A Widening Gyre

-By Darth_Maxx

Turning and Turning in the Widening Gyre
The Falcon cannot hear the Falconer....
-The Second Coming, WIlliam Butler Yeats

A figure, large, wrapped in a robe blacker than night, sat hunched over at the third booth from the door of Waffle House of Khazan #9687, down at the corner of East 93rd and Barclay. It was three o'clock in the morning, the small restaraunt empty save for the waitresses, a short-order cook, and two overweight truckers passed out in one corner. Two cups of coffee and a half-eated waffle wat before the figure, who grinned as he downed another bite. A woman wearing a pink-striped apron complete with a brass "Hello! My name is--- Donna" nametag bustled up to the booth and removed the empty mugs, replacing them with one full of steaming brown liquid. She decidedly avoided speaking to the robed form. Such a course of action might lead to him speaking, and that voice.... Donna shuddered involuntarially, spilling some coffee on her hand. With a mumbled apology, she placed her burden firmly down on the table and hurried back, through the red, swinging doors, into the bathroom.

Sam didn't mind. He was waiting for someone.

*

Upon the great farmlands of Khazan, a man walked. He walked without speaking, without turning or pausing to get his bearings. His eyes were closed, and he hummed tonelessly to himself. It looked as though he did not know, or even did not care, where he was going. This was a false impression. Perhaps, it is true, he did not care where he was going, but for him, all destinations were very much the same. A toneless whistle escaped parched lips as he strode on, adopting a bouncing, springy step and a child's smile. He was close, now.

Darkness clung to him as he danced haphazardly on the road, not the elegant dance of the Void, or even the cheapend grace of a stage ballerina, but the dance of a mad child, wild, undirected, and above all, Old. The man twisted, leapt, pirhouette haphazardly, and, then, ultimately, settled into circling in place, eyes still close, hands out in the air. He turned faster and faster, grinning all the while, until, finally, his mouth opened and he began to speak.

"Eeeney-Meeney-Miney-Moe...."

Faster, faster, like a dervish, his ragged clothes slapping sharply against wasted flesh...

"Catch-A-Tiger-By-The-Toe
If he hollers, let him go...."

Fabric blurred, whirling like a dervish...

"Eeeney-Meenie-Miney-Moe..."

The slapping was growing louder now, sounds blending into sounds, resembling more now the beating of the gigantic wings of some Fell beast than anything merely mortal.

"My-Mother-Told-Me-To-Pick
The-Very-Best-One-And-You
Are-not-IT!"

And he stopped. A long minute later, he opened his eyes, beheld the vast expanses of the Taylor family corn fields, enough grain to feed cities.

He smiled.

The plants died. As one, for miles in every direction, they were overcome with filth, plague, blight spreading upon hitherto-untouched leaves to consume the entire plant. On a level far more basic than simple sound, billions upon billions of plants, wheat, corn, barley, oats, withered and died, leaving nothing but a single, rotting lump of decayed matter, noxious fumes rising gleefuly into the air to choke the pitiful points of starlight.

It was beautiful. Grimmy smiled, and danced on down the road.

*

"Did you run the scans again?"

"Yes, Brother." Failure was clearly writ upon the apprentice magi's face, and it didn't take years of training in the subtle arts to discern it.

Soliss sighed. Regretabble, but expected. Of course none of the small magics would detect a Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and any of the large would betray too much, perhaps bring undue attention to the Guild, or even to Sam himself. Not that he was worried about the ability of a Horseman to handle himself, but every little bit helped. "Very well. Carry on, then."

As the Half-Brother scuttled away, Soliss turned, seeking the refuge of his study. The day had been filled with excitement, first at discovering Sam missing, then at the Guild's complete inability to locate him without overextending themselves, at the disappearance of a Guard demon, and, finally, at the sudden backwash of potential from someone (or, he reflected ruefully, something) crossing the dimensional barriers to Khazan. This was not an uncommon occurance at the Nexus of all Realities, and, unfortunately, tended to disrupt some of the Guild's more delicate workings on a more or less regular basis. Alas, for every advantage to this new location, there appared to be a disadvantaged pair. So far, he hadn't even managed to get into his own study, let alone concentrate on his work. A day's journey through the winding halls of the Guildhouse had, however, finally brought him to his door.

With fanatic zeal, he twisted the knob and rushed inside, closing himself thankfully in the musty, arcane recesses of his own, personal study. Thick leather tomes layered the walls, interspersed with a smattering of cobwebs for effect. Here and there were scattered varioius curios from his travels and experiments: jars filled with eyeballs, a shrivelled monkey's paw floating in a formaldehyde jar. A quick, unnecessary check revealed that his wall safe was closed. Of course, if it had been opened, Khazan would have known about it long before now, he reflected, dodging piles of books and manuscripts as he reached his comfortable leather chair and sat down. Nobody got to the rank of Brother without accumulating a few things (all right, more than a few) that would not do to be let free into the World. Seemed to go with the territory.

Alone at last, for the first time all day, Soliss smiled happily and leaned back in his chair, fingertips gently massaging his worn temples. His eyes crawled upwards, gaze finally resting upon the cieling....

His jaw dropped involuntarially, even as his Sending called out over the mental quiet of the Guildhouse. "Brothers, come. There is something you must see."

There, scribed deep in the nigh-indestructable Guildhouse stone cieling by a tool whose edge defied normal superlatives, was a message. The hand was heavy, pulling at the eye, the interior of the letters darker than soot.

SOLISS AND BROTHERS.
I MUST LEAVE FOR A TIME. I APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE THIS MAY CAUSE YOU. I SHOULD BE BACK WITHIN A FEW DAYS. I APOLOGIZE I COULD NOT GIVE YOU BETTER WARNING THAN THIS NOTE, BUT SOMETHING HAS COME UP, AND I NEED TO BE ALONE.
-SAM

PS: WHEN I RETURN, I WOULD HAVE WORDS WITH YOU ON A MATTER OF GREAT IMPORTANCE.

PPS: APOLOGIES FOR MY DAMAGES TO THE THING IN THE GARAGE. IT ATTEMPTED TO PREVENT ME FROM LEAVING WITH MY MOTORCYCLE. IT IS TEMPORARIALLY DISCORPORATED, AND SHOULD FIND ITS WAY BACK TO THE MATERIAL WORLD BY THE TIME YOU READ THIS.

Outside Soliss' window, reality bent as the Thing in the Garage materialized, quite relieved at it's ultimate success in regaining a material form. Unfortunately, while chasing after trace particles in the atmosphere, it had neglected to notice that, when it reformed, it was in fact 10 stories above ground. It fell with a cry, and landed with a splat right next to Tchuu's carefully cultivated rose bushes.

*

She strode into the Waffle House like a crimson-blonde tornado, the elegant curves of her form beneath newly-purchased blue jeans and leather jacket immediately drawing the duly noted envy of the waitresses, and arousing the drunken truck drivers out of their unconscious stupor. Only one individual, hunched over a steaming mug, paid her no heed. Red lips curved up in a smile as she strode over and seater herself across from the large,apparently unnoticing form. Shadows beneath the black folds of the cloak and hood shrouded the other's face in an impenitrable veil that would have made any mortal man quail to behold.

Stell was a woman. And no normal woman, for that matter. Still, as her jade eyes flicked down to the skeletal hand of white bone that silently clasped the cup, she felt a surge of reluctance. For a long moment, they sat across from each other, saying nothing. Nervously, she placed her hands on the table and clasped them tight. Still, the other gave no sign. With a resigned, if slightly nervous, tone, she spoke. "It's been a long time, Sam."

.....YES.

Her tounge darted out, whetting ruby lips, then disappearing as if it had never been. "What are you doing these days?"

DRINKING COFFEE. Pause. YOURSELF?

"I worked at a law firm." Her voice cracked, and she had to pause to regain control. "That is, before-"

EXACTLY. BEFORE. Sam raised his head, twin, ice-blue sparks burning into Stell's green orbs, a stare which she met for an instant, then turned away. He lifted the cup to his jaw, and sipped. Somewhere between the jawbone and the neck, the food faded out of existance. BEFORE THIS... ABOMINATION.

"I don't like it any more than you, Sam."

PERHAPS YOU DON'T, AT THAT. He grinned. IT HAS BEEN A LONG TIME, HASN'T IT, MY LADY -

"Stell, Sam. It's Stella Aurorae, now."

Was that a twinkle of sudden amusement in his eye, or just a change in the light? OF COURSE. STELLA. A GOOD NAME.

"I suppose." A waitress nervously approached, and she held up one slender finger. "Coffee, please. Black." A wry smile twitched across her lips. "And some dry white toast." A shift in the play of shadows across Sam's skull could almost be taken for the bemused raising of an eyebrow. "Well, I always wanted to try some." Moments later, the plate and cup clinked onto the counter. For one brave moment, the waitress' eyes darted between the two figures, before her will broke and she turned to flee. Stell chuckled under her breath, then regained some degree of composure. "So, how's things? I heard you got kicked out, through the grapevine. Even tried to go find you once or twice, but you were already gone, and things came up." She lifted the mug with both hands, gently, and took a single sip. "So, what happened?"

LIFE. AND DEATH.

A rueful smile quirked up one corner of her mouth. "That covers quite a lot."

Sam shook his head slowly. I.... I BELIEVE I FELL IN LOVE. SHE WAS KILLED, BY A BROTHER OF MINE, IN AN ATTEMPT TO FORCE ME INTO RELENQUISHING MY OFFICE. I THREW HIM INTO THE PIT. The words were low and even. For all outward appearances, he could just as well have been speaking about the outcome of a soccer game, but she could feel the pain in the black depths of his eyes.

Stell reached across the table, laying her hand gently over Sam's interlocking web of bone fingers. "Sam, I'm sorry." Even to her ears, the words sounded hollow, a faint attempt to fight back the onslaught of the night.

He continued on as if he had not heard. AND NOW, IT SEEMS THAT EVEN MY SMALL VICTORY IS BEING DISCOUNTED. YOU FELT, OF COURSE, THE DEAL BEING CLOSED. THAT IS WHY YOU ARE HERE.

Reluctantly, she nodded. "Yes."

AND, OF COURSE, YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. THAT ALL MY WORKS, ALL MY STRUGGLES, EVEN HER DEATH WAS FOR NOTHING. THAT, DESPITE IT ALL, THE DARKNESS CLOSES IN.

The table shook, coffee spilling on his lap. He looked up into an enraged face. "Damnit, Sam, you can't say that! It's not, it can't be!"

BUT IT IS. YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I.

"And we can do nothing."

NO. NOT AT THIS STAGE. His eyes burned dimly, like cooling coals in a campfire on a black winter's night. PERHAPS YOU WERE RIGHT AFTER ALL, MY - STELL.

The words hung in the air like a dull slap, the look on her face one of stunned disbelief, rapidly fading into sadness. "He hurt you, did't he, Sam?"

YES. HE DID.

"Then, damnit, you can't give in like this! Don't just roll up and let THIS, of all things, slide! You've got to fight it!"

BUT HOW?! He rose up sharply in his seat, eyes burning. YOU CAN'T FEEL IT, THE HUNGER, THE INSATAIBLE APPITITE! One finger tapped the off-white dome of his skull sharply. IN HERE. THE CALL HAS COME. THERE'S NO WAY OUT, NOT NOW.

"Then we'll need to find a way, Sam. Together, or seperately." She rose sharply, counting out two Khazan dollars and a quarter upon the formica countertop, and turned to leave. "I'll be staying at the Khazan Hilton, if you want to talk about it." With a dancer's grace, she turned and strode towards the door.

MY LADY!

Steeling her nerves, she kept walking.

STELL.

That simple, plaintive tone brought her to a hault. Carefully, not knowing quite what to expect, she turned. "Yes, Sam?"

YOU SHOULD KNOW - NOT ALL OF US AGREED, BACK THEN.

And, for the first time in a long time, she truly smiled. "Thank you, Sam." With that, she walked out of the door, and the Night enveloped her like a long-absent lover.

*

The fragment reached Earth at a velocity nearly that of light, undetected by any instrument of human learning save the naked eye. It was tiny, and moved quickly, but even so there were people across the globe who saw, briefly, a chip of inextinguishable light burst through the atmosphere and roar down upon the unprotected ground. Flame accumulated around the bright, unearthly core like snow around a rolling snowball in wintertime, forming a chariot of friction-fire fifty times the size of the fragment itself. Heedless of its insane velocity, or of the harm its impact would do upon the Earth's surface, it barreled downwards, falling towards an empty, broken desert plain in southwestern Arizona. The burning, excruciating heat of its entry to the atmosphere was enough to seriously jar electronic systems across the world, twisting the delicate electronics necessary to keep two radio sets on the same frequency as one another. As it approached the sand, square kilmoeters crystalized into dull, colorless glass. The merest fraction of a second later, it was micrometers from the earth, sand-glass melting, steaming away from the unbearable power.

At the exact instant when the Fragment's outer, notational existance almost came into contact with the interlocking matrix of electronic force that permits solidity, a fundamental portion of space twisted into a knot, finally tearing altogether. Where once there was placid desert sand beneath a boiling lake of glass, now there was a Hole.

It was not any ordinary hole, but rather an opening in reality itself, an incongruency between two planes of existance. Beneath the surface of the desert was now simultaneously an ocean of sand, and something entirely and horrifically Other. From the eternal darkness of the opening issued forth, just on the tantalizing edge of human hearing, an unearthly wail, as of billions of voices crying out in infinitely prolonged torture. The darkness beyond the portal throbbed with anticipation, then leapt with unwholesome glee as the Fragment crossed over the boundary. Deep within the Pit, a distant inferno could be seen, wavering an eternity and more away, before it suddenly ceased to exist, snapping closed with a dull pop that echoed over the empty dunes.

In its wake, it left burning, melted miles of pure, clean, steaming glass.

*

Debbie Taylor looked out the window with a sigh of regret as raindrops pounded the slick, glass plane. Watson had goen out to check the fields, after Alfie, a farmhand for the Gordsen's farm across the road, called in earlier, sounding shaken, with news about the crop that had immediately sent her husband out in the truck to check personally. The fields were about fifteen minutes away from the farmhouse, by Debbie's own request. The children, she had told him the day after their marrage, would spend more than enough time on the fields as it was, and she wanted them to havesome place where they could get away, some refuge. Wat had been reluctant at first, but gentle persuasion and persistance had worn him down in the end. Having had no prior experience with children, of course, she couldn't tell what that difference had done to them, but she liked to fancy their lives were better rounded because of it.

Baby Jacobi cried out from his crib in the living room, and she sighed happily, withdrawing her hands from the soapy water and drying them on a nearby towel, white and stitched with the monogram DET, Deborah Elizabeth Taylor, a wedding gift from a now-dead mother in law.

The living room was crowded with the twin's toys, and she had to step lightly to avoid the tiny plastic shards and rolling wheels that, although apparently perfectly safe for children, transformed any surface into a deadly minefield where no human, and certainly not a thirty-year-old mother of six, could tread with impunity. Finally, letting out a tensely-held breath, she reached the cradle, bent over the wooden cage Wat had carved himself when she first quickened with child, and straightened again with Baby Jacobi, her new youngest, small, splotchy, and red, daipered with a white cloth. His skin was warm against hers. Gently, careful not to do anything that would disturb him, she bounced his body up and down. "What is it, wumpkins?"

The momentary rapport between mother and child was broken by another young voice. Jesse, her boy twin, just now old enough to start riding a two-wheeled bicycle. "Mommy, there's someone at the door."

"Well, why don't you let them in, Jesse dear?"

"It's not a big person. It's a kid."

Her eyes widened briefly, and she turned, barely avoiding a perilously-placed matchbox car. Jesse was there, for sure, and Janey, his twin sister, both young, slender, with shocks of dark red hair rising haphazardly from their scalps. "A kid? Is he lost?"

"I dunno, ma'am. I just saw him from the hall window, I thought you should know."

She nodded, heart twitching rapidly inside her chest. A child, out here in this storm, at this time of night? What could the poor dear be doing, so far from another home? Maybe someone had dropped him off, thrown him out of a car.... He could be hurt....

She rushed to the large, oaken door Wat had cut himself from a single tree, twisted the knob and opened it, disregarding the chill, nighttime rain. Deep blue eyes peered into the darkness.

Upon the doorstep was... well, it was difficult to say exactly what. It looked like a large bundle of sodden black and grey rags, soaked through with chill water, but when she reached for it, it moved. She started, and jumped back, her fear transmuting into pity as the head of small child, corpse-white and shivering from the cold, surfaced above the fabric, which now appeared to be a part of some over-large coat, perhaps belonging to his father. Black hair clung wetly to his scalp, and his eyes were wedged tightly shut. Like a wild animal caught in a trap, he edged back towards the steps, but Debbie extended her free hand placatingly, as she would to a frightened dog. "Hello. It's okay, you don't need to be afraid, poor thing. Come on, Janey, let's get him inside."

The girl stepped out onto the porch, reaching down with slender young arms to guide the boy inside. As she knelt down face-to-face with him, his hitherto-motionless mouth twitched up into a chilling sneer. Janey's eyebrows rose in momentary puzzlement, but she continued reaching out, with slightly more hezitation, to pick up the small form. Debbie, who had not seen the sudden change of expression, nodded approvingly. "That's a good girl." Janey was going to make a good mother someday. She held the boy right, the long, black coat (or was it a cape?) trailing wetly down the front of her summer dress and onto the laquered wood of the front porch, supporting his body with one arm, gathering him into her with the other. It was a perfect picture, the girl, the child, the rain.

There was a blur of motion from near Janey's shoulder, where the child's head dangled, and the perfect moment shattered in like glass struck by an atomic concussion wave. The girl's eyes widened in shock, her knees buckled, and she toppled forwards, the child falling unnoticed to the ground. Debbie felt something warm and wet splatter across the front of her shirt. Something deep inside her brainstem told her, warned her, commanded her not to look down, but she did so anyway. Sticky, sickly warm red fluid ran down the front of her blouse and onto the skirt in little rivulets, staining the fabric a deep ruby color as it passed.

This, however, was not what caused her to stagger backwards, mouth open, lungs aching for breath. A sound shattered the night, and she realized numbly that it was her own scream. There, lying upon the slick wood, her head resting upon the welcome mat as if upon a pillow, lay her daughter, her dear Janey, eyes rolled back into her head, blood the same color of that running down Debbie's shirt spreading in a dark pool about her prostrate form. Her throat had almost been ripped away, blood pulsing out of ruined arteries and veins with each fading heartbeat. So much flesh was gone that the off-white bumps of her untouched neckbone were clearly visible through the throbbing flow of departing life. Behind her, she could hear Jesse violently expurgiating his dinner.

Movement out of the corner of her eye somehow tore her gaze away from the dead girl. The child, apparently unharmed by the fall, rose to his feet without the slightest trouble, but he had changed. She took a step back in horror. Where once he had seemed poor, lonley, and bedraggled, he now stood straight, back proudly arched, stance majestic and terrible all at the same time. No longer was he wet, or scared. What she had mistaken for an older person's coat was actually a long, dark cape, flaring behind him in a sudden gust of wind. His hair rose on end, black and spikey, almost in defiance of gravity. Perhaps the most frightening thing of all were his eyes, open now, glaring redly as if all the fires of hell burned behind those soulless pupils. The thin, almost lipless mouth curved up in a sickly bemused smile.

She took a step back, holding one hand off in a warding gesture that, somehow, she knew was completely futile. As she crossed once again her own threshold, her foot landed in a pool of Jesse's vomit, and she fell backwards, hitting her head on the wooden floor with enough force to cause a wave of nausea to pass over her. Through the rolling pain, she could barely see the child (but how could anything so monstrous be truly called a child?) advance, step by unhurried step.

As it approached, it Changed. Smooth, sharp scales covered its skin, skull extending into a long, lizardlike snout. A ripping noise resounded over the rain and the screams of children, a tail and two wings breaking free of confining fabric and rising proudly into the night. The child's hands lengthened, fingers twisting into fell claws. Its smile widened into an open grin, revealing row upon row of razor-sharp, pointed teeth. Between those jaws, fire crouched, waiting to spring.

Lil' DF laughed softly to himself as he walked forward, the flames inside him growing to maniacal intensity. His tongue tasted the fear in the air like a culinary delicacy, in apprehension of the meal to come. This was going to be fun.

*

Watson Taylor could feel sweat running down his neck, over his shoulders, and all the way to the small of his back as he gunned the bleaguered truck motor as fast as it could go, forcing it far past the red line. A constant voice chattered in the back of his head: "Oh s--- oh s--- oh s--- oh shit....". No matter how hard he strove to silence it, it returned, twisting in his inner ear like a knife, like a thing alive.

The fields- what could have done such a thing to the fields? No plague- no pestilence in all his years- he'd never heard... Millions of dollars Khazan at least, lost in a matterof seconds, and the harvest coming up...

He almost missed the turnoff, had to reverse and pull a hard right to make it. A nervous swallow shook his system. How was he going to explain this to Debbie? She wouldn't say anything, of course... but... she'd think something. And the others would thinks something. No one would ever trust him with valuable seed again. He was still recovering from operating losses accumulated over the last year; this new trouble would end him.

Tired and more than a little scared, he looked up, expecting to see his house, still, at least for the next minute or so, a perfect refuge, a place safe against the world, where his family could grow and prosper without having to worry about pain or doubt ever again. What he found was unexpectedly and terribly different.

Where once his humble, quiet two-story whitewashed house had stood, there was now just a pile of smouldering rubble, almost obscured by gouts of black, noxious smoke.

"DEBBIE!" He was out of the truck in a flash, long legs carrying him easily over the several yards that seperated the driveway from the front door. "Not that there is a front door any more, Watson. It's gone, Watson. They're gone, Watson...." The voice in his head whispered softly in his ear. Trying desperately to disregard it, he scrampled up the ruined stairs, falling sharply as charcoaled, burned wood gave way beneath his feet. He took a deep breath, eyes darting from side to side like those of a deer who has seen the hunter, searching for some cause, some reason. Smoke poured in, scorching his lungs, and he coughed violently. Tears, both voluntary and involuntary, poured from his abused eyes. Desperately, he crawled up the shattered remains of his front porch, towards the burned, broken border of what had once been his front door.

This can't be happening, it can't be, it CAN'T! What did I do? WHAT DID I DO????

"You did nothing, Watson. You let this happen. You failed them. You failed her."

A pile of rubble obscured something lying on the ground. It looked like-

"You know what it is, Watson. Don't lie to yourself. You failed her."

NO! It can't be! There's something wrong, something....

He moved as if in a dream, plunging his bare hands through the smouldering pile of burnt wood, ignoring the sharp, searing smell of burning flesh. Like a madman, he dug, tearing his way into the ash.

Several minutes later, he uncovered a skeleton. The burnt remnants of clothes clung feebly to its thin, blackened bones. It could have been anyone's skeleton, but for one thing : the band, the slender ribbon of rapidly cooling gold melted onto its right finger. A ring, a wedding band. Her wedding band. He reached down, gently cradling the limp body. "No, no no no no no no no no no...."

"Yes, Watson. Yes. Yes. Yes."

He stammered, searching for words, choking upon his shallow breath. "No, she can't be gone. She can't. She can't." His body, so strong an instant before, like an old oak tree, quivered and shook with pain.

It was comforting, calm. "She can, Watson. She has. Watson, only one thing never dies.... Only one person will never leave you, Watson...."

Break something, says the sage, and what do you have? Not one thing fractured. Two things whole. Broken from one another, perhaps, but whole unto themselves. That night, inside Watson Taylor, humanity was placed to a test. It broke. What emerged, then, at the same time was and was not human. It was new, different, a broken whole.

So it was that, come the dawn, Watson Taylor emerged from the cooling remnants of his house, walking down the stairs and out onto the lawn, past the truck, turning onto the highway. He walked slowly, but with a steady pace, yard by yard. His face was expressionless, but something strange gleamed deep within his eyes. Perhaps, if you watched closely enough, you would see him pause for a moment, every few minutes, and turn as if speaking to someone.

Watson Taylor has a new friend.

They are going to see the neighbors.