AS HE CROSSES THE BRIDGE OF NIGHT-GLASS, THERE IS ONLY BUT THE SOUND OF CLICKING HEELS AND THE THUNDER OF HIS BEATING HEART. IT IS A COURSER, A RAVENOUS HOUND ON THE HIND OF A HARE – IT IS ELECTRIC, ADRENALINE THRUMMING HOT AND WILD AND O CONTEMPTUOUS; AND BEFORE HE KNOWS IT HIS WALK IS A RUN AND HIS FEET ARE WINGED GRACE. FOR OTHERS HAVE JOINED HIM, OTHERS WHO ARE FASTER, HUNGRIER. AND WHO HUNGRIER THAN HE? BUT THEY ARE LOST TO HIS PERIPHERALS, ENTANGLED IN THE WEBS AT THE CORNERS OF HIS EYES WHILE THEY CANNOT REST ON ANYTHING BUT THE RELIC. FOR WHAT? FOR WHAT? HIS MIND HUMS SOFT, A NEVERENDING CYNICISM THAT FIGHTS THE CAUSE OF HIS RUSH. IT IS TENDER, TOO TENDER TO HEED, THOUGH HE HAS NO ANSWER FOR THE GENTLE VOICE OF QUESTION. HE SIMPLY NEEDS IT. IS A PREDATOR'S RESOLVE NOT SO PLAIN? HE NEEDS IT, THOUGH HE DOES NOT UNDERSTAND WHAT IT IS. HE DOES NOT CARE FOR NOVUS GODS OR NOVUS GOLD, NOT FOR FAME OR THE ALLURE OF FORTUNE. ALL HE KNOWS IS THAT HE HAS BEEN BROUGHT HERE TO THIS POINT, DRUMMING OVER THE BLACK WATERS THAT SHIFT LIKE BARBED BACK SHARKS BENEATH A REFLECTIVE SILK. AND HE MUST HAVE IT.
LO, HIS MIND (IS IT HIS MIND? IS IT THE ISLAND?) PRICKLES AND LAUGHS A COLD LAUGH, SOMETHING THAT ECHOES AS TINNY AND EMPTY AS THE SHALLOWNESS OF HIS EARLIER VOICE, HAVE YOU GOTTEN ANYWHERE FOR IT? INDEED, THE RELIC STANDS AT QUITE A DISTANCE – SHINING, GLEAMING A GRINNING GLEAM, A SMUG THING THAT SEEMS, EVEN AS ERASMUS APPROACHES WITH LONGING STRIDES, REMAINS JUST OUT OF REACH. IS THAT NOT HOW IT ALWAYS IS? O HOW HE ALWAYS WANTS MORE, MORE, MORE. HOW EVERYTHING SEEMS JUST BEYOND WHAT HE CAN TOUCH, WHAT HE CAN GRASP. NOTHING SATISFIES. BUT WON'T THIS? O, GODS. WON'T IT BE WORTH IT? FOR WHAT?
HE SLOWS WHEN HE ACCEPTS THAT HE IS GOING NOWHERE, THOUGH WITH A CURSORY GLANCE BACK HE SEES HOW FAR HE HAS COME FROM THE VINE-TANGLED ARCH. IT IS NEVER ENOUGH, IS IT? PANTING, GRATING MADNESS. HIS WILD EYES WRAP THE RELIC FOR A HOT, SEETHING MOMENT... AND IT SHIFTS. PAUSED TO WATCH, HE DOES NOT MIND WHEN OTHERS COME SCREECHING PAST HIM, SOME JUST AS CURIOUS, OTHERS TOO RAVENOUS TO MIND. BUT HE, HE WATCHES AS IT BLOOMS, AS IT CURTSIES AND OPENS TO REDDENED PETALS THAT PLUCK TO CASCADE ONE BY ONE. THEY LITTER THE GLASS LIKE AN EDGE, LIKE A FINISH LINE, BUT THEIR MINGLED REDS PROVE SOMETHING ELSE TO MEMORY. HE THINKS OF THE SKELETON IN THE JUNGLE AND THE RED, RED FLOWERS THAT SPRUNG FROM THE GROUND DEEP AND PUNCTUATED LIKE DROPLETS OF SANGUINE. WERE THEY A WARNING? WERE THEY A CALLING?
BUT THE RELIC STANDS. AND IT LAUGHS, LAUGHS.
A TWITCH AND HE MOVES AGAIN, AND THIS TIME THE PETALS SHIFT WITH THE BREEZE AND FLUTTER SOFTLY WHEN HOOVES PASS OVER THE LINE – BUT HE STOPS FEET BEFORE IT, AND HE RECOGNIZES THE SIGHT OF THE GIRL WITH HER SWINGING AXE FROM BEFORE. AS OTHERS CHARGE FORWARD INTO THE SPACE BETWEEN, HE THINKS OF THE WAYS IN WHICH GODS ARE MAD AND BORED THINGS WITH A TASTE FOR FRENZY, AND HE GLANCES BACK TO SEE HOW BRIGHTLY THE RELIC SHINES. HE WAITS. BUT O, HOW HORRIBLY THE GLASS BENEATH HIM FEELS LIKE THE SHIFTING GRAINS OF A TILTED HOURGLASS, AND HOW HE DREADS THE LOSS OF A THING THAT IS SO CLOSE HE COULD TOUCH IT.
LO, HIS MIND (IS IT HIS MIND? IS IT THE ISLAND?) PRICKLES AND LAUGHS A COLD LAUGH, SOMETHING THAT ECHOES AS TINNY AND EMPTY AS THE SHALLOWNESS OF HIS EARLIER VOICE, HAVE YOU GOTTEN ANYWHERE FOR IT? INDEED, THE RELIC STANDS AT QUITE A DISTANCE – SHINING, GLEAMING A GRINNING GLEAM, A SMUG THING THAT SEEMS, EVEN AS ERASMUS APPROACHES WITH LONGING STRIDES, REMAINS JUST OUT OF REACH. IS THAT NOT HOW IT ALWAYS IS? O HOW HE ALWAYS WANTS MORE, MORE, MORE. HOW EVERYTHING SEEMS JUST BEYOND WHAT HE CAN TOUCH, WHAT HE CAN GRASP. NOTHING SATISFIES. BUT WON'T THIS? O, GODS. WON'T IT BE WORTH IT? FOR WHAT?
HE SLOWS WHEN HE ACCEPTS THAT HE IS GOING NOWHERE, THOUGH WITH A CURSORY GLANCE BACK HE SEES HOW FAR HE HAS COME FROM THE VINE-TANGLED ARCH. IT IS NEVER ENOUGH, IS IT? PANTING, GRATING MADNESS. HIS WILD EYES WRAP THE RELIC FOR A HOT, SEETHING MOMENT... AND IT SHIFTS. PAUSED TO WATCH, HE DOES NOT MIND WHEN OTHERS COME SCREECHING PAST HIM, SOME JUST AS CURIOUS, OTHERS TOO RAVENOUS TO MIND. BUT HE, HE WATCHES AS IT BLOOMS, AS IT CURTSIES AND OPENS TO REDDENED PETALS THAT PLUCK TO CASCADE ONE BY ONE. THEY LITTER THE GLASS LIKE AN EDGE, LIKE A FINISH LINE, BUT THEIR MINGLED REDS PROVE SOMETHING ELSE TO MEMORY. HE THINKS OF THE SKELETON IN THE JUNGLE AND THE RED, RED FLOWERS THAT SPRUNG FROM THE GROUND DEEP AND PUNCTUATED LIKE DROPLETS OF SANGUINE. WERE THEY A WARNING? WERE THEY A CALLING?
BUT THE RELIC STANDS. AND IT LAUGHS, LAUGHS.
A TWITCH AND HE MOVES AGAIN, AND THIS TIME THE PETALS SHIFT WITH THE BREEZE AND FLUTTER SOFTLY WHEN HOOVES PASS OVER THE LINE – BUT HE STOPS FEET BEFORE IT, AND HE RECOGNIZES THE SIGHT OF THE GIRL WITH HER SWINGING AXE FROM BEFORE. AS OTHERS CHARGE FORWARD INTO THE SPACE BETWEEN, HE THINKS OF THE WAYS IN WHICH GODS ARE MAD AND BORED THINGS WITH A TASTE FOR FRENZY, AND HE GLANCES BACK TO SEE HOW BRIGHTLY THE RELIC SHINES. HE WAITS. BUT O, HOW HORRIBLY THE GLASS BENEATH HIM FEELS LIKE THE SHIFTING GRAINS OF A TILTED HOURGLASS, AND HOW HE DREADS THE LOSS OF A THING THAT IS SO CLOSE HE COULD TOUCH IT.
Erasmus chooses option 2.
