shape our world."

A wet dab pressed to his forehead.

“The mind, the instrument of which all others are derived from."

A dab of residue to the middle of his chest.

“The heart, where the soul resides and helps to temper the mind."

A pause as O'ceelva inhaled calmly. Jonin heard something slosh as she drank something, finishing with a slow exhale. Still close to him, O'ceelva's voice was controlled to a delicate whisper.

“You can still rescind, Jonin. I know not what you or I shall see. I do not seek to pass harsh judgment upon you, but if I see a future in which you commit deeds too terrible to let exist, then it is the only duty I swear to as an Oracle. I shall have to kill you. You are a beautiful young man. I pray that the future holds kindness. What say you?"

Jonin paused, eyes closed, listening to the world around him. Rainfall on the chapel's rooftop. O'ceelva's gentle breathing. Trees on the wind. And he felt it inside of him. Like a hole that had been burned into his essence and existence from the Banshee. What was freedom? Could such a thing be attained by him? Would he ever be free to choose his own path? He didn't want to walk that mountain path until he was an old man. He wanted to see life.

“Yes."

“Then imbibe the drink now."

A cup touched his lips, and he sipped slowly, face contorting in disgust at the foul liquid he sent down. Not long after the cup had been emptied, he felt something in the pit of his stomach. It was warm, but not unpleasant. And then he understood. Something in his mind unlocked, he knew this. A door had been opened. O'ceelva's voice brought him back.

“Sit, Jonin. Be comfortable. We shall begin now."

He sat cross legged onto the cold floor, his weight impacting with a resonating feeling to it that rebounded in his head like he'd experienced it more than once. Soft hands entwined their fingers in his, palms pressed together. Her skin was so fair that he felt the impurity of the resin on her.

Her warm forehead pressed to his, as did her chest. For a moment, he gasped at the overload in sensation. The fragments of the man inside of him that he'd left behind clamored in a rush of excitement to have the body of a naked woman pressed to him, a completely new feeling of warmth and softness. He knew he had stirred in lust, and would have covered himself, had O'ceelva's hands not bound his. Her voice, as quiet as it was, breached the fog his mind wandered in.

“Jonin, focus. Follow my voice. Focus on my heart. I shall begin peering into the Threads. What I see will be rebounded to you. But you must follow my lead. Do you understand?"

He wanted to nod, and spoke, but slurred somewhat.

“Y-yes."

“Focus. Follow my heartbeat."

He did. For some moments, or what felt like an eternity, he was supremely aware of everything around him. The cold. The water. The wind. Trees. The shadow of the mountain. The fog. Death. Fire. Life. Uncle. Father. Lords. A heartbeat. It reduced everything to dust in a divine wind. It had not been destroyed, for the wind was divine. It had merely….parted.

The beat grew stronger, reducing everything there ever was to dust until finally, in silence alone there was the heartbeat, echoing out to a void. Or perhaps the heartbeat itself was the void. The man that he was, such a tiny thing that title implied itself, became dust. And at last, he could see.

Although it was not him that saw. There was no “him" anymore.

---

V. What May Be

A middle aged man stood on a sandy beach overlooking a cold ocean on a winter's day. Snow did not often fall during the winter but the sunlight lessened greatly and the months of rain only helped to drive the impact of winter's cold embrace. He was clad in ornate yet functional golden armor and chainmail, and bore a crown with a single spire along its center. Beyond the beach stretched large wooden docks, and further still, out on the cold ocean ahead were the rudimentary forms of newly constructed wooden ships.

They were not the simple wooden forms that the fishermen of the many villages used, but large hulking forms that could carry many men, and used a new form of propulsion in the form of sturdy cloth mounted on large poles. At first the Lords and Elders had scoffed at such an idea. No wooden ship could ever hope to support such a large standing structure on top of it without toppling and capsizing.

And yet, today, here they were. They were only the beginning. The golden armored man knew that they had to be refined further to make the voyage. Alongside him stood another man, clad in dark emblazoned robes covered by a sturdy fur coat to dampen the breeze. He was a traditional advisor to a Lord. He spoke as he watched the ships out on the water.

“My liege, I must confess my astonishment at your success yet again. You were right, so it seems. Amazing, truly. They will tell stories about you."

The golden armored man's features edged upwards to that of the smallest smile he could possibly form. His features were weathered and chiseled from years of campaigns spent in uniting the squabbling Lords of his land.

“This is not even the beginning of our work, Rohein. They must be refined further if they are to make the journey safely. Time is of the essence now. We must keep to the schedule. Their progress is great, yes, but they need to do better."

Rohein looked outwards at the boats as the wind ruffled his robes.

“My liege, may I confess?"

“Freely, as always."

“I have followed you for years. All of your campaigns, you know this. I…doubted your vision at first. But you presented your case so well, that I had to follow you. I had to believe with faith. But then, what you said came true, over and over. Every battle, every last one a victory. I no longer needed faith to believe in you, my King. But I have to admit that I find myself doubting you now."

The gold armored man nodded, staring out at something, not the boats on the water, but something closer, like he was talking to another man facing him.

“I've seen what's coming. I know what's out there, Rohein. There are seven other kingdoms of man, on land, like ours. But they are merely infinitesimal islands, as we are. Our land is not the world, Rohein. All I am trying to prevent is unfathomable disaster. And we need their aid to do so. You must trust me, as you did in the beginning."

“My liege, were you a lesser man, you would be tried for heresy at those words."

Rohein spread an arm outwards to the water.

“How can you say that we are not the world when there is water on all sides of our world? It stretches outwards for infinity! Our boats have gone as far as they could for years to return with only tales of a horizon of water. How can you know beyond them? You are not mad, I know this. But I must understand."

The gold armored man squinted at the ocean horizon, nodding.

“I know it stretches forever, Rohein. It therefore must mean that in forever, there must be more. There can always be more. All I ask is faith. I have done the impossible already. One caravan. If they make landfall and return to us, it will prove that I am right. If we sail to the south, it will work."

Rohein shook his garbed head.

“If we continue at this rate we will exhaust the resources our world has left. And for what, a fool's caravan of the most advanced ships ever built? To be wasted?"

The golden armored man was not known to be of ill temperament. Even in the darkest of battles he remained steadfastly inspiring and calm. He turned to Rohein with a look that reminded the man of where he sat in life.

“Mind your tongue, with due respect Rohein. Try to understand, and believe me. If I fail, our world won't matter any longer. I want you to picture every man, woman and child you can, every creature, every half-breed, even the dead. All of them will be destroyed if I fail. Everything will be lost. Everything that you or I have ever known, gone."

He raised a golden gauntleted hand out to the ocean.

“The water of creation is infinite, yes. But what happens when an impact strikes it?"

Rohein blinked.

“Strikes?"

“Yes, something like that. Throw a pebble into a pond and there are ripples. Throw a man into a pond, and there are waves. The waves that are coming have been travelling for years. They have not lost power, they have gained it, because they came from power. When they arrive, they will be tall enough to drown even our highest mountains."

Rohein continued to blink, brows furrowing at the boats on the water.

“You never told me this…"

“You would have thought me mad at the time, old friend. Do you still believe that I am not mad?"

“No….it's just…are the Gods angry at us? Are you a blessed man, a messenger foretelling of the end of days?"

The golden crowned man laughed. It was bittersweet.

“Blessed? No, Rohein. I am not blessed. Not by the Gods, at least."

He stared off to his side again, as if he were speaking to somebody else alongside him.

“I am trapped by the Threads. I always have been. I do this because I know I'm the only one that can. I have proof beyond proof. I have truth."

---

Jonin stirred in a fog, aware that he existed now. His eyes peered over an expanse of ocean, the horizon stretched outwards towards infinity. A dull heartbeat resonated in the background, and a voice that was distant called to him. He vaguely remembered who it belonged to, and turned to look back, and his eyes fell upon it. Looming in the sky like a wound, a blue gash that stretched open for miles. Light bloomed inside the stormy swirling clouds that surrounded it, etching the sky in streaks of lighting.

Monolithic white cliffs stood tall on the most beautiful beach he'd ever seen in his life, and a great crack splintered them apart. He was staring down into the crack, and could feel the light from inside at the end of the long passageway. It did not burn him, but its presence was immense to him. He was dust before the presence of something ancient and pure.

And on the beach stood a figure, a man, walking into the divide, into the heart. Light exploded beyond his eyes and a hammer struck metal in his ears, and he was shrouded in darkness. Embers blew across his face, burning, and he gazed briefly at…a sword. A man appeared from the darkness, reaching for it. Jonin could not see his face.

Another hammer rung out, and another sword appeared, as equal to the last one in unparalleled beauty and strength. Another faceless man claimed the blade, and in another titanic flash of light he watched as the blades and the two men collided with one another. In his memories, he had some understanding of what was happening.

The two men and the two blades had accumulated great strength, nearly unsurmountable, and when they collided, the world shook with aftershocks, echoes of their power struggling to overcome one another. In one final blow, a raw strength was released from the collision of such titanic forces, and Jonin saw it happen.

A mountain itself cracked as the ground quaked and upheaved itself in great splinters for as far as his eyes could see before collapsing downwards for perhaps a mile in devastation. The shattered mountain slid apart into a great divide, burying all who had fought beneath its shadow. The armies of the two men, two rulers, two kingdoms. Every last one of them perished in a titanic release of power.

And long after they were gone, the resonating echoes of their battle traveled across the world, until it found water. Jonin saw it. A building wave of water, a wall that stretched from either side no matter how far he looked. It was not the ripples spawned from the dropping of a pebble. The waves grew in strength, fed by the force that created them, a force that would never die, never could. It would travel outwards forever.

But whatever it found, it would wipe away clean as it passed, like a divine cleansing, ripping all life asunder from whatever the water scraped along. The fog of his mind shifted now yet again, and he was standing on the northern port village he had been travelling to. The wall of water looked as a mountain would, and sped forwards without mercy.

The winds howled at its approach, and he stood in awe of it as it loomed above him, casting a shadow. It was beyond fear. It was beyond anything he could describe. And it swept across his land, burying everything that ever was, killing all that ever was or would be. He saw it pass and travel onwards without so much as slowing even for the highest mountains, and it collided with more kingdoms of man.

It was a sudden, divine realization to him. His world, his land was surrounded on all sides by endless water. And from the fog he could see them. Other landmasses, seven of them, like his world, surrounded on all sides by water. They splayed in a great chain. But the distance was so great between them…. All through recorded history the scholars had taught that man was alone on a central landmass in an infinite ocean. They were the heart of everything.

But the fog shifted, and Jonin understood now. He knew what the true heart was, where it was. Across that unimaginable distance, even further beyond the chain of seven other kingdoms, on a beach of white sand and white rock. He found himself staring at the wound in the sky, and understood power. The force that had echoed from the collision of two blades and wills was still yet dust in the face of this purity.

A voice called to him now, more urgent, but still distant. He peered into the light, and his memories rose as if from a grave. The hammer and the anvil that forged everything….He could see the light, with his own eyes. He wanted to. And so the fog blurred, and the Threads pulled him through time towards that beginning moment of creation. The voice cut through the fog once more, loud enough for him to hear it.

“Jonin! You must turn back! You cannot go there! Your eyes are not meant to see beyond such a thing!"

He wanted to turn around, back to the voice. He remembered. Her name was O'ceelva. She was an Oracle. But his eyes beheld the wound in the sky, century after century of the roiling storms that surrounded its pure light, until he lost all notion of time and the land rose and fell before him. The tides did as well, as did the moon and sun, flickering so rapidly that they merged into a stream of endless cycles. But as they sped backwards he could feel it. The wound was stronger then. The longer he watched, the stronger the tear in the sky became.

Something hit him hard across his cheek. He raised his hand to his cheek. Yes, he had a hand. And blood in his veins. He had forgotten that. O'ceelva's voice became a gale force wind to him in the void.

“I cannot hold you much longer Jonin! Come back to me or perish in the fire!"

His right hand tingled as if it had been burned, and he remembered. The wisp, the remnants of the dead man. Black tears and the howling sobs of a being trapped in a pain so great it ripped itself back into the world. He remembered Uncle, and Father. The wound in the sky trembled with power. There was no land anymore. No ocean, or sky. No sun or moon. Just the wound.

He turned away as a light brighter than the sun bloomed, and now, now it burned him. He shielded his eyes, but the light pierced through his hand and he stumbled backwards on his legs. Yes, legs, how could he forget those? He crawled to get away from it, towards O'ceelva's urgent voice, and finally, from the void he returned.

Life exploded back at him in an unending barrage of sensations as he collapsed on the floor with a gasp in a cold sweat that sent shivers down his body. O'ceelva had collapsed herself, spindly legs splayed out in all directions. Jonin was shrouded in her overflowing hair and felt a portion of her fair skin on his own body, but was too weak to do anything. His head throbbed, and all he could do was close his eyes and let his head fall back. He could fight no more.

---

VI. The Tolling of the Bell

The rain had finally parted. But it lingered with the smell of dampness soaked into everything. Jonin woke to the smell wafting in on a cold breeze. He was still exposed completely. Rather than cold stone it was pillows he resided on. He opened his eyes to the chapel's flickering candlelight, obscured by something. He remembered. O'ceelva's black hair. There was warmth on his cheek, a slender jawbone.

He felt three arms splayed across his chest. Parting the dark strands that enveloped his face, he caught the dancing shadows across her midnight black shimmering carapace as her eight legs remained sprawled in whatever direction their joints permitted. She must have brought herself and him to the old altar.

The dull throbbing in the back of his head persisted, obscuring his senses as if they were swaying back and forth. In his eyes he could still see the light. But in memory, it had already begun to fade. The images of some fever dream splintered, and he was only left with fragments and more questions.

O'ceelva stirred with a groan, some life returning to her form as her spear like legs began moving slowly to rest more comfortably. She spoke softly, partially pulling herself upright so that at least now Jonin could see her face to face. Eight midnight eyes peered into his. So close now, for the first time, he could make out miniscule pupils, red points of color. Her black lips smiled meekly.

“Had I known you had such willpower I would have never taken you on that journey. I almost lost you in the Weave."

Jonin smiled for some reason. He was happy, yes, but at the same time, something lingered in his mind. It felt like a door had been opened that could no longer be closed. In the fragments of that fever dream, something of him had died and been reborn as something else. But he was here now. Safe. Whatever it was that word meant. Safe was relative now. He remembered the water.

O'ceelva's pinpoint pupils studied him closely. Two soft hands cupped the sides of his head, black tipped nails trailing across his skin gently.

“Your vision fades. But you are troubled. Some men are. To see what lies ahead is a blessing and a curse."

Jonin stared back into the pinpoints of her eyes.

“How do you live with knowing your future?"

O'ceelva shook her head weakly.

“The price of such power. I cannot properly gaze into my own Threads for their potential for change is unmatched. Whatever I have seen has always been wrong. To seek truth for myself in them when I can alter them so profusely would be insanity."

O'ceelva smiled again.

“You are fortunate. Greatly so. You have no idea how close you came to oblivion."

Jonin thought he understood what she meant. In those fragments, he was not just a viewer. He was there in some capacity. The burning of his flesh had been real. He had come out okay. But now he remembered once more. His oath to O'ceelva. The price for gazing ahead.

“I can hardly remember what I saw. Was I a bad man? Was I free?"

Another hand pressed a finger to his lips for silence and O'ceelva's black lips shh'd him softly.

“Be calm, Jonin. Now is a time for rest."

Her red pupils all simultaneously did short loops in their sockets as she searched for words.

“You were…not a bad man, so far as I could see, Jonin. No, not at all. You were…and are a good man. You will be something much more. As for your freedom? I saw that no man commanded you."

Jonin smiled in relief, and now he was calm.

“You won't have to kill me then?"

O'ceelva giggled.

“Arachgumo are man-eaters. I have not had the pleasure of such a large meal in a very long time. But I am not so uncivilized as my kin choose to be. No Jonin, you are quite safe."

O'ceelva smiled widely, baring her teeth in full for the first time. All of them were disturbing things, needle thin points that looked like they could puncture with ease.

“But you would be a most interesting morsel. Perhaps that is what I shall choose. Just a taste of the blood in your veins."

O'ceelva let slip a black forked tongue briefly as her features returned to normal. For a moment Jonin had been worried again until another hand brought a single finger his nose glancingly.

“But there is something I have not had in a very long time. Far longer than the taste of a bad man."

“What's that then?"

It was hard to read some of her features, but Jonin caught the look of despair even in the pinpoint pupils of hers.

“My kin are often superstitious and narrow minded. My abilities frighten them so. And my visage frightens most men. It is a rare thing indeed for a beautiful man such as yourself to wander into my home."

Jonin blinked briefly. O'ceelva's eyes had taken a light to them that he felt. Without saying it, he understood what she meant before she had to speak it.

“An Oracle I may be, I am but flesh as any creature. Will you stay with me? For one more night? Partake with me?"

Jonin blushed again.

“I don't have a choice do I? I agreed to the contract."

O'ceelva flinched away momentarily, and he regretted his choice in words.

“No, no. It does not have to be a contract. Love cannot arise from a binding. I would not wish to spend a night with any man as if he or I were mere puppets in a play."

O'ceelva giggled, but it was meekly.

“We are all puppets, the irony."

Jonin had decided it at those words. A collection of thoughts played out in his mind, leading to the decision. O'ceelva was a sweet thing. Strange, yes, alarming in other ways, but the subtle sadness that consumed her soft features told him that he had to make it right for her. He was going to leave after all. It would be likely that he would never see her again.

He was of the age to court women now, but work kept him moving forwards away from that. He had some dream of what his first time would be like, waited eagerly for the day to arrive, but hadn't figured it would be in this light. But in a strange way, he realized with a sense of awkward pride that he was probably very lucky in earnest. To sleep with a man-eater and walk away? Not a soul would ever believe him, of course.

He pushed his lips forward, an awkward kiss to those black lips of hers, he found that were glossy and as hard as her carapace looked. He could only fall back with a meek smile on his features as the red pinpricks locked onto his eyes.

“You are certain, Jonin?"

He nodded as reassuringly as he could manage.

“I'm sure. I didn't think my first would be like this. But I think I'm okay with it."

O'ceelva smiled, more animated this time.

“I must confess that I did stare earlier, when your eyes were closed."

Jonin blushed again.

“Sorry about that. Your chest, uh, skin… it was very soft. I looked at your back….earlier."

O'ceelva nodded happily.

“Then you and I are agreed most assuredly? One more night. The deal is struck?"

Jonin nodded.

“Yeah."

“But first we shall rest."

Jonin let out a sigh of relief. He was worried about that. He was still drained. He did want some time to make sense of everything. O'ceelva understood. No more words for today. Her black lips met his shortly with a smile. Smooth and cool. She parted, setting her head down beside him as her body relaxed once more. He was smothered by her dark hair and her multitude of arms, a pair of which found their fingers in his before they both drifted off to sleep.

It would be a little while yet before Jonin rested, pondering the fragments of what remained in his mind. O'ceelva's hulking form splayed out as she fell asleep beside him, as equally drained as he was. He took time to look over her body in the dimming candle light. She was admittedly stunning in a perverse sort of way.

He was aroused again, looking over her form, realizing that she was essentially fully naked beside him. His mind drifted into a state of ease that allowed him to sleep as he found his fantasies turning not to some of the women from his village, but to the unique being beside him. What could she do with a strange body such as hers?

He had not the ability to see the future, and so his fantasies all paled to the reality of what partaking in a night of union with O'ceelva would mean.

---

The shroud of fog that covered the mountain would always blot out something, but this morning, the Sun's might cast a residual orange light over everything. His skin was cool and damp in some places, but reassuringly warm in others as another's body lay on top of him. O'ceelva had smothered Jonin in her sleep, clambering directly over top of him to rest her head against one of his shoulders. He didn't quite know what to do with himself.

It was exhilarating to him. He felt her heartbeat on his stomach, and the softer malleable skin of her breasts being pushed against him, and he was being embraced in such a way he had never known before. One pair of O'ceelva's arms wrapped around his neck, her hands cradling the back of his head. Another pair still lay entwined with his own arms. And her third set laid across his chest.

He remained still, taking in the early morning light as best he could through the shroud of black hair that consumed him like a blanket. The old chapel had taken on a light he had never seen before. Dew clung to the network of spider webs on the ceiling, and the Little Ones had all clustered together in a far corner for warmth. They seemed keen not to disturb the altar at the moment.

Jonin lay there, halfway between sleep. O'ceelva's breathing was steady and slow, and deeply soothing to him. Images from last night played out in his mind. She had called it a journey. It had been. It was amazingly liberating as he slowly begun to make sense of it all, and at the same time, despairing.

He only had two fragments of the dream left. He remembered a monumental wave sweeping over the land. It had been terrible, wiping everything clean. And he remembered where it would strike first. From the South. But even greater than the despair was a profound realization that he was not alone. From a fuzzy bird's eye view he remembered islands. A chain of seven of them. And he could see structures and little black dots of small fishing boats along the coastlines. They were scattered so far from each other that they could never hope to see each other from shore. But from so high above, where the world looked tiny, one could see them all, like a god watching his subjects.

And they had all suffered the same fate as the wave cleansed them of life. Somebody had to do something. To be warned, perhaps, to prepare for disaster. He curled his fingers in the pale smooth hands that clutched his own. She had shown him this fate. He was the only one that knew of it, besides her. But Jonin knew deep down that the squabbling domains of the Lords that called his land home would never unite under the word of a half-breed, even if she were an Oracle.

They would bicker in their courts, and wage battles amongst one another. And for the very first time in his life, the thought struck him. They were fools. They were as children playing in the sandy shores, etching lines in the sand and proclaiming that no other could pass. They were no different than he was, back at the fire where he had touched the wisp like the fool he was.

He curled the lightly blistered fingers of his hand. Could he, a lowly servant of a Lord, contracted and signed as property ever hope to sway one as powerful as a Lord, to make his case? Somebody had to be warned. Somebody had to be able to listen.

In all of his idle thoughts, he had not noticed O'ceelva's stirring. But her eyes watched him as she kept her head on his shoulder. She knew he was troubled. No man wouldn't be. She had seen their looks of contemplation hundreds of times. So she stirred, running a hand through his messy hair, bringing two more to cup the sides of his face as she adjusted herself slowly.

“Be still Jonin. Today is not a time of worry. There shall be a tomorrow yet. Let us enjoy this time together before the parting of ways."

Her black tongue emerged as she trailed it across his chest, inciting a surprised gasp from Jonin as she pushed forwards, along his neck and up to his lips before overtaking him in a true kiss that held nothing back. Her lowermost pair of hands slid along his waist downwards to find the prize she had eyed earlier, already hardening in response to her actions.

Her hands were adept in their control and movements, beginning to stroke softly as she broke the kiss with a retreating black tongue, smiling as she watched Jonin squirm.

“You've never been touched before now like this. How do you like it, Jonin?"

He was only able to nod in growing flustered huffs as two of O'ceelva's hands built a steady rhythm together in alternating motions that matched flawlessly. One stroked near the base, the other near the tip. Her arachnid legs shifted and slid her form back slightly. From under all the flowing black hair, eight red pupils watched him closely as she dragged her two remaining arms across his body.

In private moments Jonin had worked out his own methods for reaching a climax, but O'ceelva had him beaten for speed. All the new sensations of other hands not his own working so quickly drove him to the edge, but the final straw was the mischievous smile on her black lips before her tongue emerged to trail along his chest. Hot and slick, she found one of his nipples and had her lips over it with a little moan, swirling her tongue.

His muscles spasmed and tensed, and he was helpless not to moan out in a release that he'd never known before, overflowing across the two pale hands that still worked to stroke him. At the height of his release O'ceelva moved quickly. To his shock her lower jaw split apart along the black seam that ran down the middle of it across her neck, revealing black insides below her tongue, rudimentary fang like appendages. Deftly, two of her hands caught a stream of something that sprayed out from below her black tongue, and in quick motions her fingers twined barely translucent threads.

In the middle of his peak, still overflowing and building to the last nerve wracking orgasm, the threads deftly wrapped themselves around the base of his shaft and tightened. Jonin shrieked, trapped between release as the threads halted circulation, pulled with such precision so as not to cause undue pain, just restrict.

With a smile O'ceelva trailed her body over his, her remaining pair of hands cupping the sides of his head as her pinpoint red pupils gazed into his eyes. She continued stroking him, using what he had already set free as a form of lubrication, spreading it across his member while her second pair of hands restrained him. Her lower jaw sealed shut, uniting her pitch black lips into a smile. Jonin huffed in frustration and ecstasy as seed begged for release. O'ceelva's soft voice was whisper quiet.

“We mustn't waste opportunity Jonin. Tell me. Do you want release?"

He nodded hurriedly in between flustered breaths. O'ceelva tilted her head with another mischievous smile.

“Where?"

Her spear like legs lifted her body away from him to dangle her generous pale breasts above him.

“I saw you last night you know, peeking as I turned to face you. How about these lovely things, hmm? I know you like them."

Her hands held them firmly, massaging them to emphasize their softness. Her black tongue extended momentarily, far longer than he'd seen it extend before. O'ceelva bared her needle rows of teeth on her top jaw as her tongue retreated.

“How about my mouth Jonin? Would that please you?"

He squirmed with an audible cry. She'd stroked him to another release but the threads that bound him kept everything trapped. He struggled between gasps to voice something. O'ceelva merely smiled at him quaintly as one pair of her hands continued tirelessly to stroke him, twisting and rubbing or fondling him.

“You must speak clearly Jonin."

He was already flushed red, but the blush that filled his cheeks only strengthed the shade of red. He had no idea she would be like this. It was intoxicatingly perverse. He wouldn't know why it was so embarrassing to him to make his request, but he managed to form one word in coherency.

“B-breasts."

O'ceelva giggled as she moved, retreating until her chest hung over his erection. Her silky skin draped across his hips, conforming to them before she squeezed her breasts together with her hands, enveloping him entirely in warmth until his tip pressed against her ribcage. Her hands retreated from their maddening stroking, but fondled and cupped him below instead.

“Are you certain Jonin?"

He nodded hurriedly. O'ceelva smiled.

“I hadn't envisioned you as such a naughty man. Perhaps I'll have to keep you here after all, lest you spread such deviancy to poor Human women."

The silky threads that bound him slacked off, and in a monumental spasm he let go. His hands gripped whatever they could hold tightly, and he felt a hot slickness pool out in gushing spurts amongst O'ceelva's warm skin. She watched with another mischievous grin as seed began to spill out between the folds of her cleavage in overflowing rivulets. When Jonin's convulsions had ceased, O'ceelva retreated, leaving long strands in her wake as she eyed the slick mess across her chest, and then down to his slickly coated member.

“Such a mess! Where have all of your manners gone?"

O'ceelva giggled, trailing sharp black fingernails across her chest to spread the glossy coating across her fair skin.

“But where have mine gone? It is impolite to leave things so blemished."

Before Jonin could recover, O'ceelva plunged her head downwards, mouth agape to encompass his shaft entirely in one clean motion as her black glossy lips pressed to his skin. He shuddered and gripped soft pillows as he felt her tongue slide and wrap itself aggressively around him. It was like very fine sandpaper, and when mixed with her hot insides and an intense suction she applied that caved her supple cheeks inwards, Jonin spasmed again, this time reaching forward impulsively to hold the back of O'ceelva's head.

Her eight eyes locked onto his as he bottomed out in her throat, releasing another few volleys. Even as he pushed her head down and her black lips met the base again, nothing escaped. She held one hand up to wave a finger back and forth at him. He eased his grip away from her, and she unraveled her black tongue, sliding her head back until her lips parted with the faintest of pops. With a smile she bared her needle teeth.

“Cleanliness is one step to godliness, as your priests are sometimes fond of saying."

With a giggle and adjustment of her spear like legs, O'ceelva lurched forwards across Jonin quickly to rest against him and smother him in her dark all-consuming hair. He could only smile, out of breath as he drifted into a lullaby sleep. It was still early in the day yet.

---

Jonin roused at the feeling of something different. Not pillows or cold dampness, but a lingering warmth. Opening his eyes revealed that he had been moved again. The room he sat in was circular, masoned stone and old arches. He was resting on a low stone bench, feet submerged in a very low level of water. In the center of the chamber sat what looked to him like some sort of metal kiln, emblazoned and ornately crafted. Embers smoldered from within, and he could only assume that was what made the water at his feet so warm.

He inspected his surroundings before long strands of fine black hair descended from above in droves. Looking upwards found O'ceelva upside down leering at him from the vaulted ceiling above. It was dark up above, and all he could make out were the fine points of her eyes that were a dull luminescent shade of red. She giggled sweetly.

“So. How do you like it Jonin? The old Priests who called this chapel home were rather fond of luxury. This little room took me quite some time to unearth."

He yawned with a relaxed stretch at the almost tropical temperature in the room.

“It's…nice."

“Something the matter?"

Jonin shook his head with a reassuring sort of smile.

“Nothing, really. Just thinking about earlier. I didn't really think it would be like…that."

The long strands of black hair shifted as O'ceelva moved up above.

“Now you can proclaim that you are indeed a man, Jonin, if that is how you measure yourself. How do you feel?"

Jonin squinted up above into the darkness.

“Okay I guess. It's just….I feel dirty."

O'ceelva giggled again.

“T'was why I brought you here. The pit deepens closer to the firebox. I thought that you and I could perhaps freshen things."

Jonin shook his head.

“Not that."

“Ah, I see. You imagined your first time would be something less exotic."

“Well, yeah. But you're kind of exotic to begin with."

O'ceelva shifted up above in the shadows, maneuvering her form so that she now descended to the floor on her dark legs with surprising speed. She smiled at him, motioning for him to follow along with her middle pair of arms.

“Come closer to the firebox. Enjoy the waters. Perhaps we shall discuss things, then."

Jonin followed without protest, slowly making his way towards the center of the chamber, eventually wading into shallow water on a gentle slope towards the smoldering box. It was not nearly high enough for him to tread, but low enough that he could sit down comfortably in it. O'ceelva's spear like legs easily kept her above water until she lowered her form into pool behind him.

Naked supple skin pressed against his back and Jonin found himself smothered by black hair. Six soft pairs of hands entwined themselves around him, all clasping somewhere to his chest. Occasionally two would break off to scoop warm water up and slash it across his skin. O'ceelva's soft voice rang beside one of his ears gently.

“Now you and I are settled. Speak freely Jonin."

Jonin was simultaneously relaxed and nearly instantly aroused. The gentle heat of the chamber and O'ceelva's soft hands put him at ease, but having her so close was also as equally exciting to him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he agreed without a doubt, if he could die here and now, this would be it. He could die happy. Instinctively he brought his arms up to hold one of the pairs wrapped around him. He smiled lightly.

“I did kind of like it."

“And now you're having second thoughts? Wondering if you've sinned to partake in such enjoyment?"

O'ceelva spoke very quietly into his ear.

“What we share is sacred Jonin, between just you and I. No beings shall ever know. No other beings need know."

“What about the Gods?"

O'ceelva giggled, pulling him tightly to her, ruffling his hair.

“I see beyond eyes, Jonin, and you think to ask me if Gods shall take offense? I have never seen them, even though I have searched. Perhaps they can hide from my sight. If they are real, do you think they would find me offensive? Or am I not a creation of them as well? Am I not just like you?"

Jonin remained silent. He'd never thought of it that way before. The priests in his home village certainly wouldn't think so. O'ceelva's chest expanded in a long breath as she pushed her face alongside his, resting her chin on his shoulder.

“You do have free will Jonin. You are not required to please my appetite. We can rescind our deal at any time. Just your handsome presence is enough."

Jonin shook his head quickly.

“That wouldn't be fair to you."

O'ceelva smiled.

“You must be careful of that honor of yours Jonin. One day it may land you into trouble. Perhaps even today if you persist."

O'ceelva's lowest pair of hands broke away from their embrace, sliding under the water between Jonin's legs.

“I'm not done with you yet young man. More awaits you if you wish it."

Even if the water dulled feeling, Jonin huffed at the attention.

“Like what?"

O'ceelva smiled, baring her teeth in a full intimidating smile.

“Are you sure you wish to know?"

O'ceelva's words brought him a strange comfort. Like their act truly was known between only them. And she was open for more. He could only guess what it would be like. But he did hunger for more.

“Yes."

O'ceelva's scuttling legs shifted behind him, as did her torrent of black hair. Her many arms left him briefly as her body raised above him. He became shrouded in her black mass of silky strands as she leered above him, stretching her human portion downwards until her forehead rested inches from his own, upside down. One of her silky hands traced his forehead with a finger. The dark circle of resin still remained on his head, as it did hers.

“Allow me to show rather than tell, Jonin. And then you shall decide your fate, hmm?"

Before he could speak O'ceelva clasped two hands along the side of his head, pressing her forehead to his. The world went dark for a moment before Jonin recovered, as if he'd just stumbled and lost his balance, and imagery assaulted his senses, his mind's eye and his own eyes as if he was standing there as witness.

He was tangled in translucent twine, his limbs trapped on strings as some of O'ceelva's arms and legs puppeteered him. Her sleek black body was positioned below him, and something black had extended from her hidden folds at the end of her armored abdomen. The twine on his legs pulled him down onto the organ to the hilt. He felt pleasure he'd never known before, and realized that some of it was O'ceelva's.

The slender black organ expanded and contracted in rippling motions, pumping seed. Her upper body bent and curled around to face him. He understood. She hung upside down. He was resting on the underside of her black carapace, her back pair of legs pulling on the threads that bound his legs while curling her upper portions up and around to greet him in some sort of circle. He was not left unattended to as once again her hardened black lips found themselves at the base of his shaft.

The vision shattered and eight miniscule red points stared into his eyes with an upward down smile as a black forked tongue licked black lips. O'ceelva's voice was quietly low again.

“My kin do things differently than yours. We each must give, and take."

Jonin blinked away a lingering stupor, trying to grasp the momentary flashes in his mind.

“What do you mean by that?"

O'ceelva waved an upside down finger at him.

“I shouldn't spoil all of the fun now, you have enough information to decide, I think. Let your heart decide what it desires."

O'ceelva studied him silently as Jonin thought about it. Nagging thoughts pulled at him in the background, a growing urgency. The time was coming to leave. He had to find Uncle again. The visions he had seen earlier, what remained of them. Even now it felt like a clock was silently ticking down. Jonin realized that this was the door that had been opened. Even in comfort his thoughts strayed to dark places. It really was as if some part of him had already died somewhere, but in its stead something else stood from those ashes.

And he had his answer. The road ahead, whatever road there was to come was to be a long one. Some day he would die, as all mortal beings. His eyes focused on those of the strange woman before him as she smiled sweetly at him. Let these last moments be ones of comfort, whatever form them come in, he thought. O'ceelva had her answer when he edged closer to glance his lips to those shining black ones of hers.

---

In the warmth of the small chamber, Jonin partook with O'ceelva. It was as she had said. First she took from him. In a display of her form's impressive agility, she scaled the walls to hang upside down from the darkened ceiling with the aid of her immensely strong threads, wound to the tips of her black legs before she hoisted Jonin up by his arms in twines of thread.

He rested on the underside of her thick black carapaced abdomen, the shiny black material contrastingly cool compared to the seeping warmth of the chamber. From the tip of her more bestial form emerged a thin black tube which expanded and thickened quickly. With adjustments, O'ceelva curled her upper body downwards so that she leered over Jonin before her black organ curved inwards and engulfed his.

It was hot and tight, and never ceased in rhythmic contractions that created a seal of constant suction. O'ceelva had taken on another light once more, roaming her black tongue across his body, finding places to latch her hardened lips to in sporadic moments as she herself succumbed to shudders pleasure. The black legs of hers that anchored their forms to the vaulted ceiling would shift and twitch occasionally.

Jonin couldn't withstand the constant milking of the strange black organ for long, and so O'ceelva moved quickly once more with deft hands that bound more twine around the base of his shaft, just hard enough to stall everything. Her face lay above his with another quaint little smile, but offset this time in little gasps as her own body demanded to sated.

One pair of her soft hands held the sides of his head affectionately, the other pair still held his arms trapped in silky thread. Her dark hair formed a shroud so that only her face was visible to him. His body arched and muscles tensed as he needed to let go, and O'ceelva shuddered momentarily, the grip of her restraints nearly being set loose.

Her heated breath brushed against face as she spoke quietly.

“Tell me you want to."

He nodded hurriedly back, unable to voice anything. It was good enough for her. All threads slacked as her lips grazed his with a long moan as her body was fed what it craved in long peaks of release. Whatever Jonin could give was taken with nothing wasted.

Jonin lay on her armored underside, feet dangling over the edge. Her black organ still sucked weakly before it detached from coupling, retreating back to safety. There was a brief moment of quiet rest for the two of them. But it didn't take long for either of them to recover. And now came the second part to the act. It was O'ceelva's turn.

With more silky twine, Jonin was puppeteered by all four of his limbs, spread apart and flipped over so that he had a view of the floor below as O'ceelva used her unique lower jaw to spit large quantities of thread which she wove together adeptly with her multitude of arms, creating a spindly sort of network she could balance her black limbs on as she now stood poised above Jonin.

Black silky hair dragged along his back as she ran all of her arms somewhere across his body, pressing her form against him before halting just behind one of his ears. Six gentle hands wrapped themselves around him and she spoke quietly into his ear.

“Now it is my turn to give, and your turn to take. Are you nervous?"

Jonin already had some idea of what was going to happen. He was, but remained equally aroused to feeling O'ceelva's soft skin at his back and her roaming hands that caressed him lovingly. He nodded silently. A moment passed and two of O'ceelva's hands left him briefly to return with a woven set of strands held in their fingertips.

“This first time will bear some pain. Bite down should you need to Jonin."

Another pair of her roaming hands spread their fingers through his hair.

“Tell me you want this."

Her third pair of hands roamed lower, finding his erect member, beginning slow strokes. He nodded back, flushed red.

“I want it."

O'ceelva giggled, black tongue extending to trace the contours of his inner ear.

“As you would have it then."

She was right. Almost immediately Jonin clamped his teeth down against the woven threads O'ceelva held out to him as her black organ pushed against his rim. Her free hands ruffled his hair and stroked him off gently as he felt something hot intrude into his body, expanding slowly. O'ceelva's body shuddered on top of his, her pale skin going course with goosebumps as she let out a low sigh of gentle content.

“Oooh you're wonderful. It's been so very long. Thank you Jonin."

The black organ slid deeper until it felt as if it had bottomed out inside of him somewhere. At first the intrusion had been an unpleasant feeling, but past a certain point Jonin began to grow comfortable, arousal only spurred on by O'ceelva's roaming hands. Her own little gasps and shivers grew more frequent as her black legs began to shift and tremble, readjusting themselves on the sturdy twine that supported them.

Jonin found that he no longer needed the twined threads in his mouth for the pain, releasing them just in time for O'ceelva's hands to quit their roaming and teasing, all of her arms simultaneously wrapping themselves around his chest as she pressed her warm supple body tightly to his back. Her voice was quietly unsteady in his ear as she spoke.

“The time arrives. I'm…going to fill you."

Smothered in her grip and limbs trapped in twine, Jonin nodded hotly momentarily, turning his head to find O'ceelva's face close alongside his own. The arrangement of her eight unblinking black eyes, illuminated by tiny red specks locked to his own. He was tangled and buried underneath her shroud of dark black hair as her rigid black lips encompassed his. With a finishing sigh of utter content from O'ceelva, the process began.

The black organ began to expand and contract in rippling motions that stretched Jonin's insides somewhat painfully at first, causing him to strain tightly against the bonds that held him dangling. With the contractions came pumpfulls of hot seed, erasing the discomfort in an instant.

Two of her embracing arms broke away to cradle his stomach gently as a seemingly never ending torrent of warmth seeped into him until all available room was taken and it began seeping out, splashing into the pool of water beneath them. Somewhere in the exchange Jonin was helpless not to arrive at a smothered climax himself at the assault of sensation. She was amazingly feminine and yet commanded such submission in this state. O'ceelva was able to pull her black lips from his momentarily with faint but hotly constrained laughter as her eyes peered downwards.

“How very blasphemous of us."

Jonin struggled with a laugh that was partly stifled by his own intense arousal before O'ceelva's black lips came chasing after his again. Two soft hands cradled his stomach, which felt full in every sense of the word as her organ continued pumping load after load, and her remaining pair of arms wrapped around his chest, delicate hands rising to cradle his cheeks. Jonin decided it there as his eyes locked to the closest pair of O'ceelva's that watched him back as they embraced.

This must have been love. Beyond her body, beyond the acts that both aroused and unsettled him simultaneously, the eyes that peered back at him held only a softness to them that clamored for him alone. Somehow he knew it. But he could not explain it.

This profound realization was liberating but solemn, only temporary as the heat of sex overrode his mind in a cloudy haze. O'ceelva's words only echoed to him in this moment. Better not to worry right now. This time was reserved. There would be days after this one.

Jonin was pulled back to this moment as O'ceelva's skin went rigid with goosebumps and she let out a series of sudden gasps when she pulled her face away from his. All of her arms clung tightly to him now and her midnight black legs tried to scuttle, shifting and lifting themselves up erratically in twitching spasms as she collapsed. Her network of threads caught and held her form as her body finished with one last delivery of hot seed.

For now, at least. As Jonin would learn later in the night, O'ceelva was intent on having a full night. It would be later on in the evening that her more commanding personality would emerge again, now that Jonin was somewhat acclimated to partaking in sex with her.

It was as she had said. Those moments were known only between the two of them.

---

It would be a night to remember for Jonin. But the end was inevitable. In the early dawn as sunlight struggled to pierce the shroud of fog that prevailed among the mountains, he departed. It was a departure he had not wished to undertake. Under O'ceelva's company, he found that it was a loss for him to leave her.

But reality returned to him, at the back of his mind. O'ceelva really had lived in a sanctuary, far away from the troubles of the world. The moments he had shared with her had been a bubble. But the enduring remnants of what she had shown him nagged at his mind. The great tide of water was out there. And it did not care for bubbles and moments of peace.

Even as he traveled along through the fog veiled trees, led by a trail of Little Ones so that he would not lose his way, his thoughts fell to the last conversations he had with O'ceelva. Jonin wished he had been able to say something more before going. But instead her had burdened her with incessant questions, and when it was time for him to depart, in her token gesture of refined mannerisms, she sent him along on his way with gentle insistence.

He had asked her about her power. About the Threads. She had said that she could see in all directions through time, see every possibility, and it confounded him. Did that mean that the oncoming wrath of the ocean was just a possibility? Was there any way to alter it? “No," she had said.

“There are some events in time that occur no matter what thread my eyes gaze upon."

And so that was their fate. Jonin found it hard to believe that even some things were unstoppable even to time. The apocalypse was coming no matter what. At that revelation, he had fallen to his knees. It was just like he was back at the campfire again, as the dead hands of the shadowed man reached out to him.

If this was fate, then why should he leave the comfort of the temple? Why should he leave her comfort? Back into the chains of duty that bound his family until he died. O'ceelva's last gesture to him was one that he would remember the longest. Six gentle arms wrapped themselves around him, a gesture of understanding that needed no words, until she spoke into his ear softly.

“Your memory fades the vision, for you are not trained in handling such power. Your road does not end here. You must trust in me. Go, Jonin. Be free."

And so he departed. When he arrived at the third camp at the end of the Trail of Whispers, it was just as she had said it would be all along. A haggard old man moved faster than Jonin ever had seen him, pale and weak, but with a smile that endured all of it. It was the first time in his life he had ever seen Uncle so happy. It was after a long embrace as the old man patted him on the shoulder that he looked at Jonin with a squint to his eye.

“You look different, boy. Are you sure you're the same nephew? Not some trick of the mind, are you?"

Jonin gave it some thought, smiling back.

“It's me, Uncle."

---

VII. What Was

Jonin stood on a sandy beach overlooking a cold ocean on a winter's day. Snow did not often fall on the coast during the winter but the sunlight lessened greatly and the months of rain only helped to drive the impact of winter's icy embrace. Beyond the beach ahead of him stretched large wooden docks and dry docks, and further still, out on the cold ocean ahead were the rudimentary forms of newly constructed ships.

They were not the simple wooden forms that the fishermen of the many isolated villages and communities used, but large hulking forms that could carry many men, and used a new form of propulsion in the form of sturdy cloth mounted on large masts. At first his advisors and the collection of village elders and Lords had scoffed at such an idea. No wooden ship could ever hope to support such a large standing structure on top of it without toppling and capsizing. Or so they had said. With a new method of construction and shaping of the hulls, it was found that a boat of such size could in fact sail the ocean's waters.

It had taken years to achieve this dream, this phase of a plan long since set into motion. Jonin had battled his way through the squabbling courts of Lords across his world, triumphed in negotiations, and crushed those in battle who would not yield to a greater calling he offered. Decades of his life had vanished in a long arduous campaign to unite all corners of his world.

But at last, here he stood. Not as a Lord, but as the King of Lords. And finally, today on this cold beach, here he was. He knew in his heart that this was only the beginning. The bulky prototype vessels had to be refined further to make the voyage awaiting them. But all the same he couldn't help but quietly admire the achievement. Rohein, his personal advisor and a high ranking adherent to the Churches of Homune stood alongside him in his traditional robed garb, covering himself with a thick coat to dampen the cold wind coming from the ocean. He spoke as he watched the ships out on the water.

“My liege, I must confess my astonishment at your success yet again. You were right, so it seems. Amazing, truly. They will tell stories about you."

Jonin let slip the smallest smile he could possibly form. It had become a habit of his to keep his face neutral over the years. The price of bearing such a mantle as King meant he should inspire his subjects, and show no weakness to his enemy. Even still, just once he could afford this. He spoke softly.

“This is not even the beginning of our work, Rohein. They must be refined further if they are to make the journey safely. Time is of the essence now. We must keep to the schedule. Their progress is great, yes, but they need to do better."

Rohein looked outwards at the boats as the wind ruffled his robes.

“My liege, may I confess?"

Rohein, although an advisor had become a cherished ally and friend over the years. In fact, Jonin could confess that Rohein had been his only friend over the long years. If there were ever a man whose thoughts he valued most, it was him.

“Freely, as always."

Rohein eyed the hulking boats off the shore as their crews clumsily moved about on their decks, still figuring out the best way to operate the newfangled contraptions.

“I have followed you for years. All of your campaigns, you know this. I…doubted your vision at first. But you presented your case so well, that I had to follow you. I had to believe with faith in the beginning. But then what you said came true, over and over. Every battle, every last one a victory. I no longer needed faith to believe in you, my King. But I have to admit that I find myself doubting you now."

Jonin nodded quietly. He felt something strange overcome him. His eyes scoured the water and found nothing beyond the ordinary. But the feeling lingered. It was as if somebody were watching him now, standing beside himself and Rohein to observe with them. He couldn't place it. Why was this moment so familiar to him? It was like he'd already lived it before now. He pushed the thoughts aside.

Jonin had acquired somewhat of a reputation as the years had marched ahead. In the early days, the masses had whispered that he was a “Prophet King." Jonin made claims to inspire those who followed him, and they came true. It was as simple as that, but so far, he had never once failed. His following had only grown that much stronger because of it. But it seemed that now he could no longer escape it. Rohein was his most trusted ally but even Jonin had to withhold things over the years. Now that this moment had finally dawned, Jonin pondered on if it would be appropriate to say what needed to be said. He decided it.

“I've seen what's coming. I know what's out there, Rohein. There are seven other kingdoms of man, on land, like ours. But they are merely infinitesimal islands, as we are. Our land is not the world, Rohein. All I am trying to prevent is unfathomable disaster. And we need their aid to do so. You must trust me, as you did in the beginning."

Rohein's brows furrowed as he turned to observe Jonin's features in skepticism.

“My liege, were you a lesser man, you would be tried for heresy at those words."

Rohein spread an arm outwards to the water, speaking sharply.

“How can you say that we are not the world when there is water on all sides of our world? It stretches outwards for infinity! Our boats have gone as far as they could for years to return with only tales of a horizon of water. How can you know beyond them? You are not mad, I know this. But I must understand."

Jonin peered out beyond the horizon. Even to this day, images still lingered fresh in his mind of the oncoming apocalypse. It was these images Jonin had to withhold in order to be taken seriously. To make headway in organized courts of the Lords, he had to appear perfectly sane. Of course, he knew he was sane. But they wouldn't. But now he was the King of Lords. The one above them all. He nodded.

“I know it stretches forever, Rohein. It therefore must mean that in forever, there must be more. There can always be more. All I ask is faith. I have done the impossible already. One caravan. If they make landfall and return to us, it will prove that I am right. If we sail to the south, it will work."

Rohein shook his garbed head, scoffing.

“If we continue at this rate we will exhaust the resources our world has left. And for what, a caravan of the most advanced ships ever built? To be wasted on a fool's voyage?"

Jonin was used to Rohein's somewhat fiery method of debate. It was however, truth on his part. Jonin's unification of the kingdoms of Lords had ushered in a new age of prosperity that had never been seen before in the world. With conflicts having ended and stability achieved, the irony was that resource consumption began to swell. Surrounded on all sides by water meant that such things were not infinite. And Jonin's project was straining things. It was all the more reason why Jonin believed that he must find the seven kingdoms. They must have resources to barter with. He spoke tersely back to Rohein.

“Mind your tongue, with due respect Rohein. Try to understand, and believe me. If I fail, our world won't matter any longer. I want you to picture every man, woman and child you can, every creature, every half-breed, even the dead. All of them will be destroyed if I fail. Everything will be lost. Everything that you or I have ever known, gone."

Jonin raised a golden gauntleted hand out to the ocean horizon.

“The water of creation is infinite, yes. But what happens when an impact strikes it?"

Rohein blinked at him, puzzled.

“Strikes?"

Jonin nodded, recalling fragments of an aged memory.

“Yes, something like that. Throw a pebble into a pond and there are ripples. Throw a man into a pond, and there are waves. The waves that are coming, they have been travelling for years. They have not lost power, they have gained it because they came from power. When they arrive, they will be tall enough to drown even our highest mountains."

Rohein continued to blink, brows furrowing at the boats on the water.

“You never told me this…"

Jonin was surprised. He was expecting a sharper reaction out of his old colleague. He spoke lightly.

“You would have thought me mad at the time, old friend. Do you still believe that I am not mad?"

Rohein paused in prostration, thinking over his response, before his eyes lit up as if he'd realized something divine.

“No….it's just…are the Gods angry at us? Are you a blessed man, a messenger foretelling of the end of days?"

Jonin laughed at the great irony of the words. Rohein wouldn't understand. But Jonin did.

“Blessed? No, Rohein. I am not blessed. Not by the Gods, at least."

There it was again, that strange feeling as if he'd lived this life once already. He shrugged it aside. Jonin looked at Rohein's puzzled expression.

“I am trapped by the Threads. I always have been. I do this because I know I'm the only one that can. I have proof beyond proof. I have truth."

Rohein still looked at him, skeptical.

“But from whom? Are you granted visions, like the saints of old? Please, my liege, I must know. How long have you neglected to tell anyone of this? If you have visions, you and I must seek the audience of the Arch Seer. He can declare your sainthood-"

Jonin shook his head. By now he was used to the weight of the simple golden crown he adorned. But he felt the weight as he refused Rohein's statement.

“No. I must do this on my own without their aid. Do you stand with me, Rohein?"

Rohein remained silent for a time, considering his words.

“I do, my King. But I must know the truth. Why do you deny the path to sainthood? Surely you would be anointed with the blessings of the Arch Seer. The Church could bolster your funds immensely."

Now it was Jonin's turn to consider his words. Rohein was still a priest. A trusted advisor and friend, yes, but Jonin knew all too well that loyalty could be turned if pushed on hard enough.

“The Church would not react well to the new lands I shall be venturing to. I seek peace, Rohein. I need peace to reign in order for our world to survive. You are versed in the history of the Church? You know how they spread to all corners of the world."

Rohein nodded his garbed head.

“Perhaps it is a sin for me to speak it, but I am aware of our somewhat unsavory history my liege. I am more concerned now about something else."

Jonin nodded solemnly.

“You heard it correctly. I must venture personally on this voyage when it is ready to be undertaken."

“But who will hold the throne? Who will reign in the Lords as only you have? You have taken no heirs, and surely-"

Jonin held up a golden gauntlet.

“There is one that may. But I must seek her out."

Rohein's brows furrowed.

“Her?"

Jonin nodded.

“If I can locate her. She has the power to reign in the Lords. More power than I."

“You jest, my liege. A Queen who commands equal respect as that of a man?"

“Her kin are fond of consuming men. It would be quite trivial for her, I think."

Jonin looked outward to the ships on the cold waterfront.

“I must take my leave Rohein. I depart to seek her out. Time is vital. I must walk this path alone. I trust that you will preside over matters while I am away?"

Rohein was caught before he could speak more of his skepticism, blinking. He considered his words.

“What shall I tell them? The Circle of Lords? The Church?"

“Nothing. Tell them nothing I have spoken of today. There will be a time when they need to hear my words, but it is not on this day."

“And the ships?"

“Allow the crews time to adjust to them. But press the issue on their refinement to the builders."

“How long will you be gone for, my liege?"

“Perhaps two weeks."

“I needn't press the issue that it would be unwise for you to venture into the world by yourself despite your status, my King?"

“No you would not old friend. I can handle what forces come for me."

“Of that I have no doubt. I was with you in the aftermath of every battle to come this far, after all. Are you certain that you are not divine, Jonin?"

Jonin placed a gauntlet on Rohein's shoulder.

“I am but a man as you."

“Men falter. You have not."

Jonin smiled lightly.

“I can't afford to. But I need aid Rohein. Your aid, and perhaps the aid of the one I seek. You are with me?"

“As I have been since the day we met, my King."

“Then believe in me for a little longer yet, old friend."

Rohein bowed his head silently, watching as Jonin departed from the beach, walking along the old footpath through the rocks that brought them here to the docks. His golden armor was scarred, revealing the hardened steel beneath its gleaming coating. He had known this man for decades. Followed him along the winding path up until now, watched as he had done what had been thought as impossible. Thirty years of war and political maneuvering had led to thirteen Lords bowing before Jonin in sworn allegiance. Thirteen lands joined as one for the first time in history.

Rohein would have never believed that the young man whose family name bore a seal of contract upon it would ever rise to achieve so much. Perhaps the most liberating of it all was that Jonin had undone the shackles that had bound his family line. Perhaps there was hope yet for Rohein himself.

He was bound in servitude to the Church of Homune, to the four Gods whom governed the shape that man had taken from the beginning. To the One God Above who had created all. He served faithfully, but would always find himself led by the whims of those above him. Jonin was mistaken to abstain from the Church's blessings. They had aided him in the past. But Rohein had known why. Jonin's victory was assured.

But now his King walked a dangerous path. Should he invoke the ire of the Church, Jonin stood the chance of losing everything out from under his feet. The Lords who had once governed the thirteen lands squabbled over boundaries and territory, but the Church of Homune had been in all of them from the start.

Rohein waved the thoughts aside. Whether Jonin believed it or not, Rohein himself knew that he was blessed with sainthood. If the Church wished to stand against him, they would learn the truth of who was right. In Jonin he could believe, as truly as he believed in the Gods.

---

Embers stirred in the fire pit as Jonin sat at its side. The old mountain road had hardly changed. The pervasive fog still shrouded all. It was like the mountain and this old forest had fallen out of time. But as he gazed into the embers of the fire, Jonin recalled the memory of the water. Such immense destructive power, enough to cleanse even the mountain peak that loomed above.

He briefly wondered what would transpire to the wandering souls who were reborn beyond death in these woods should he fail. Would any of them even notice? No, perhaps not. The dead were trapped in temporary moments until they flickered away when whatever power that allowed them to rise from beyond burned out.

The old name he'd heard once came back to him. The people who called this forest home as well. Arachgumo. They would be swept away with the water. Man-eaters and mainly barbaric cults, half-breeds that merged the form of man and arachnids in nightmare weaves. Even for them, Jonin pondered. Even for them he had fought.

The fire's smoldering embers and gentle heat lulled him to peace. His days were often filled with talk now, advisors and Lords and squabbles and all the petty things that ailed man. The cold still of the night and the fog around him was calming. Funny, how so long ago the person who had sat at this very same fire pit was so different.

On many days Jonin quietly wished to leave the world. To disappear from view. He had traveled across the known world in a conquest to unite thirteen separate kingdoms of man. In those very long years, he bore witness to sights that memory could never erase. Some grand, some truly terrible. The little smoldering fire at his lap was now something uniquely special to him.

This moment itself was special to him, a quality he had never valued before. Now in some ways, he could understand the man that had been his Uncle. The quiet man that had led him through these woods had long since passed beyond life. As had his father, and mother. And even his brother. He stood alone now, but as a free man.

He nodded to himself. But he had done it for no small price. Only his brother had been alive to know what freedom was when Jonin undid the shackles of contract that bound his family to servitude. He had freed generations of his line when he started this path. The very first Lord to fall to Jonin was the one he had served.

It was a bittersweet memory. He had been young and impulsive then. The fire that drove him to act was one that burned nearly uncontrollably, on the verge of becoming wild. Were the Lord placed at his feet today, Jonin would have spared his life. He had come to learn, perhaps too late that pettiness would not save his world.

It had been a grand first victory though, at least to the man who earned it at the time. Through political maneuvering, Jonin had ousted the Lord who presided over his homeland. He could never hope to achieve victory in a rite of combat to claim mantleship. He simply hadn't the experience with a blade.

No, it was Rohein. Then a young priest in service to the Church of Homune, whom Jonin had befriended. Rohein helped teach Jonin in the ways of scholarly affairs, and provided advice to him which helped him achieve a union with the Church, and the Elders to the villages that fell under the dominion of the ruling Lord. Jonin had seized power non-violently, but it was the dissatisfied masses that clamored for blood. And so Jonin had delivered it.

At least, that was what he told himself then to reason for the execution of the man who bound his family to chains. The old man staring at the embers of the fire would have done things differently. From long ago, he remembered dim words about the Threads.

Of choices and fates that were different from the ones that had happened. Perhaps, somewhere out there, there was a world where Jonin had spared that man. And perhaps it would have made all the difference to something. But such thoughts shouldn't be pondered for long. He needed rest for the night before resuming his journey.

The fog never ceased, and the old and withering trees hardly changed. Sometime during the day, he made his way into the trees off the old path, leaving the colorful markered path behind him. It was remarkable that he could remember the path with such clarity that the Little Ones had lead him along so long ago. But near the end of a long day of uphill climbing through jagged rocks and leafy slopes of slippery ground, Jonin arrived in the clearing.

Looming above and casting a shadow on the fog shrouded land was the mountain peak in the distance, and in the clearing, as if untouched by time sat the dilapidated chapel. Jonin knew who it had once belonged to now. Long, long ago, the Church of Homune in its beginning days had attempted to spread the gospel to the Arachgumo peoples of the mountain and the shrouded forests. Such efforts had not succeeded well.

But he was now more preoccupied with the one who had once called it home when he had set foot upon its doorstep. Out in the clearing, Jonin could see evidence of webbing splayed across the ground and in the nearby trees. It was a good sign, at least. Someone still lived here.

He approached the old chapel slowly, mind running through a million questions on what he was to say. Years. It had been so many years since he set foot here. What could he possibly say to her? He breathed slowly, relenting the feverish pace of his heart. He must approach with clear thoughts, and a clear mind.

With clarity and intent, Jonin rapped on the old wooden doors with a golden gauntlet. He waited silently, but there was no response. Another try, met only with the still of the clearing. Jonin pushed on the grand old doors, opening them to the inside of the chapel, and found his answer.

No light from lit candles danced upon the ruin. Dust and mold clung to the stone. And there upon the altar, sat a greyed form. Legs splayed out in whatever direction they rested for a final time. Jonin approached the altar in silence, staring at the unmoving form.

His mind had gone blank. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword as unease crept upon him, but he would not need to draw his weapon for there was no threat. Only the simple truth of what lay before him. O'ceelva had passed from life. A heavy sigh escaped him as he knelt at the altar.

How long he remained there was unknown to him. But the distinct sound of scuttling legs brought motion back to Jonin. In the fading twilight, the black form of a spider roughly the size of his hand approached him from the front. He stared at it meekly.

“I came here to visit her. But she's-"

The words couldn't finish themselves. The black scuttling creature circled him once, rubbing two front legs together. And something clicked in Jonin's mind. There were no lit candles here. There were no bookshelves here. The fire pit had no adorning pots or anything to distinguish that it had been used in years. Jonin stood quickly, staring down to the black spider whose eight unblinking eyes glimmered at him in the twilight. There was hope yet then after all.

“Take me to her."

---

For the very first time Jonin saw the misty fog entrenched lands stretched out before him far below as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, and moonlight bathed the mountain in blue. It was an upwards battle as trees failed to find purchase in the rocks, only hardy shrubs and mosses whose brilliant vaguely luminescent purple flowers bloomed at night with the rising of the moon above.

The slopes were gentle, but challenging enough for Jonin, especially in his armor. The forest below accumulated moisture and dampness, but up above on the slopes of the mountain, the wind carried a bite. When the scuttling arachnid finally led him to a flat outcropping amongst the rocks, Jonin was nearing the end of the day, only spurred onwards by the sight that greeted him.

In the rocks the mouth of some crevice greeted him, silky threads splayed outwards from it, scaling the high rocks above and blanketing the ground. Smoke wafted out gently from the entrance and orange light danced on the rocks in contrast to blue of the moon. Jonin paused to catch his breath as the black spider scuttled further along into the cave ahead.

The strings of some unknown instrument began to ring out from the cave, traveling on the low winds of the mountain peak. He knew then that it must be her. He smiled to himself, something bittersweet as he approached the entrance to the crevice. Drawing his sword slowly, he tapped it gently on the stone walls three times, waiting. A voice as soft as he remembered greeted the echo of metal.

“Such a persistent traveler to have come so far. Please, do come in. You shall find sanctuary here."

Jonin nearly froze. How long had it been? Thirty years. He nodded quietly to himself. No matter. Stepping into the crevice, he followed the rocky passage until he arrived in a larger chamber of sorts, not unlike the chapel far below. And there she was, nearly as he remembered her. On a raised stone outcropping above the main floor in the chamber, her black body had grown even larger with age. Dressed in something finely elegant and flowing, a deep purple entwined in gold embroidery, a veil to match.

Her head tilted when her gaze found him. Instead of overflowing silky strands of hair, everything had been braided into one coalescing bundle that still managed to spill out onto the floor at her spear like feet. Six hands opened in gestures of welcome as she lifted her veil. Jonin knew that she was smiling before she removed it.

“Is this the man I believe to be?"

Unblinking dark eyes with pinpoint red pupils locked onto his, and he could only smile in return, nodding somewhat solemnly.

“Jonin."

His armor clinked softly as he bowed to one knee.

“O'ceelva."

She giggled softy.

“Such chivalry. Jonin, stand. Come here."

He did so, absently dropping his sword with a clatter to the floor as all six of her arms embraced him in a returned gesture. It had been years since he'd ever done it, but now it was uncontrollable as he wept in her presence. She held him back tightly, and imparted to him words that both destroyed him and set him free.

“Shhh, I know."

He had gone weak in the knees, slumping to the floor. Her form followed his descent, holding him close as one pair of her delicate hands carefully removed the gold crown from his head to set it carefully off to the side. He would remain that way for the reminder of the night. O'ceelva never left his side, never spoke. She did know.

In all the years that had followed, her sight had followed him. Every battle, every victory. Every one had come with a price to pay. And the mantle he carried and bore near silently could not be shouldered without cost. To lead as a King of Lords, Jonin had sacrificed much.

And she knew that the road ahead was one that would not be traveled any easier. Perhaps more than even Jonin himself could even begin to understand, she did. Her future blurred in the Threads constantly, but even without seeing it, she knew that one day Jonin would return to her. She had felt it in him when he left.

She herself had felt it inside of her. He commanded an endearing respect in her eyes. And yet after thirty years, here he was now. A King of Lords. The only man to ever command so much power ever seen in this land, huddled at her feet in reverence and shame for actions he could not have possibly ever avoided.

Time had aged his form far harsher than it had to hers, for she had several hundred years left to her final stage of life, but the man that had left her doorstep then was the same man now. Better, and yet worse. Having the ability to see beyond eyes was one that merited patience for things to pass.

She had been patient for his return, because she knew what had started upon his departure. The only love he would ever know or feel without fear of a blade to the back. Now, now she knew. She could love him too. And so that was how the night departed. With no words, only a shared understanding of all of it.

---

“And this one?"

“Battle of Sanchi Fields."

O'ceelva's hands grazed over the rough patch of pockmarked skin on the side of his abdomen.

“You men are fond of scars aren't you? Your very own little trophies to tell stories about."

Jonin said nothing in response, but she kissed the spot where a blade had once punctured his armor. She knew he wasn't a braggart. Every scar had weight on his conscience. Her fingers flexed in his while her other hands roamed lovingly about. Jonin shifted on the soft bedding.

“You know I can't stay long. Time is important now."

“I know."

“Then you know why I came?"

O'ceelva giggled softly.

“I should hope that it was because you loved me so."

“I need….someone by my side."

“Your advisor Rohein doubts my ability to command the Lords."

Jonin chuckled.

“You've grown a lot bigger. That alone will scare them. I told him your kin were man-eaters."

“And how do you think the Church shall react to me?"

Jonin sighed.

“Unwelcome at first. They'll need some convincing that you aren't a heretic. They'll come around."

“I still have not accepted your offer, you know."

“That's because I haven't offered it yet."

O'ceelva laid her head on Jonin's chest.

“Do go on then, my liege."

Jonin ran a hand through the black strands of her silky hair.

“Not like that, no. I don't want this to be…political."

“Like the night we spent together."

Jonin remembered the years gone by, nodding.

“Are you willing to be Queen? Not just a Queen, but of the Lords?"

“I am uncertain."

Jonin's brows raised.

“You? Uncertain about something?"

“We would be joined in wedlock. I will outlive you by several hundred more years. It is truth that I do not even know what one day on a throne is like let alone many years."

“It won't matter if what's coming isn't stopped."

O'ceelva smiled, running a hand through hair specked in odd streaks of grey.

“And you don't even care that you'll leave me as a widow for several hundred years? All politics you are, you little liar."

“And you'd watch everything wash away because of that?"

O'ceelva leaned in to Jonin's face, still smiling.

“If it meant my death arrived at the same time as yours, I might be tempted to."

Jonin nodded.

“You sound like a ruthless Queen already. Ready to watch an empire burn just for me? I'm honored."

“The honor is mine, Jonin. I will stand at your side."

Glossy black lips pressed to his as if to seal the pact between them before she parted.

“Now, let us commune with the Threads. Are you ready?"

Jonin inhaled a deep breath.

“I am."

“The let us see what lies beyond eyes. I'll not have you go astray this time. Stay with me."

“Always."

---

VIII. What Will Be

One of the doors that had been opened years ago in Jonin's mind was revealed to him in full now. The first time he communed with O'ceelva, he was powerless not to lose himself in an abyss. But now he could see in clarity while remaining intact as both his mind and O'ceelva's wandered the infinite labyrinth of time and fate. Glimpses of what was to come, what may be, what could be were revealed to Jonin. Finally, now he understood.

The islands to the south had retained more knowledge of the old powers that had shaped the world. The only way to stop the oncoming destruction, which was a manifestation of power itself, was to meet it with an equal power. Such a feat would require more than one man, but an army of them, trained with the knowledge to harness such power.

But the key to all of it had been by his side all along. The fiery debater, the humble servant of the Church of Homune, his friend, Rohein. Over and over again Jonin bore witness to the man show his true strength in a time of need. And over and over again Jonin watched him die in his arms in fates entwined so closely to each other.

The Lords would conspire to overthrow Jonin, with the aid of the Church. In the meeting that was to be called, as thirteen blades drew themselves against him, the only soul to stand with Jonin every time was that of the priest who didn't even know how to properly hold a blade. But he would give his life selflessly every time with an unfaltering will that moved Jonin to weep.

Were it not for O'ceelva's guiding presence he wouldn't have been able to maintain the composure necessary to remain in the Weave. These were futures. Days that could be, but were not, not just yet. And so Jonin searched. There had to be a way. And with great effort it was revealed.

Rohein had been right all along. Jonin needed the favor of the Church first. And to do it he would need O'ceelva to show the Arch Seer the vision of the impending apocalypse. In this world that could be, Rohein would survive. It would be Rohein who learned the new teachings of the far southern islands the fastest. Rohein who would eventually spearhead the movement of mustering men and woman to train them to stand together as one, acting as a raw conduit for the force they needed to harness to save their world.

But beyond Rohein, Jonin's fate became blurred and muddled, a tangle of directions and distortions he couldn't possibly comprehend. And the answer to that was revealed to him when their communion with the Threads ceased. O'ceelva could never see her future clearly as she existed in a unique position inside of the Threads. Her fate was ever changing, as she often changed everything around her due to her sight.

It could only mean one thing. In the years to come, whether or not they brought disaster or destruction, or peace and salvation, Jonin remained in her proximity at her side no matter the outcome. That notion made him reconsider briefly the union they had embarked upon. The survival of their world depended on clarity. Jonin had not fought for everything so far on a thinly obscured notion. He needed there to be truth.

As six arms wrapped themselves around him as they began to partake in a loving exchange, Jonin was given the truth. He had fought the fight. He no longer needed to stand alone. Whatever was to come, Jonin would be facing it with someone at his side, always. And he would honor that union because he loved the one at his side.

He had often felt like a pawn throughout the years. His childhood had been owned by a Lord. His adulthood was owned by the all-consuming prophetic vision in the back of his mind. He had been the only one to know besides O'ceelva, and so therefore the responsibility fell to him alone to shoulder, since she had little sway with mankind.

But the Threads revealed that this was not the case. There were some futures, days gone by where Jonin had not acted, and the world met its fate because of it. Everything washed away in an instant. Such death on a massive scale would reduce the world to a land of the dead, draped in souls who refused to depart in the wake of such a trauma. So it had been his choice. O'ceelva saw him for the person that he truly was. He was not the pawn acting on strings he thought himself to be.

Saint Jonin, The King of Lords. His monumental acts were just that. Legends to be told in history alongside the stories of others that would follow in the footsteps of the man who had enabled all of them. Of Rohein, the Master Manipular, founder of the Church of Unity. Of Queen O'ceelva, the Widower Queen who presided with a long peaceful reign over the League of Eight Kingdoms, the Spider Isles.

Their fates in the Threads were now entwined and theirs to do with as they chose together, for better or worse.

---