1 - Meres

       The afternoon air is warm, heavy, saturated with color scattered by sunlight and tangled in the crowd, who are dressed in brazen shades of crimson and scarlet, in crisp shadows of ebony. There is the steady murmur of voices, as the sound of slow waves, and the bright tinkling of glasses between bursts of gay laughter. Music wafts leisurely through the small spaces left between, the always-elegant strings played particularly well. Mephisto, of course, arranged for the music, his tastes in such are unparalleled - but it is Luce's party, whose else could it be? The space is filled with roses, grandiose bushes of them all around, lending their sultry perfumes. The blossoms are scattered over every surface, and so each step one takes is upon the silken petals. (This makes walking a slightly precarious process, but there is much more standing than walking, and certainly no-one need move in any hurry, so ample care will be taken.) The green of the garden's leaves and grass is scarcely to be seen, for all is crimson and ivory and sable, the colors of roses and the shadows between their petals all-consuming. The men are dressed in dark tones, with tasteful touches of red and white; the women are nearly all in red, bold and daring, the tropical color inflaming them all with the undaunted flair of the flamenco, the tarantella. The shadows, of jackets carefully cut and hair just as painstakingly coiffed, are filled with the sultry promises of a summer's night; the highlights, of scarlet skirts and incarnadine lips, are suffused with all the daring of a moment's surrender. All is bold shadow, saturated tones, intents made--- oh not with a brash air, but confident, assured. No-one speaks in halting manner, no-one moves in hesitating gesture. We are a company of greatness, greatness kept apart from the ridiculous fluster of the world at large, a thing so beautiful and so powerful, that it should not bear even the glance of the uncouth masses. And those who are not of our company, but are allowed to visit among it, must of course be worthy creatures. Worthy of our interest, that is, for certainly they should never be anything worthy of comparison with such as us! Nothing formed from dirt and agèd exhalation should ever really amount to much of anything, the very idea is laughable. But ah, there is amusement yet to be found in such strange creatures, made of earth yet reaching toward the heavens, a boundless thing caught up in mortal flesh...
       Just as we now find ourselves, still reaching after so very, very long...
       "Meres!"
       Oh thank all that is beautiful for Veri. There are times his complaints grate terribly on one's patience, but oh, his interruptions can come at such blessed times.
       "Darling! Are you enjoying the wine? I especially recommended it to Luce - it is imported from some location so exotic and exclusive that I could scarcely get the trader to reveal its source to me, for fear I might tell some rival of his of the place."
       "Oh it is lovely of course," he answers distractedly, brushing his long, pale hair back from his face. "But I am bothered by one of the cheeses, it is not at all agreeing with me."
       "You poor dear! You simply must lay down awhile. I know of an absolutely exquisite spot beneath the jasmine, there is a little nook with a cushioned divan and---"
       "No no no, jasmine makes me feel terribly nauseated, don't you remember?" he snaps peevishly.
       I did remember - only last week it was the scent of lilies (Speciosum rubrum, and no other) which turned his stomach.
       Strange, that after all this time spent in the mortal realm, we continue to be unsettled by its ever-changing trivialities. Our bodies have still not settled into constant form... but will they ever? To be in Time is to be always changing, perhaps our appetites and preferences will forever alter in such rapid succession. I feel tired at the very thought. It is, of course, engaging, to have such novel experience from one day to the next, but--- "Of course, darling. I had merely thought of the divan. But no matter, we can always have it moved. Shall I find a serving man for you?"
       He folds his long limbs into a nearby chair, sinking with a long-suffering sigh. "Do, please. I feel quite exhausted, perhaps it is the heat. My skin feels so dry..."
       I touch his cheek gently as I pass, in a gesture of ancient habit, then wander back through the varied clusters of conversation. It is not long before I find one of Luce's attendants - they are discrete but omni-present, as servants ought always be. The delicate young boys, who so often flit about fairy-like in the gardens, are not to be found today, for this afternoon is one of luxurious decorum. There are, instead, a number of young men, quite fine in their features yet sturdy in their limbs, the very embodiment of male strength and dominance, in the blushing flower of its first appearance in the limber forms. Ah, Luce! Your artistry and forethought are a constant delight to me.
       I approach one, and he instantly bows, with a grace of movement quite pleasing to the eye. "May I be of service, sir?" His voice perfectly suits the deep mahogany of his eyes, the ebony curls which slip mischievously onto his strong brow. I rather fancy this one. Perhaps I shall find him again, at a later time...
       "There is a divan, near the trellises of jasmine, off in that direction. I should like it moved, to a shaded place... I think perhaps that little dell, with the birch trees, near the stream. That would suit nicely."
       He bows again, his eyes turned graciously to the ground, then strides off, his paces long and even, but retaining the easy grace of boyhood. My gaze lingers on him a moment, taking in the measure of his well-proportioned form. Yes, I do think I shall seek him out... but later.
       "Veri, dear, I have had the divan moved to that charming spot beneath the birches that you like so much. Shall we go there now, or would you like a few minutes to recover yourself?"
       He leans back in the chair, passing a hand over his pale brow. "Oh... I suppose I shall make my way there, in a little while. But do send one of the girls to me, will you? I could do with some company. ---One of the quieter ones, if you please; I haven't the energy for a boisterous thing pawing at me like a hungry dog."
       "Certainly, my dear. I do hope you feel better, it is such a lovely afternoon."
       He only sighs again in response, and I hide a smile as I turn away. This mood of his shall pass in moments - I am sure by the time I return with some pretty little thing he will have already changed his mind on what sort of company he desires. But no matter. I am in quite good spirits this afternoon, and do not mind the... well I suppose it is hardly a distraction if I hadn't anything in progress to begin with. Oh but the serving boy! I ought to find him, once I have found someone for Veri.
       Though really, should I even trouble myself? He will certainly have changed his mind, perhaps has already done so. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye open. So many of these women today are loud! The color of their dresses seems to have gone right to their heads, they are all flaunting and all flirting, fluttering long lashes and caressing with light, teasing touches. They know the afternoon is all for them, the roses, the most lush and beautiful of all flowers, ones never to be overlooked. And so they revel in the attention lavished upon them, drinking in the praises and admiring gazes of all beneath the golden sun, the flush of their cheeks reflecting the dresses, growing bolder with the continued attention, as well as from the warmth of the wine flowing through them.
       I find myself nearing the edge of the gathering, where the rounded area hedged by the tallest rose bushes opens for a brief space, allowing passage into a fairly open area of grass and small ornamental trees. There are only a handful of persons standing there, in a small cluster by a plum tree, which is blossoming out of its usual season. (This is little surprise to me - I regularly have my gardeners produce such effects on my own grounds. The delicate flowers of fruit trees are far too lovely to have appear only once in a year.) The colors here seem almost washed-out, after the flurry and over-saturation of the bold tones present in the rose garden. There are a few men standing about, talking intensely in low, private tones. And---
       And there is a girl. She can hardly be more than fourteen, she looks so young and innocent! It is little wonder she has come into this side garden, she would be sorely out of place among the rose coquettes. And she is the only one I have seen wearing white among all the party...
       Yet it suits her far better than the red ever could. Her form is slim and delicate, her hair a soft gold, as the sunlight of early morning. Ah, yes, it is morning that she embodies, instead of the glowing sunset the rest personify. She is pale and just awakening, fragile, delicate, as fresh dew scattered upon a rosebud - oh but a white rosebud, certainly not a red one. The dress has a much simpler silhouette than the others I have seen today, with hardly any real shaping to it. Lace upon lace, a warm, soft white, with bands of subtle ruffles to wrap gently around her small form, revealing the womanly shape which is only just beginning to show.
       I catch a glimpse of her eyes, hiding shyly behind the long flaxen locks of her hair. The lashes are long, but cannot hide the stunning pale violet of the pupils. Periwinkle, they bring to mind. Yet something in them makes me tentative about drawing nearer---
       Oh what ridiculous fancy is this! She was invited by Luce, she is one of our sort, or will be soon. Whyever would I have qualms about speaking to her, or being seen by her? Should I send her to--- no, she is far too delicate for Veri, he needs one who will nurse him, I think, not one to be shy, as this one looks to be. Dear Veri is delicate enough in himself, he needs a companion who may balance that, by supplying the opposite. Ah, my darling, I truly believe I do know you better than you know yourself, whatever you may say... and I suppose someone ought to look after you, if you have not the strength to do so yourself. I refuse to yield to the mockery of the others, it may very well be a completely frivolous and unhealthy unconscious clinging to a life I chose to leave, but I will not be swayed by the opinions of others! I shall do as I like, and if I should choose to dote on you as a pet, then I shall do so, with no heed of what the others may say.
       It is not as if I am as weak as Mephisto. The way he lets his emotions be so overtaken by the slightest whims of whatever over-dramatic singer or actor he has chosen as consort for the week or for the hour is quite ludicrous.

       I have drawn closer to her, though I had not done so consciously. In fact, her companions are looking at me, and I ought to make some remark by way of introduction... Ah! but I know one of them after all, splendid.
       "Nila, darling! I wondered where you had gone to. We hadn't seen you in quite some time."
       "Not far, never far, especially from a party so well-arranged as this."
       "Our host is quite the artist," one of the young men interjects.
       "Ah, but you should see the parties Meres holds," Nila replies, with a smile toward myself. "The arrangements in which he lives each day are quite breathtaking, in their beauty and exoticness. And that is nothing to the tableaus he creates for company!"
       I smile broadly, sweeping one arm wide, less in gesture than to reveal the details of my jacket. It is embroidered most cunningly with some thread which seems black, until it is moved, and the light catches at a thousand jeweled tones which suddenly appear in patterns of breathtakingly intricate detail. There is, as I had intended, a slight gasp of surprise, followed by astonished and admiring laughter. Yet the girl smiles only softly, her eyes seeming far away.
       "But Nila, you simply must introduce me to this charming young woman. We have not met, I think."
       He smiles, an expression filled with pleased cunning. "You have not. This is her first visit to one of our soirées. I invited her myself."
       "I should have guessed! You always do find the most interesting persons to have us meet."
       He bows slightly, grinning. "It is my contribution. While you bring the artistry of exquisite setting, I bring the artistry of personality."
       There is another shower of pleased laughter (as there always is) from our companions, yet the girl remains silent.
       "Nila! Does she not speak?"
       "I speak," she answers, her voice so gentle and sweet that it fills all the space of the ranges below our loud, boisterous speech. Her eyes slowly fade back in to view the world before her, losing their focus on the farther place she seemed to have been watching.
       All are quieted, so as not to overwhelm the beauty of her dulcet tones. I smile broadly, and bow low, taking her hand in mine to gently kiss. Her hands are so small and delicate! Though they are gloved, I know by the smoothness of her arm that they would be delightfully soft, as gentle as her voice. I lift my eyes to hers, and she gazes back... and I feel as though her strange eyes of twilit skies see far beyond the mere surface of my self. She shifts her gaze to a point just beyond my shoulders, following a slow path out from there---
       I could swear she is looking at my wings! My long-absent wings, oh, but how---
       "Oh see the funny bird!" she laughs aloud, clapping her slim hands together in delight, and we are startled by the difference in her childlike laugh. There is a brightness to it, a quality of some indefinable, luminescent thing, which we have not heard in so long...
       But we turn to look, and see some bird with exquisitely long and bright plumage, perched on a weeping cherry tree at some little distance. It is hopping from one branch to another, fluttering up in startled confusion as the branches, too slim to hold its weight, droop away beneath it. We chuckle in amusement, but my heart is still shaken by my assumptions, though it seems they were misplaced.
       "Dear child," I begin again. "Have you enjoyed your day here?"
       "I am no child," she rebukes sharply, and I smile to see her sudden confidence. "I shall be sixteen in a week, though I am slight for my age." Her eyes are no longer distant, but sparkling and focused... though they still hold something farther off in their depths. I am certain that is what led Nila to bring her here, the contrast in those shining violets. It is quite an intriguing mystery...
       I almost wish not to define it, for then she would become no more than one of the many roses which decorate the stage.
       "But you asked my thoughts on the party," she resumes, her delicate fingers brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. Her lips are not painted scarlet, as those of the other women, but are a soft, slightly shimmering pink, as cherry blossoms kissed by morning dew. "It is... oh I don't know. It is interesting, of course, I am hardly bored. But I seem to be out of place. All of the women are so sensual and voluptuous, while I am a mere sapling, with no shape to me at all, and hardly the experiences of a coquette at flirting so gracefully."
       "Oh, but Niles delights in odd juxtapositions, my dear," I answer smoothly, offering her my arm. "May I borrow her, Nila? I find her quite soothing to the eyes."
       He laughs lightly, shooing us away with a wave of his hand. "Oh away with you! You are forever a thief, Meres."
       "All art is theft, did you not know? But I shall return her before the day is out, you have my word."
       We stroll away, and some jest is made, for the loud laughter billows out behind us, seeming almost to propel us away into the meandering paths of the gardens.
       "You know, you have yet to ask my name," she remonstrates. I should almost think her rude, her tone is so inappropriate for speaking with a superior! But she is young, which causes all faults to be forgiven. And so I smile, and ask her name.
       "Cerise Walker. And yours?"
       "Have you not heard it already?"
       "Of course, but is it not impolite to use it without invitation? Perhaps you would prefer me to call you by your surname, or whatever honorific is most appropriate."
       I laugh aloud. "Cerise my dear, you are quite the odd mixture of mannered and uncouth. You have switched from one to the other with every sentence I have heard you speak!"
       She smiles ruefully and seems about to apologize, but I wave a hand to prevent her. "Darling, you are young, it is forgiven. And I find your company interesting, which is more than I can say for many others. But yes, you may call me Meres. Titles have grown to be such stuffy, presumptuous things. They have no further use to us, we have tired of them.”
       She nods in acknowledgment, then looks at me, with a steady, thoughtful gaze, her eyes again gaining that strange depth. "That is not your real name."
       I stop still and stare at her, surprised and unsettled. She did not ask, but stated it, as a fact she was entirely certain of, as casually as one might mention that the moon is full one evening.
       It is a long moment before I find words, and can attempt a nonchalant manner. "And what, pray, might lead you to think that?"
       She shakes her head, the mystery in her eyes clouding over and receding. "I do not know... I simply feel it is not your true name. It is the same for Niles. The names simply don't match the person I see, there is some disconnect that I cannot explain."
       I begin walking again, though more slowly, deep in thought. My voice is slow and... oh not hesitant, but distant. "There is no use in me attempting to deny something you already know... especially something that you know with the same certainty as... as one knows a thing to be beautiful, or ugly... Tell me, dear, are you a seer?"
       She looks puzzled by this. "I am not certain what you mean. I see, I have vision, I am not blind..."
       I smile gently at her. "Then I see your talents may be untrained. Do you often have such strong intuitions?"
       She shrugs, and plucks a bit of honeysuckle from a trellis we pass beneath, twirling it idly between her fingertips. "At times. I don't often speak of them; they always upset Father so."
       "And yet you speak of them to strangers."
       She laughs, with a bitterness far deeper than one would expect from a face so fresh. "You, unlike he, will not go into a rampage, screaming at me for the sins of my ancestors. As if it should be my cross to bear, that my father's mother found other things more important than spoiling his every childhood whim."
       "And this relates to your... peculiar insights?"
       "She had them, too. Father hated it. He says she became more and more entranced by what they revealed, and she became a witch, or something like to that, and left her family behind. Though by then he was more than old enough to care for himself, and his father was quite well off, I don't see why he--- Oh but I ramble so! I must be boring you, I do apologize."
       I laugh and pat her hand, which is still holding to my arm. "Not at all, my dear, I am quite fascinated. I see it was not solely for contrast that Nila brought you to us. I must tell you that he makes it a habit to know, usually in advance, the entire family history of every person he holds a single conversation with - a bit of an obsession with him, really. But I must say that your father sounds to be a terribly unsympathetic man. Is he always so harsh with you?"
       "He was, but is no longer," she answers lightly. "I have left his house, and stay with the family whose inn I work at. Waiting tables and fixing dinners, mostly, though a bit of cleaning, and entertaining the customers, being the pretty face about the place really."
       "I see - a wise choice on your part, to leave, though I am certain he did not think it to be. Your grandmother... you have never met her, then?"
       "Never, though I often wish I had. Not only is her blood seemingly strong in me, but anyone who my father does not get along with, I assuredly will."
       "And you do not begrudge her gift to you?"
       "Not at all - I only wish I had more explanation for it. You say that I am a seer?"
       "Perhaps... it remains to be seen, really, what the extent of your abilities might be, but I am certain you do possess something unusual. If you would like, I know of a few persons in that area of study, who might be able to guide you."
       She pauses a moment, then smiles warmly, her eyes meeting mine with surprising confidence. "I should like that very much."
       I wonder if it is merely in rebellion against her father, or if she truly wishes to hone an ability which should mark her as an outcast of polite society all her life (and perhaps even beyond that).

       We have by this time strolled fairly far into the gardens, with the sounds of the party dying away behind us, replaced by the brief showers of bright birdsong, scattered over the soft breath of a light summer wind upon the leaves of plants and trees, the distant sound of moving water. It occurs to me that I do not quite know my way through Luce's gardens - he has a tendency toward a labyrinthine model of structure, and delights in having visitors (himself included) truly lost in the surroundings. It is mildly amusing, of course, though I feel it is not always desirable. To each his own, I suppose.
       The sound of water grows louder, and a delicate stream appears, winding its way between flags and falling over stones that sparkle in the strong sunlight, which filters in intricate filigree through the leaves overhead. The breeze rustles lightly among the leaves of willow trees, and, I realize, also the leaves of birch trees.
       "It seems we have found our way nearly to the grove I was thinking of earlier," I muse. "Do watch for a slim figure stretched out tiredly on a divan in some shaded corner - that will be my dear Veri, whom I ought to introduce you to."
       "Is he as generous a listener as you are?"
       I chuckle. "Not really. He... oh but we are all selfish. He is merely a bit more subject to moods, and to physical discomforts. His... he has a few old wounds, which trouble him rather often."
       "I see. But it is no matter, really, I feel I have said quite enough for one day, you really are too kind."
       I restrain a laugh. Kind! Oh how little the dear thing sees, for all her possible ability.
       "Meres? Is that you?"
       I smile and lead Cerise down a faint path that leads away from the stream and, passing between large bushes of gardenias, into a dense grove of white birch trees. The light is soft here, filtered by the many leaves; the breeze is gentle and the shaded air soothing. The palette of colors in this space is limited, and thus quieting to the eyes as well as the ears, with only white, medium greens, and a few slight shades of carmine and rose. The divan has been placed just beside the large, many-colored leaves of a caladium, accented by plumes of pink astilbe. Veri's long, delicate frame is draped limply along the cushioned divan. One arm is laying over his eyes, but I know that he has heard our approach.
       "Veri, darling, how are you feeling?"
       "Tired. But this is a passable place to rest awhile."
       Cerise has let her hand fall from my arm, and she stands shyly to the side, uncertain of what to do. I move toward Veri, and lean down to brush a bit of hair gently back from his face. "You do look a little better, I am quite glad. Would you like some company?"
       His brow furrows, and I frown to see him so troubled. "I should like to be alone, it was good of you to come all the way out here but..." He glances over at Cerise and purses his lips tighter together. "I am far too tired."
       I sigh and shake my head, gently patting his hand before straightening up and turning back toward the girl. "Do come see me before leaving Luce's, darling, will you?"
       He makes a non-committal sound, closing his eyes and slumping back into the divan. I shrug and take Cerise's hand, leading her silently away. She looks troubled, and I know she thinks she has caused him some offense without intending any, but of course she hasn't, he is only feeling sullen again. Oh but he makes me feel so tired myself! I should explain this to her, but I suddenly haven't the energy.
       "Do you think you can find your way out of the gardens on your own, child? I am weary, I do not think I will return to the party."
       She draws breath sharply, taken aback. "I... I suppose so. Yes, I can. But... do tell me, have I done something to offend you? Or your friend?"
       "No, no," I reply vaguely. "Nothing at all. I am simply... I find that I am rather tired. As was he - the heat of the sun seems to have wearied us both today. Do go on and enjoy the party, dear, you haven't done a thing wrong."
       She hesitates a moment more, then turns back toward the rose garden. Her walk is slow at first, but soon picks up speed - whether she hurries away to hide her upset emotions, or has shrugged off our tepid responses and is eager to return to more pleasant company, I do not know. Nor, really, do I care, I have lost interest for the moment. Perhaps I shall find her later.

       I do wonder that my spirit has dulled so dramatically... I suppose it must be from seeing Veri still so melancholy. Yet why should that trouble me so?
       ...oh, I know the reason, I have tried so to forget but the reason is that I have tried to forget. I was in no pleasant mood today. Are any of us ever? There is no true joy left to us, only the dull shadows of physical pleasure... And shadows can never be entirely grasped, they slip through these fingers of flesh just as light will do. We were once creatures of the light, pure souls to which the dust of the world could not hold, but oh! How it covers us now, a coat as heavy as the gold which colors it; how it weighs us down, our motions slowly losing their grace...
       We, who were of air and light, can no longer hold even shadows... we are immortal, yet cut off forever from the eternal. And when one has held eternal things, the brevity of mortal things can never truly satisfy. All things pass so soon, all except our lives, which hold no hope of an ending, and no hope of true fulfillment.
       My stride slows, my body tired but my legs not stopping, my steps carrying me unendingly on into the gray fog of millenia before me... oh but I am so tired! Veri, I shall never be cross with you, you are the only one to be truly honest about the melancholy of exhaustion which clings to us all, which settles on our shoulders as the dust of this world... The others keep their distance from you so they need not be reminded of that weariness they struggle to hide. And I... I cannot bring myself to neglect you. I suppose I hope to in some way soothe my own aches by tempering yours. If I can find a way to bring you some... if not happiness, then at least freedom of pain, then perhaps... perhaps there is yet hope for my own despair.

       I move farther into the gardens, searching for some spot that will please my unfocused eyes, that will cool my heated forehead, that will soothe with gentle breezes the aching scars on my back. I enter into a heavily shaded place, where the branches interlace close over my head, and the heavy scent of wisteria sublimates the summer air. It is dark and solemn, the air a subdued embrace. I close my eyes and breath deeply, the rich scent coating my tired lungs, my being suffused with gentle violet. But scarcely have my muscles begun to lose their tension when I hear someone whistling. Whistling! How common, how tiresome, who should be so blasé as all that in a place as this? I feel sullied by the very lowness of it, though it comes not from myself, and my mood flares sharply, turned from reflective melancholy to deep-set anger by the insolence in that whistling. Annoyance transforms so easily into rage, when one's mood is already darkened – really, it is a much better release of such emotions, to allow it to flare into full strength all at once.
       I follow the sound, and find a young man leaning against a tree, idly looking up into the branches. He is dressed as the servants Luce had present at the party.
       "Why have you left your station?" My voice is a low growl, threatening. Instantly he turns his gaze to me, startled.
       "I... I was no longer needed, really, there was more than enough help and so I thought---"
       "You thought to shirk your duties. I am sure Luce would not take kindly to hearing of this."
       "With all due respect sir, would he---"
       "Of course he would believe me!" I snap sharply. "Whyever would he take the word of a mere commoner over that of... of one of us? And do not think for a moment that he would let you off with a mere warning, or a verbal reprimand..."
       "He would discharge me, of course, I understa---"
       "You understand nothing. You would be lucky to leave with your body as lovely as it was when you arrived, if you left at all."
       I will give this one some credit, for he scarcely flinches, though I can see every muscle in him tense. "And what concern of yours is this?"
       I smile slowly, cruelly, my nature settling warmly into a manner it knows so well. "Why, darling, I should hardly be a true and loyal friend to dear Luce if I gave you a chance to slip away unnoticed. I ought to bring you to him myself. Only... only it wouldn't do to interrupt the party, he looked to be having such a lovely time. It wouldn't do to spoil the fun for him. But what then to do with you? I suppose I could shut you up in the house for him to deal with at his leisure, but really, what is the fun in that?" As I speak, I move closer to him, and before he can pull away I grip his arm tightly in one hand - a hand all the stronger and harsher now, for the gentleness of its touch upon the girl's skin not long before. He may be no seer as she, but he can see clearly the tensely coiled menace in my every motion, my every word. I coax the fear in his eyes into full blossom, with all the care a gardener gives his favorite rose. "Oh, what to do with such a one? I suppose I shall have to keep an eye on you myself, I can hardly trust the duty to some mere underling, and I shouldn't like to ruin the party for anyone else. But I can hardly be blamed for entertaining myself in the process, can I?" I lean close and flick my tongue lightly around the edge of his ear. "Whatever shall I do with one such as you? I find myself quite unable to decide, there are so many possibilities..."
       His lip curls and he cannot help but squirm, trying to writhe away from my touch, from the nearness of my skin. Oh, I shall take my time with this one! The party will not wane until long after dark, and it is only mid-afternoon now. I shall vent the fullness of my foul mood, dispersing it entirely, that I may wholeheartedly enjoy the remainder of the party.
       I walk in a slow circle around him, making certain that I maintain a solid grip on him at all times. He watches me warily, and I can feel the tautness in his muscles, signaling that he will fight when he feels an opportune moment. He will, of course, lose, but I keep my senses at their most alert, even as I look around for some useful prop. Being in such an out-of-the-way corner of the garden, there is unfortunately little, but I suppose I can make do.
       I peel his dress coat off of him, and back him against a sturdy tree. I pause, considering, then turn him about to face the tree, wrapping his arms around it, moving him roughly enough that the coarse bark scrapes against his skin. As I begin to secure him in place, using the jacket as a rope, he makes his move.
       He jerks away and twists and yanks himself free, turning and sprinting away toward the gathering - apparently hoping to find some safety in the crowd. Foolish boy, does he not know his punishment would be the worse, the more who chose to partake in the episode? He would find no safety there. It takes scarcely more than a minute for me to catch him - in my chasing after him, I guide him toward an area I know to be nearly impassable with dense vines and closely-grown bushes. He tries in vain to push his way through them, but, what is this? Oh! He did not realize the bushes were briers, an outlying hedge of wild roses. He cries out in surprise and pain, his white shirt growing quickly stained by the feeble sobs of his fragile flesh. I laugh in delight as I grab at him. His shirt tears away as he struggles against me, and his skin is torn on the unyielding thorns. What was once a blank palette of pure white has been coated with tiny brush strokes of scarlet, quickly flowering into the thousand half-tones which fall between red and white. How much more interesting this is!
       "You are nearly a work of art, my dear boy," I croon into his ear, smiling all the more as he struggles against me. "But really, darling, you shall smear the paint all the more if you continue so. You shan't get away from me, you must realize."
       Too enraged to speak, he turns his head and spits in my face.
       This, I do not take in jest.
       I growl low and slap his face, then throw him hard to the ground. I kick him sharply in the stomach and he curls up tightly, moaning, incapacitated. "Just where I want you," I mutter, turning him over with one foot to lay on his stomach, his naked back exposed.
       He is breathing heavily, still struggling, but less so, probably trying to collect his energy for a more focused burst. His head is turned to the side, but I can see that he still inhales the dust of the ground with each breath. Such air should suit him, he is made of no more than dust, bringing more of it into his pitiful little body should not trouble him. I reach over and break off a length of the briars, carefully peeling away the leaves and flowers, tossing them lightly over his back and on the ground around him. "There now... the picture is much lovelier. Rose petals are classic, you know. Cliché, at times, but that is only because even fools recognize their perfection, and use them so carelessly."
       He does not reply. His back rises and falls beneath my foot, which presses him to the ground, so I know he continues to breathe. (I made certain he should lie in a place where the ground was free from stones - I should not want him to have access to such unpredictable projectiles.) I wrap my hand tightly around the thorny branch, feeling the warmth of my own blood seeping through my clenched fist, heating my chilled skin. My lips press into a thin, curled line, as I raise the branch in the air, then fling my arm downward with all the force in me, whipping the spines into the vulnerable flesh of his back.
       He cries out, his body arching in agony, gasping for breath and thrashing against the ground, fighting with all the fierceness his half-animal body contains. But I will not let him go. I press my foot harder into his back, and I know he could not have guessed at the strength my slim frame contains. He had thought my build slight and powerless, my pale skin the sign of sickliness, my slimness an indication of weak musculature, but oh, how little he knows of us! Luce must have only hired him for the day - had he any experience at all with us, he should have known better than to fight me so.
       I lash at his back again and again, and each time his cries grow fainter. At first he tries to steel himself against the pain, to maintain his dignity and refuse me the satisfaction of seeing his suffering. Gradually, though, his body loses the will to fight, and slumps into the ground, simply accepting what it cannot escape. I do not let down my guard, however, for I have seen this trick before, a ruse to let me think I need not pay such close attention. I do not think he is unconscious, for his fingers still clench and unclench, grasping only dry dust and fallen leaves.
       I pause a moment, to study the intricate paths of red which have been carved into his back. The lines do not all run quite parallel, but stagger, overlapping and curving slightly, with droplets and small rivulets running between them, tracing over every contour of the man's back, light as a lover's fingertips. I lean closer, peering intently, admiring the artistry of the crimson tendrils which wrap almost tenderly around his back, tenderly but with a deathly grip, as vines around a stone wall. They are delicate and lovely, but in time, will cause the utter ruin of that which they cling to.
       I trail one fingertip leisurely through the red paint, drawing it in graceful swirls over the paler skin of my canvas, a thousand shades of red, all of a single hue but with infinite variation. The palest kiss of a child's lips, the darkest burgundy of rich wine. "Such a lovely thing..."
       He coughs, sputters - I look at his face to see that the blood has trickled into his mouth. I can taste the acrid iron of it, feel the heat of it as it leaves and returns to the body from which it came.
       "Dear, dear boy... you have become far lovelier than you think. But you cannot see the beauty of this scarlet upon ivory silk... and even if you could, I know you would not properly appreciate it." As I speak, I continue my delicate painting, moving the paint across the canvas, never entirely disturbing the original lines but enhancing them by the addition of ornate details. He moves, and I frown, as my fingers slip unintentionally. "Now, now, there will be none of that! Darling, shall I have to make you still?"
       He growls threateningly and braces himself with his arms against the ground, making his strongest effort yet to move, to lift himself from the dirt. But my foot remains firm, though I allow him to rise an inch or two - merely in the interest of giving him false hope, you understand, it is so much the more entertaining if the spirit has not entirely gone from them. "Dear child, you simply must remain still." I shove my foot hard onto his back, crushing him to the ground, winding him sufficiently that I am free to step away for just a moment, to grab a fresh branch of thorns. I break this one off low to the ground, so that it branches out in long, graceful arcs, dividing in delicate asymmetry. I test the branch on his back, adding a fresh spray of spattered scarlet across the ornate patterns. He squirms, his breath coming now in ragged moans, and I smile, turning from the filigree of red and ivory to look upward, into one of golden emerald and pure aqua, the leaves dancing in spastic raptures in the warm sunlight. The color of the light has changed since I saw it last, it has warmed into a heavy gold; thickened and saturated, it falls densely to the ground around me, adding depth to the hues of crimson, enriching them with the condensed beauty of a summer's day. The party I have left is brought to mind, as my thoughts paint the red of the thousand dresses with that same light, and I wonder how their color should compare to this. I do not think it should be so rich, that it should receive so well the distillation of a day's beauty, the concentrated nectar of summer's golden life. Life clings to life, and so the human body will lean into the sunlight, even when it is bound within dust, for the soul yearns for its place of creation as strongly as the body clings to its.
       I crouch down over him, resting my knees to either side of him, trapping him beneath me. I set aside for a moment the thorns, and use my left hand to brace myself against the ground, that I may lean close to his skin. I am still for a long moment, tracing the patterns, studying the movement and interplay of the lines, the delicacy of the thin curls, the pieces of stars which are scattered over the surface. "Ahh... there is beauty to be found in even the most unexpected places, my dear."
       He makes no motion nor sound in response. I sense that he still desires to get away from me, but that he is again waiting, reserving his strength to make another desperate attempt. Silly child, has he not yet realized the impossibility of such a thing? Whether this stubborn tendency of humans to refuse to accept a reality they dislike is endearing or obnoxious, I do not know; I have found it both, depending on the occasion and on the person. Just now, I am finding it an inconvenient annoyance. I have something else I should prefer to focus on.
       I take the branch again in hand and lean close to the man's back, and, using the lowest, strongest portion of the branch, press the sharp points into his skin, pressing harder and moving slowly, patient and relentless, pushing the ragged edges forcefully against the pillowed flesh, until the red flows fresh as the cries from his throat, he screams and I grin as the paint is poured onto my palette for me. I pause, and inspect the line I have just incised. The edges are rough, raw; he flinches away as I poke gently at them, simpering in pain. Ragged, but it adds a lovely texture, I think. (Besides, this shall certainly leave a wider, stronger mark, and I should like something of this image to last...) Slowly, deliberately, I make another stroke, drawing a long line, a line which begins as ragged and white, then flushes as a maiden first kissed, and then blossoms into vampish womanhood, growing full and scarlet, and the line swells with the fullness of color, until the color spills over and onto the space around, the line nearly lost in the overflow of saturation, the deepest and purest of reds, which catches within it the heated coruscations of the summer sun.....

       The light has dimmed by the time I am finished, having turned to the faded vermilion of dying sunset, but I have captured the life and vitality of it in the thousand shades of red which swirl and circle and wash over the surface before me. It is finished, and it is beautiful, a glimmering representation of life and its endless yearning, its constant reaching beyond the surface in which it is trapped, always reaching toward even the faintest light... The patterns are as a thousand scraps of lace, cast into the very distillation of earth's embodiment of life.
       I begin to rise - and then remember that I had remained low to the ground for a reason. Movement. I was preventing movement from disrupting the creation of the beautiful thing. If the canvas moves, the paint will slide from where I have placed it, and all will be ruined. I study it carefully - there seems to be hardly any motion now. But the paint is far from dry, and I tire of kneeling here in the dust. I should like to return... at least, to retire, yes, retire in some comfortable room. There is always one near, I shall find one with sumptuous pillows and sleep for a time, and let my mind slowly drift out of the place of pure art it has been resting in, back into the more prosaic patterns of the world.
       But first I must secure my artwork, and make certain it will not be disturbed before the paint has set. I kneel beside it, and, taking great care that I should not touch any important element, I lift the head (the hair now matted and clumped together - it does not matter if that is moved, it is not a major part of the image) and twist it swift and sharp to one side. I sit back and consider – it is a less important portion of the image, but it yet needs something. I take my tiny brushes in hand, and pull away a long, lithe portion. The thorns have become a dark scarlet now – but what need have I to waste time in cleaning them? There are always more to be had. I slip the daggered vine around the neck, and pull it tight, then draw it rapidly back and forth, continuing the pattern of sharp lines covering the back up higher, lending the whole thing a much more cohesive appearance. It takes only a few moments before the bucket of paint is tipped over, and spills onto the ground, flooding out in a slow pool, and all motion is stopped. I smile warmly, moving away to take in as a whole the lovely thing I have brought into existence as a whole. The pool of red at the top works in rather nicely, I think. It gives the image a downward motion, as an inverted triangle, which calls to mind things trickling down and falling, a reiteration of the idea that while the inward portion struggles ever-upward, the inevitable destination is downward. For all the yearning a life can hold, for all its struggles, it shall always, in the end, fall downward...