Come to the Edge

evening-star

Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It's too high!
COME TO THE EDGE!
And they came,
And we pushed,
And they flew.
- Cristopher Logue

This is the closest their lives in Denver have come to the life that Ari was born to live.  The thin, twisting thread of active magic guiding their advance through the foothills surrounding Denver, the faded colors of twilight painted across a sky that reaches out to the East and onward forever until it is consumed by the deep navy of night. Soon there will be the pricking of starlight; soon Helios will be only a memory; but that thin silvered thread of resonance reaches out before them, like a fishing like trawling through water.  The Tellurian itself is unwound just enough to guide their passage through the warp and weft of the world.

There is only one road.  To take any other would be like swimming upstream.  She has no skill with Time or Entropy, so she does not know if it is fated to have fallen out this way.  Pen was close on the heels of their mystery and also the circle of bones has compelled them -- through either fear or simply the gnawing uneasiness of not knowing -- to adventure out at the first opportunity they have to go together and yet alone.

Here they pass the last gas station, with its overhead lights flickering from age and the weathered, time-pitted metal sign illuminated by one up-cast bulb, which itself is shrouded with dust-dirt and grime.  There are thin bars on the windows, but the proprietor explains that is more for the bears and less about the patrons. He speaks with the sort of slowness one expects from mountain folk; he wears a hat for a now-defunct regional sports team and old denim worn so long that is has gone soft and comfortable in places, nearly threadbare in others.  There is one pump stall.  The last of the daylight pushes through the treetops, sketching long shadows out in the sky and across the ground.

From here, there is only winding roads through the foothills.  The type that hairpin and double-back upon themselves as they slowly climb up the mountainside.  They are paved for awhile, then they are gravel a ways further, and then, the denim-wearing slow-talking man has said they go to dirt alone.

"No one goes up that way much anymore," he tells Nick.

Ari is outside, wrestling a pair of sandwiches out of their box of provisions. There is no use going into the unknown hungry.  Nick has also persuaded her to leave talking with the locals to someone who doesn't scream foreigner and aristocrat from every pore.  Whenever Nick returns, there's a sandwich and glass bottle of some lightly lime-flavored sparkling water for him.  (Because foreigner, and also because aristocrat [Hermetic].)

crow

There are places in the world where the boundaries of reality thin, where a person could question where they are and what year it is and whether this is in fact real or if they've stepped into a novel.  Near brushes with death do that: after an accident, after a gunshot or a head wound or being pulled out of a tangle of metal and wire people will question "Is this real?" and the answer is yes, and.  This place is an and.

Nicholas is proficient in the art of Spirit and growing moreso by the day.  He knows it's the thinning Gauntlet; Sleepers don't.  He knows it's thinning as they draw farther and farther out into the mountains, as they come up to the last gas station which probably looks the same as it has since the 1980s and winding roads that have been there for centuries, were maybe deer or game trails before that.

He'd thanked the man for the information before going back outside.  Nick is suited in some ways to being the face for their little group; he is adept at allowing others to project onto him what they like.  He looks maybe-Mexican-maybe-white-maybe-mixed and his dress is often masculine but nondescript in muted colors and he says little beyond asking questions.  He is an Okay Person To Talk To.

Nick accepts the sandwich and glass of sparkling water from Ari with gratitude.  "The guy in there said that there's not much up there anymore.  I didn't ask too directly about the ruin though.  I wonder what happened."

evening-star

The man is not much used to Thank Yous.  It earns Nick a "Well, you have yourself a good night, then," and a finger touched to the bill of his hat.  As Nick is pushing out of the door, the man is resettling himself on the wooden stool behind the counter and by the time the door closes it is almost as if Nick had never stepped inside.  The man has resumed the same posture he held when Nick pulled the door open; the lights still flicker; the shadows still pull long and thin and are still melting slowly into the broader, overall darkness.

"Most people have a decent sense of self-preservation," she opines, before taking a small sip from a green glass bottle of her own.  The tailgate of her hatchback is open. They can sit on the edge and supper in the growing shadows of the evening.  While Ari does not share Nick's sense of the spiritual realm, there is a prickling awareness to an adventure by any name.  She is excited, and also nervous, and slightly worried, but mostly invigorated by being outside the realm of everyday and routine.  "He's probably never been up there, himself."

Nick can imagine the sort of trouble she caused at Academy.  This need to be anywhere but where she ought to be is not a thing she picked up in her twenties.  It is innate to her, the pushing of boundaries, this standing well beyond the edge of reason and looking back, beckoning others to follow.  Someday, when he is relating this story, all he will have to say to their shared friends is that Ari had thought it would be a good idea to venture out, at nightfall, toward a ruin with an ominous flare for the dramatic and their shared friends will make a knowing face, or nod, or sigh.  They will assume that he had been cajoled.

Had he? Or was he complicit in this madness.

"Might you have a better sense of it, when we're closer?" she asks.  Sometimes proximity removes a layer of abstraction from a riddle. Sometimes it makes it overwhelming. She is not rightly sure what they are wandering into.

The air is thinner up here. It was thin already in the 'low'-lands of Denver proper.

crow

There is only one road, and it has been leading them upward past a place of ruin and death and into the unknown.  Nicholas did not need to be cajoled.  It's a road he has walked before, and before it was alone: it seems far less mad to him now that he has Ari along with him, though Nick has enough self-awareness that he has not fooled himself into thinking it reasonable.

He'd called her in a panic earlier that week: Pen was asking questions, and Nick's lie had been a little too clever.  He'd explained to her that he'd tried to explain away their absence via Rob, that they were making Rob a gift, that he'd hoped it would keep Pen from asking questions.  And it did, after a while.  He is too loyal a friend, too conscientious to not experience some guilt: and so he has resolved to be on the lookout for a gift for their Songrobin, though Rob will be none the wiser.

He's famished and so he is taking quick bites of the sandwich, thoughtful as he glances off along the thread they've both been following.  "I might," he says.  "It depends on what it is, when we come to it.  If there was some sort of tragedy there though, it would be unusual for it to not leave a mark on the site, even if there's no longer any sort of spirit presence.  I heard sirens in the vision I had when looking back after I touched the book, so it can't have been that long ago."

Maybe the man in the gas station remembers.  Maybe he was there when the walls came down.  It's hard to ask without being too obvious, isn't it.

Nick takes a swallow from the green bottle Ari handed him earlier.  "I'm wondering what sort of preparations we should make when we go up the mountain.  Whatever's up there could be dangerous."

evening-star

"Kestrel wants some Broncos 'swag'," she says, with an aire of utter confidence, in response to this matter of righting lies made to Pen. As if she has heard this from his mouth directly.  That is certainly where the slang came from, at least, as Songrobin's are adept at singing in the lingua franca, and little birds like Ari, well, they use terms like lingua franca even with middle-Americans.  "He told me so when I spoke to him at Solstice."

It is not the sort of present that one quests for, though, and Ari has had more productive suggestions on this front as well.  Kestrel once made a borrowed-gift to her of a pen that might write the names of the heavens, and in her hand it has often written the true nature of things so clearly that the speaking of Names and the working of Wills becomes far more trivial. One might argue that he gifted her an instrument; one might argue that Ari loves Kestrel at least as much as she loves Nicholas and Pen and then, truly, one might witness her temper at the insinuation that there might be friends closer to heart than Nicholas or, especially, Pen.  But if there were to be a second circle, Kestrel would clearly stand within that.

"A bell that sounds like twilight," she has said.  "A candle which evokes the sense of fernweh?" Perhaps this is to entice him to move from his roost, to visit far flung friends.  These are idle thoughts that get tossed into the middle of whatever chat they are having when the thought occurs to her.

They would not make for proper preparations.  They must be remarks on the Kestrel-gifting, and not the matter at hand.  Her attention has gone unfocused for a moment, the line of her sight catches up nothing in particular as she thinks.

"We have Zachriel with us," she says, and it is neither too specific for any overhearing sort nor too plain spoken to be mistaken.  "And, if we are truly in trouble I can add to a sword or also to a shield -- in a manner of emphasis," this is more poetical, and she hopes he takes her meaning.  "But these are arts best practiced ahead of time."

She glances up at the thinning light.

"And here we have witnesses."

She glances over to the time-touched building. Then back to Nick.

"If we can keep our minds and wits about us, these are our greatest assets, yes?" Ari quirks a brow, as she takes a bite of her sandwich and lets them both chew on the thought.  Her House is not known for its swashbuckling adventures. She swallows, then asks: "Do you think we'll encounter present danger, or only echoes of it?"

The metal signs creaks and sighs a little in the wind.

crow

Nick polishes off the remainder of his sandwich in a few quick bites, chewing rapidly as he does.  He's tense: it's a way for him to distract himself, to make attempts at soothing whatever worries he has about what they might find, or whatever worries he has that they will end up in over their heads and then Pen will (rightfully) be furious at them for attempting this without her.

She is the more magickally powerful of their cabal, after all, and certainly the most skilled when it comes to handling present dangers.

Ari's musing regarding bells and candles had drawn a sidelong glance, puzzled for all it seemed unrelated to his question.  Once he understood there was a nod, a thoughtful thing.  It's difficult to gift for a man who has enough wealth to buy himself whatever he needs, or for a person who has Robin's prickly nature, and so personal gifts are best.

"I'm not sure," he says, to her second question.  "It seemed like echoes, didn't it, when you looked?  But I think it's better to be prepared regardless."  He drains the rest of the green bottle.

evening-star

"It seemed like Echoes," she agrees.

There is a little hollow in their conversation, then, while she finishes her sandwich without embellishing the thought with more explanation.  Nick cannot know, but Ari is shaping the foundational Enochian words in her mind. The roots of all things; the basis for the off-the-cuff and collaborative magics that Hermetics weild.  They have spoken, at times, about her training and how it differs from his. This is part of it: readiness by rote practice; coming as easy as the conjugation of foreign verbs.

This is what it means to be a child of (the) War.

*** *** ***

"She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world."
― Joanne Harris

*** *** ***

"So the possibilities are -- "  she says, pausing just to take a swig of her water, " -- that it is an Echo, and strong enough to touch our minds.  For this we have Zachriel.  Or a rote, some bound compulsion -- again, Zachriel, and one another to keep us steady.  Some bound thing that does us harm: we can look into the Tellurian when we arrive, to see if there are traps laid plain.  A wraith or spectre: this you will know better than I.  Physical harm by magical effects? Countermagic is probably our best best.  Physical harm by plain laid trap: ... this I have little answer for."

She speaks with and easy confidence she cannot rightfully back up. There are many possibilities untouched upon here, but lacking ready answers for them it seems imprudent to welcome in doubt or fear.

"What have I missed?"  This, then, is also an echo of the training she has been through.  Hers less pointed and formalized than Pen's, but similar in structure nonetheless. Ari finishes her water and tucks the green glass bottle back into the bag of their provisions. It will be recycled later.

See how Silas and Denver is rubbing off on her? Eco-friendly Hermeticism.

crow

Ari's easy confidence, even if it can't be rightfully backed up, is reassuring to Nick.  It is a reminder that of all the things that could happen, she is here with him and he will not be alone.  His friend is thorough: she touches on the many things that could be waiting for them up on the mountain.

"If it is some kind of spirit," he says, "I'm less worried about physical harm.  It probably wouldn't attempt those, even if we are flesh and blood."  Even if Ari is flesh and blood, that is; Nicholas has never said so directly but spirits react to him as though he has been wraith-touched.  Perhaps he has, or perhaps an ancestor was, or perhaps an ancestor was something not wholly of this world.

"I can't...think of anything else that you've missed."  Nick leans back against the car, arms folded, his head tilted to the side in thought.  The possibilities are indeed endless, but it will serve them poorly to endlessly consider options.  Sooner or later one must act.

"I suppose there's only one way to find out, isn't there."

evening-star

[Ho-hum, leaving breadcrumbs just in case: Prime 1, coincidental, base + 3; Practiced.]

Dice: 2 d10 TN3 (3, 6) ( success x 2 )

evening-star

I cast my onto the shore of Eternity,
To be washed by the Ocean of Time,
It has shape, form and substance,
It is me.
One day I will be no more,
But my pebble will remain here,
On the shore of Eternity,
Mute witness of the aeons,
That today I came and stood
At the edge of the world.
- Brian Inder

Ari gathers up the papers that they'd wrapped their sandwiches in and crosses to the lone waste basket of the station, a wire cage surrounding a metal can with a thin, billowy plastic liner.  On her transit back, she pauses by the post supporting the swinging metal sign and its one loan lamp.  Placing her hand against the aged upright, she pauses just long enough to push some of her resonance into the signpost.

To Nicholas, who knows her well, it takes on the sense of shifting shadow in the moonlight. It is momentarily brighter at the edges of his senses, and then that blends into the early nightfall.  Above them, the first stars are pricking through the celestial tapestry.  If Pen does need to come looking for them, if they are swallowed up by the rift in the Tellurian that invites them onward, then this crossroads sign will lead her toward them.

Today they came and stood at the edge of the world.

Ari rubs her hands together as she moves back toward the car.  Nick is climbing into the passenger seat as she closes the tailgate and folds herself back into the driver's seat.

There is only one road.  It winds on and upward. 

The dash lights are brighter in the early night.  There is no radio reception up this high, so the quiet classical background sputters, and then fuzzes, and is cut off by the quick press of a button.  The road noise shifts when they meet the end of the pavement.  It shifts again when they lose the gravel.

crow

It has been a long time since Nick has been out this far, since he has walked or driven into a place where the city lights cannot reach and the firmament stretches eternal above.  He spoke of this not long ago to Pen, how his grandmother lived far out on the mesa and told her a story about he and his sisters and finding wonder.  Pen had titled that story "Anna Hyde's Adventure into the Great Dark," and now Nicholas is venturing out on his own without his sister as a guide.

Maybe he's thinking of this now as the radio fizzes out when they lose signal, as Ari cuts the sound short with the press of a button and as they pass onto a dirt road.

Before long it will be so dark out here that the car's lights will give them away as nightfires did in days of old: they could be seen for miles.

"Do you think we should try to find the ruin first?"

evening-star

"Definitely."

What type of person isn't afraid of the dark?  Being afraid of the dark is one of the oldest human fears; it is a sort of self-preservation instinct, a last-ditch safety net to keep the curious from wandering off of a cliff or into a den or away from their fellows in the deepest of nights.  What sort of person isn't afraid of the things they cannot known, or see, or sense coming?

Arianna Giametti is not afraid of the dark.  Not specifically of The Dark.  She is not afraid of striding forward into the unknown; it is her profound belief that the unknown was always out there, it was always coming anyway, and meeting it headlong is better than cowering in the background.  When the car stops and the lights are cut out and they are standing in the faint light of stars and whatever warm-light is cast by the rising moon, and the city is a constellation of bright points on the valley floor, nestled up against the immovable and absolute dark of the Rocky Mountains, she steps out onto the red dirt with her chin tipped upward and her expression watchful but untroubled.

She should be troubled.  It would make an awful lot of sense to be troubled.

The path ahead of them is too steep to navigate the car down with any confidence that even this four-wheel drive hatchback would wind its way back up.  It is not exactly narrow, but neither of them can see its width well enough to have confidence that they would be able to turn around if they traveled down it, and Ari's car does not have the sort of massive tire tread that gives them purchase in reverse to climb their way backwards up a mountain.

The road -- let's call it that for convenience -- has been worn unevenly and there are echoes of that sort of monstrous tread in the broad grooves that interlace and erode and turn this red dirt into a riverway more than a driveway.  The air is thin and carries the dust aloft. Every footstep they make pulls it up into the air around their shins, and then their knees, and finally it is stirred up enough for them to taste.  This dust-dirt is not worn down mountain; it is ash and dust and feathered bits of bone.  It tastes of memory.  The path downward is steep and requires steady footing.  It descends in the half light, and follows the curve of the mountain. They must be cautious to keep their footing with the uneven ground and the pitch of the pathway.

Deeper into the night, the crumbled walls and half-roofed structures of the ruins await them.  Ari's car had only one hand torch, and whoever is in front has the use of it.  She has magics that can cast its beam wider or brighter if needed.  Their progress is easily evidenced by the travel of this bright point in the darkness.

Were you there when the walls came down?

Nick can feel the ground shake and tremble beneath his feet, echoes of long-since exploded ordinance, but it does not cause him to stumble. The roar of it rings in his ears, but is not so loud as to stamp out the present.

evening-star

[To be continued...]