Forsaken

by Cebelius

  By the time he was fully nude, the figure in front of him no longer looked like it was made of sand. It looked like flesh and blood.

  He reached out, laid his hand cautiously on her shoulder, and pressed.

  She was still made of sand. But as his fingers dimpled her substance he realized that the sand used to make her was impossibly fine, and she had a fluid within her, likely water.

  Her expression remained blank though, and Abram did his best to avoid looking at her face as he pulled her down to the ground, settling his knees between hers. He was physically ready, which surprised him given the curious mixture of emotion her form aroused in him. Traces of fear that weren't entirely due to his real circumstances, but were memories of what the Mor had done to him. That fear inspired anger, and he pressed one hand to her throat, pinning her as he set himself. He wanted to hurt the one who had hurt him, do to her what she had done to him. She offered no resistance, and he split her thighs and sank down atop her with a low growl of animal satisfaction.

  His first moments with her were rough to the point of violence, but the body beneath his took no damage, showed no trace of pain or pleasure, and as one minute passed into two, Abram realized that he wasn't getting anything from her. No response, no satisfaction. This wasn't the Mor, and it was impossible for him to pretend that she was. This wasn't even really a hobgoblin. His use of this body was every bit as hollow as fucking a blow-up doll. The fear, the anger, the need ... all began to bleed away.

  "Do you feel anything?" he asked, slowing his pace and savoring the physical contact as the only way he could keep himself hard. With no feedback of any kind from her, it was beginning to feel as though he really had simply found a new and vaguely interesting way to masturbate.

  "I do, but it is obvious to me that you are using my form as a proxy for something else, so I am allowing you to do as you will with it," came the whispered reply. "I do not pretend to know what mortals desire, but it seemed obvious to me that you wanted to hurt me. Shall I show pain? Is that what motivates your offering?"

  "No ... I'm sorry," he said as he settled atop her, moving his hand from her throat to the ground next to it. "I ... I did want to use you, but I can't. There's no substitute for what I wanted ... and now I don't know that I really ever did want it. I just don't think I'm that kind of man. There's a hob that did horrible things to me. I wanted to rape her ... but just because she was sexually cruel doesn't mean I am. Even if this were really her I don't think I could go through with it."

  The sandy hob woman raised a hand to touch his face, fingers drifting across his expression, and as she touched him her expression shifted to mirror his, though she retained distinct features of her own. He saw pain and confusion there, and hung his head as he said again, "I'm sorry."

  "You are losing your erection, template. Do you no longer wish to make an offering?" the whisper asked.

  "I do," he hastily said, alarmed as the alternative flashed through his mind. "I would just rather offer pleasure than pain. Can I?"

  "You can. This body is very like yours. I feel what you do when you do it. If you want me to feel pleasure, you have but to inflict it."

  "I'll do my best, but I'm going to need something from you in return," Abram said as he touched the face still mirroring his own expression, which now showed regret more than anything else.

  "Tell me," the whisper said, still coming from all around him, rather than the lips under his fingers.

  "Show me what you feel, not what I feel."

  The face of the hobgoblin facsimile froze a moment, then blinked and nodded once. The eyes remained blank, but something about the rest of Sube's expression came to life. Her lips quirked in a slight smile he knew wasn't just a mirror of his because this time, she smiled first.

  Abram's fingers brushed down her cheek and over her throat. She tilted her head up, and her smile grew warm. He leaned down and kissed her, sliding his hand into faux hair that felt slick, but didn't stick to him. Her lips responded to his, and when he touched them with his tongue, hers flickered out to play. He could feel the sand, but it remained wholly hers, and she tasted a bit salty.

  Must be the water she's using.

  The taste wasn't unpleasant and Abram let the kiss deepen as he began to move against her once more.

  His arousal returned, fueled this time by a genuine desire, and he grew harder within her. Sube's lips parted a bit against the kiss, and the whisper said, "Ah ... this is better. This is the flavor I wanted ..."

  She reached up, sliding her hand through his hair. She took firm hold and resumed their kiss. Her body arched as she pressed against him, and he wrapped his hand under her shoulder, settling his elbow to the sand as he stroked. The liquid feel of her insides was neither warmer nor colder than the rest of her, but it was silken and the friction within her was delightful as he pressed gently in and out, forced to move slowly now not because he didn't want to hurt her, but because he didn't want to cum too soon.

  He shivered, and felt that shiver ripple through her as well. The sand all around them seemed to sigh. It shifted, rising and falling as her body responded to him, reciprocating the pleasure he felt from her, giving it back and just as obviously pleased in turn.

  The longer he went on, the more the sands all around him shifted and shuddered. It was almost as though he were fucking her through an earthquake, and a glance showed him that his mini-map was still entirely white. Sube was all around him. By now he was certain that she was every grain of sand on this beach, perhaps more.

  Throughout, she kissed him, and if anything it felt to him as though she derived more pleasure from the kiss than from the sex. He indulged her, using the kiss as a way to put off his orgasm, letting her teach him what she liked. It was obvious that she craved contact, and her hands slid all over his back, touching, then touching again. She explored every part of him, and it eventually occurred to him that even the sand that wasn't part of her facsimile was caressing him, lapping against him.

  "I won't last much longer," he gasped, finally unable to deny the orgasm that had been building within him.

  "I did not know you were holding out," the whisper replied. "Let go. Give me your offering. That is what I desire."

  Even as she spoke, he came. His body arched, but she reached for him, the body she had made for him dissolving as she embraced him with a wave of supple sand. All around him, the susurrus of the beach resolved itself into a sigh of bliss that he not only heard, but felt as it vibrated through his body everywhere. His orgasm — which had begun to fade — peaked a second time. He groaned, shuddered, and his strength failed him completely.

  He collapsed into the sand's embrace, and it cradled him as the whisper sounded in the air and against his flesh.

  "I am well-pleased. Your change of heart and intention was interesting to witness, and the pleasure you sought to give me was both devout and honestly attempted. It has been a long time since I was worshipped with such sincerity. I will not enthrall you, for I would have this worship again at some future time. What boon would you ask of me?"

  Abram was barely capable of stringing thoughts together at just that moment, but the danger he was still in, and the many problems he faced, focused his attention. He said, "I need to get to Sidastrgeil, and I have lost my companions. Can you help with either of these?"

  "You speak of the dwarven outpost, and the two approaching along the coast?" she asked.

  "A giant proxy, and a mountain troll?" Abram asked.

  "Ah, so it is only those two. Very well. I will allow you to rest here until they join us, then we shall see about getting you to Sidastrgeil. For now, rest. The course of your madness is not so easily charted as I first supposed, and I will watch your progress hence with some interest."

  "Have you been watching me long?" Abram asked, his curiosity roused.

  "Since you first arrived," the whisper replied. "I watch all templates save those who — through luck or guile — escape my attention. Your origin is one I have s
een many times, and I dismissed your story early. Yet sometimes what is broken may be mended, and I wish to see if what binds your broken pieces together again is brass ... or gold."

  Frustrated by the obviously ambivalent wording, Abram said, "I suppose you'll have to wait and see."

  "How true. Only time will reveal your fate to me and so I am made a liar, for I said only moments ago that it meant nothing. You have given my time meaning, if only for a little while. For that, you are well worth the boon I shall grant."

  "Riddles," Abram muttered. "It's always riddles. There is never a game where you get a straight answer."

  "Not until the end is nigh," the whisper agreed. "You are aware that all is Maya — the grand illusion — yet your realization remains flawed. Ultimately, you will learn the truth on your own. When you do, return to me. A template on Celestine faces one of two outcomes ... but it is rare to see one who might consciously choose which fate he suffers. Rest now, Abram. I will keep you safe for the time being."

  Abram knew a save point when he saw one, and promptly asked Hantu Raya to log him out.

  20

  Power in All But Name

  The wailing of the fire alarm just didn't stop. Abram pinched the bridge of his nose and glared up at the ceiling.

  The false alarms always quit after a few minutes, but this one had been going on for at least ten. He got up and moved to one of the windows. He shifted the drape, then rolled up the blackout cover and looked out toward the street below. His eyes widened at what he saw.

  Ambulances. Police cars. Fire trucks. The block was cordoned off, and there were crowds gathered beyond the barricades, all staring at his building.

  Oh God. It's not a drill!

  Abram tore open his door and raced down the hallway, but the elevators were out of service. He opened the stairway door and immediately heard the roaring of flames below. A wave of intense heat washed over him, singeing the hairs of his nose as he smelled the stink of burning.

  There was no way for him to go down. No way for him to escape the fire.

  He closed the door and looked wildly around, completely panic-stricken. His body quaked, his thoughts flew in a thousand useless directions. Terror suffused him and he moaned pitifully as he realized it was only a matter of time before he was roasted by the flames roaring up through his building.

  "Mommy! Mommy please!"

  Abram turned, but saw no one. The hallway behind him was empty, but he knew he'd heard it: a child crying.

  With no idea of saving himself he wandered the hallway, pausing to listen, and toward the far end finally heard the crying. He knocked, then beat at the door and said, "Are you there?! Open the door!"

  It opened, revealing a little girl that couldn't have been more than five years old. She was dressed in pajamas and clutched a rag doll to her chest as she shrilly demanded, "Where's Mommy?! Why won't the bells stop?! Mommy?!"

  She looked past him down the hall, but Abram knew her mother wouldn't be coming from that way. She wouldn't be coming at all.

  She's probably down there, right now, screaming at the police to save her baby.

  Abram reached out to her and said, "We need to go. I'll take you to your mommy, but you need to trust me. Can you do that? What's your name?"

  "Melly," the girl sniffled, and held out her hand as she said, "You'll take me to mommy?"

  "I'll do my very best, I promise," Abram said, and took her hand in his.

  His chest was tight. He was terrified. He knew he was going to die, and so was this little girl. But he could comfort her for at least a little while. Tell her a lie that would keep her hope up. She didn't deserve what would happen.

  He thought about killing her somehow, but he was no murderer. He knew he couldn't do it. There was only one alternative: he had to search for some way out. The stairs were an inferno. The elevators were out of service, their shafts no doubt providing air for the blaze on the lower floors.

  Now that he was aware of it, he could smell the smoke. It was faint, but growing stronger. The air, usually musty and damp, was instead hot and dry, and the temperature in the hallway was rising noticeably.

  There wasn't much time.

  He turned away from the elevators and looked at the far end of the hallway. He saw the window there, and beyond it, the iron grill with its ladder.

  It hadn't even occurred to him, but there it was. The place the potheads toked up. It was a fire escape.

  "Come on, Melly. We're going to get you out of here," he promised, and with her hand in his he led her down the hall to the window. She waited, sniffling, as he opened the window.

  As soon as he did, the roaring of the fire went from a dimly felt rumble to something that was impossible to ignore. The heat was right below him, and a glance showed him the fire was only two floors down.

  He jerked himself back in and squeezed his eyes shut, then forced himself to look out again.

  There they were. The ladder was extended. It was past his floor, and there were people on it, escaping.

  The act of looking up at them showed him the endless dark of the skies, and he jerked his head back in again with a muffled half-sob. Even now, threatened with being burned alive, his unreasoning fear threatened to make a coward of him.

  He swallowed, looked back at the girl, and something in her wide, trusting eyes calmed his hammering heart.

  "It's okay, Melly. The men out there will take you down to see your mommy, but you have to come out with me, okay? We have to wave at them until they see us, can you do that with me? Can you?"

  Melly nodded emphatically, and he helped her out the window. She hopped over to the banister and leaned against it, waving her doll at the firemen as Abram followed her, keeping his eyes on her. He couldn't look up. He didn't dare look down.

  He felt the heat washing up from below, heard the building groaning under the terrible assault it endured.

  He had never been so afraid.

  'Take me away! I don't mind, but you better promise me, I'll be BACK, IN, TIME!'

  Abram startled awake, bathed in sweat and shivering.

  His alarm continued to play as he reached groggily for his phone, the nightmare dissolving into fractured images and the lingering smell of smoke.

  The music cut out as he finally managed to get his finger to the right button, and he dropped the phone without ceremony to the floor as he waited for his heart to slow down.

  He put his feet on the carpet and couched his elbows on his knees, staring at nothing as he waited for his dark sight to kick in.

  When it didn't, he slowly realized that he wasn't in the game. He was in the real world.

  When was the last time I fucking slept anyway? he wondered. He couldn't remember. Now that he had, he'd been woken by a fucking nightmare.

  No, I was woken by my alarm. I just happened to be HAVING a nightmare. Fuck's sake, that was bad.

  Abram got to his feet and padded out of his bedroom, then pulled the drape back and lifted the blind.

  The street had all the usual traffic. It was dark out, and there weren't many people on the sidewalk. He blinked, realized that he didn't remember when he'd set his alarm for, but that he must have done it to get back into the game, otherwise it wouldn't still be dark out.

  He went to the fridge, got some leftover pizza and stuffed it in his face without warming it up. He preferred it cold anyway.

  The shades were there on his desk, waiting for him. He thought of his phone, left on the floor by his bedside table.

  Aw, fuck it. No one will call.

  He put the shades on, and re-entered Celestine.

  He found himself shaded by a small amphitheater of sand. Less than a foot from him, the deceptively cheerful light blazed down on Sube's beach.

  "Thank you," he said as he glanced around, blinking at the bright light.

  "You are welcome, template," the sand whispered. "I am sheltering your companions as well. They had some difficulty with my thralls, but in the end I convinced them to atte
nd peacefully. Your transport is on its way, and should arrive before the light fades."

  "Where are they?" he asked.

  "Near my lip. The light was burgeoning as they reached it, so I created a place for them there. Shall I bring them?"

  Abram opened his mouth, then hesitated as he gave that some thought. Eventually he said, "Do what you feel is best."

  "Interesting. You should know there is never a time I do otherwise. Abide."

  Smiling faintly as he got the chance to reference one of his favorite movies, he said, "As you wish."

  Inwardly he said, Hantu, show me my stats.

  Abram scanned the page, then boggled when he saw how many points he'd been allocated.

  Holy shit, TWENTY?!

  'You really thought it would be less? Abram, Sube, like Angrboda, is a Power in all but name, though the reasons are different. I suggest you savor this infusion for what it is.'

  Who is she? I mean, who was she, back on Earth?

  'Her true identity is not mine to give. If she had wanted you to know, she would have told you. Just take my word, as far as bonds go, you got insanely lucky with hers ... which makes a certain twisted sort of sense, considering.'

  Well, she referenced Maya, so she's got to be Hindu. That doesn't narrow it down very much, though, so I won't bother to speculate.

  'Best not. I suspect you will learn who she is when you return to her, should we ever reach that point.'

  But you DO know who she is?

  'I can't NOT know.'

  Hantu refused to say more, and Abram put the thought from his mind. He was curious, but not that curious. Celestine was such a jumble of different mythological sources that trying to pin down the reasoning for any of it seemed to him like a prime waste of time.

  So instead, he focused on the twenty points he had, and how best to spend them.

  Question.

  'Answer?'

  I sank points into my strength, but it didn't really change my physical appearance.

  'The reasons for that are myriad and complex. In the interests of me not boring myself to tears, I'll give you the Cliffs Notes. The size of your muscles is only tangentially related to how much weight you can lift with them. If you sink more points in strength, they will grow, but the results will not be the same as if you actually took the time to build them properly.'