Shadowrun - Earthdawn - Longing Ring

by kubasik

  "Good, good," the creature said sarcastically. "Confound them with your simple-minded honesty." Then it shouted in J'role's thoughts, "Give them the ring. Maybe they'll know what to do with it!"

  He had forgotten about the ring. Its magical touch had become a permanent hum against his perceptions. As soon as he thought about surrendering the ring, he felt like crying. He forced the idea from his head.

  The patience of the creatures had run out, and they began to chatter wildly. The thorn man in front of J'role tapped the tip of his spear against J'role, and though it did not pierce his flesh, a hot pain lanced through his chest.

  The winged woman circled about them and said, "Come!” The thorn men arranged themselves to escort Bevarden and J'role. J'role helped his father up, and soon they were on their way into the heart of the forest.

  13

  When J’role had first stopped speaking, his parents said it was only a strange whim and he would grow out of it. The other children of the kaer could not understand such a concept. At first his friends were worried for him, but as the days, and then the weeks, passed, the other boys and girls began to sense that something was strange about J role now. They avoided him for his haunted eyes carried a weight of misery that even the high spirits of children could not shuck off. It was simply not fun to be with him.

  After concern turned to avoidance, abuse set in. The children—even his best friend, Samael—began to taunt him, daring him to speak. But J'role never did, remembering his mother's instructions that he must not.

  But how he wanted to! He knew something crawled in his thoughts, something so vile and corrupt that even his mother's mind had begun to splinter against the strange sounds he made when she asked him to speak to her. When the children pointed and laughed he wanted to open his mouth and let loose the horror in his thoughts; he wanted the perverse screeches and babblings to fly through the air and crash into their ears and replace their smug mockery with the misery that filled his mind each day.

  He never did. His mother had warned him never to speak, and he did not.

  So he listened to the laughter of the children echo down the corridors of the kaer, and imagined himself playing with them, which only made the creature in his mind taunt him all the more.

  Surrounded by the thorn men, J'role and his father walked through the strange forest. A chatter of talk came from the small winged people who swarmed among the trees. The trees were also filled with more faces, staring down at J'role as he passed, their eyes and mouths formed by blood-soaked knots. The leaves and branches of bushes and other, lower trees seemed to reach out for him, brushing against his flesh, examining him. After J'role and the others had walked for a while, he realized that the ground was more than soft—it was damp. With a shock he saw that the dark moisture oozing up around his bare feet was blood.

  At another point J'role was startled by the grotesque sight of a man, at least eight feet tall, staring at them through the trees from a hill thirty feet away. The man's flesh seemed torn in places, flapping like clothes hung out to dry, with wide stains lining the wounds.

  But the man was far away, and J’role wondered if perhaps his eyes had tricked him.

  The more he walked, the more he felt overwhelmed by the forest. The very ground seemed to shiver, as if something moved underfoot. And everywhere — everywhere —

  there was life. Moss grew on the rocks. Leaves formed a neatly impenetrable canopy overhead. Tiny plants grew in the absurdly fertile ground. Insects buzzed up close to his eyes and then flew away again. The never ending trees crowded around, reducing J’role’s range of vision to only a fraction of what he was used to. It was as though the forest were crawling over him, trying to smother him and absorb him into its overabundant life. His gaze kept shifting from one place— one living thing—to the next.

  Too much. Too much.

  They walked for an hour or more, and J'role wondered if the forest had somehow grown to cover the world the moment they had entered it. Then up ahead, just beyond the thick labyrinth of trees, he saw flashes of a gathering of people. They had been sitting on the ground, but were now standing and staring at the approaching entourage. J'role could just make out that the people were tall and thin, with high foreheads. Some seemed to have green complexions, while others were as white as the full moon. When Bevarden also caught sight of the strange people ahead, he covered his mouth with both hands, eyes opening wide. Then he looked down at the ground, his mouth still covered, like a child trying to pretend he hadn't caught on to a surprise.

  As they continued on J'role saw more and more of the people, all clustered in groups, all staring. Some were following the entourage now, but from a distance. Straining to get a better look at them, his eyes darting from side to side trying to catch glimpses of the thin strangers, he did not notice the clearing until they were almost upon it.

  Sunlight poured into the clearing like a heavy-rainfall, washing it with golden clarity. At the center towered a circle of eight giant trees, trees bigger than anything J'role had ever seen, their trunks as thick as taverns. The branches of the trees wound around each other in intricate patterns, as if they had been grown to become ordered and through the order, beautiful.

  Flowering vines grew between the trees, beginning on the ground and climbing high overhead. The vines grew thick enough to create walls—walls covered with huge green leaves and white and violet flowers at least two hand-widths in size.

  Throughout the wall of vines were openings, like windows, each covered in elaborate spider webs. The webs caught the gold of the sunlight and broke it into a rainbow of colors.

  The whole structure, J'role suddenly realized, was a castle. Though he had never seen one before, his father had often spoken about them. The castles in his father's stories were made of stone, however, not a single one supported this structure. It was all grown and made from the living earth. Its beauty caught at his throat.

  Next to him, Bevarden spoke a single word, his voice that of someone who feels finally justified in some secret argument with himself. "Elves," he said, and dropped to his knees His eyes were wide, as though trying to suck as much of the sight into memory as possible before the image suddenly vanished. Seeing his father's face, J'role realized how much Bevarden's tales had ment to him. His father hadn't considered them mere stories at all; he must have needed to tell them as much as the villagers needed to hear them. The need for hope had prompted him to give hope.

  And so another legend that J'role had dismissed as pure fancy was proven true. Would the elves be as beautiful and kind as his father had described?

  Opening outward at the base of the castle were two tremendous doors made from rose bushes grown so thick they blocked- all light. A flight of broad white steps led down from the doorway to the clearing. Staring at them, J'role realized the stairway was made of bones— bones of so many shapes and sizes he could not imagine- what kinds of creatures they were from. These strange, rare bones had been fitted and formed with careful craftsmanship to create flat tops and sides.

  At least sixty of the people—elves—who had followed them through the woods entered the clearing. They wore gowns and cloaks made of vines and flowers; and their skin was studded with sharp points, which J'role assumed to be some kind of armor. Some of the elves were quite human in appearance, with hair and stern faces. But others had leaves for hair, or arms formed like branches, or were not very human at all, seeming closer to being trees, walking on roots, with faces only visible when they blinked, revealing their knots to be eyes.

  As they arrived in the clearing they knelt, facing the opening doors.

  The thorn man next to J'role gestured down with his spear, and J'role thought it best to join his father and the others. The creature in his thoughts snickered at the display of respect. "Strange what you all think is important," it sighed.

  From the castle door stepped eight more of the thorn men. They flanked either side of the stairway, one guard to the side of each step. Then several elves w
alked out, each more elegantly adorned than the last, their elaborate garments created from roses and purple-flowered vines and wearing capes of lilacs that trailed to the ground.

  Following these came four elves with human shapes, but whose bodies seemed to be both flesh and tree bark. As the four moved stiffly down the stairs, they grimaced in pain as the tree bark shifted against their normal flesh. Their mouths and eyes were severely distorted, as if their bodies had not grown quite correctly. Each one wore the brightly colored robe of a magician. The robes were scarlet, and shone as if moist with blood.

  The magicians and the other elves took up positions on the stairs. Then all turned toward the door. From the pitch dark of the doorway emerged a phantasm of white and red; a woman so beyond life that for a moment J'role stopped breathing. Her flesh reminded him of the white walls of the mysterious city; her red hair flowed down around her shoulders like watery fire. The wide white skirt of her dress was sewn from countless petals, and like the clothing of the other elves, it covered her, but left just enough bare to make her flesh enticing. Her long limbs aroused J'role, and rendered the ring that rested against his chest nearly impotent in its ability to focus his desires.

  He looked to the elves gathers in the courtyard, all kneeling. Their faces were upturned, staring at the woman. They did not smile exactly, but each wore an expression of profound comfort as if by her presence the woman bathed them with grace. From the way their bodies arched toward her, leaning forward slightly, straining, J'role knew each one longed for her approval, and that any one would, if need be, leap up and die for her at a moment's notice. Without thought.

  The woman stood on the white steps, slowly sweeping her gaze across the clearing, bestowing smiles on her subjects. They accepted the smiles like a lover's kisses. Finally her gaze came to rest on Bevarden, an old, tired man who stared at her with a plea in his eyes, and J'role, a young boy so afraid of showing his desire that he had made his face into a mask. She then walked down the last of the steps and crossed the clearing.

  As she drew closer, the rustle of her dress flowed into J'role's senses, and he felt himself swept away by the possibility of being near her....

  The small, winged woman flew to the beautiful, red-haired woman, and they spoke softly as the woman in white continued to approach.

  And then she stood before him.

  "And so you have come to my forest," she said. Her words were in the dwarven tongue, but from her mouth the rough language seemed as beautiful as light rainfall.

  J 'role looked away, afraid of revealing too much, as if she could read his thoughts if their eyes met. But the temptation was too great...

  He gasped when he looked up at her. Beautiful she was, yes. But, like the small woman with dead leaves for wings, thorns also grew from her flesh. Long, thin thorns. Each one pure white, and each splitting her beautiful flesh from the inside out. He realized that what he had thought to be armor from a distance was actually these thorns that grew from within the bodies of the elves. Droplets of ruby blood rolled down from the thorns of the majestic elf before him. The droplets remained suspended for an instant on the tips of their thorns, then fell off, dripping down the woman's skin and clothing, but leaving no mark or streak of their passing. Only the woman's face betrayed the truth: a slight twinge of pain, almost completely masked as if by years of practice. She smiled like a gracious hostess.

  "Do I startle you?" she asked. Coyly. Mock surprise. Perhaps hurt. It was impossible to tell.

  J’role could only nod. He sensed her mood shift from generosity to sharp anger to soft playfulness. Like a wind in spring, he thought. She frightened him, and he wanted suddenly to be out of the forest.

  Then she lowered her hand to his cheek; her delicate white hand, the thorns small but razor-sharp. Just the tips of her fingers touched his flesh, the thorns so close, but not quite touching ...

  Warm. A tingle passed through his skin. What did she look like under the gown?

  "Ah, I frighten you, do I? Or"—and here she chuckled—"do you frighten yourself? You have desires that you believe to be dangerous."

  She slid her fingertips under his chin and up to his other cheek. So wonderful. And yet the thorns . ..

  "And my touch frightens you. The thorns. I see that your kind did not need to resort to such tactics during the Scourge. The Horrors seemed to find my people a particular delicacy. To protect ourselves we were forced to adopt desperate measures." She raised her hand before her, turning it, admiring it. "I used to wonder how we would get rid of them when the time came. The thorns, I mean. Now they seem so much a part of us." She looked down at J'role once more. "And I'll wager you sealed yourself up—well, not you, you being just a boy. But your people. Common enough, from what I remember. And you're still sealed up, aren't you? Like us, your defenses feel quiet natural."

  She waited for J'role to respond, and when he did not, she turned her head and stepped over to Bevarden. J'role's shoulders slumped in tremendous relief. How he wanted to touch her, and how glad he was that she was no longer close enough.

  "And who is this?" she said to Bevarden. His father tried to mouth a response, but only a small noise and a bit of spittle came forth. A look of distaste passed across the woman's face. J'role saw terror form in his father's eyes; his chance had come and gone. He realized that all his father had ever wanted stood before him, but he was incapable of even speaking.

  Then, with frightening speed the distaste left her expression, and she stepped back and smiled.

  "I am the Queen Alachia. And you are my guests. And now, what have you brought me?"

  J'role lowered his head, not sure what would happen next, but guessing that it would be awkward. Perhaps even dangerous. They had nothing to give.

  "You entered my forest. Surely you have brought a gift." When no response came, she laughed delicately and said, "Oh I think I see the confusion. You think I am asking whether you have brought something expressly for me. That's not at all what I mean. I mean, what are you going to give me?"

  J'role spread his arms and shook his head.

  "Nonsense. Everyone has something to give." She stepped up to J'role, touched her hand to his face once more. Her touch burned desire deep into his body and all he wanted was to bury his face against the palm of her hand, against her abdomen, against . . .

  Without warning she dragged a thorn in one of her fingers across his skin. It dug just slightly into his flesh, but he felt blood swell up and run down his face. He tried to back away from her, but the hands of two thorn men held him in place, their thorns digging into his shoulders, increasing his pain. "You see," said Queen Alachia, "there is always something to give. There is always blood." She removed her hand and the thorn men released him.

  The cut on his cheek felt like nothing he had ever experienced before. It hurt, yet he longed for more.

  A memory flashed in his thoughts, something hidden, as if in a nightmare: a flash of metal in someone's hand. "Come here," the person said. He could not remember who. The memory ate at his thoughts, and he suddenly forgot all the strange sights around him.

  "Very good," said the creature. "I thought I'd have to tell you everything myself."

  Then he was back in the clearing, the sun bright, the elf queen before him.

  "I don't want to kill you," she said softly. "I want you to decide what you will give me."

  She stopped suddenly.

  "What is this?"

  Gently she lowered her hand toward J'role's neck until her fingers plucked at the cord that held the magic ring.

  "Ah," she said with genuine delight as she lifted the thong and removed it from around J'role's neck. "Have you forgotten this?" She smiled at J'role. "I will take nothing unless it is offered. If you have nothing else, will you give me this?"

  She leaned down toward J'role, her breath warm—as intoxicating as flowers in bloom—

  caressing his face. He felt dizzy, and the desire for her seized him again. "You want me don't you, boy?" she said
softly. "I assure you, everything you feel is coming from within you. I have cast no magic upon you." She smiled. "Now, what will you give me? This ring?"

  The ring dangled before him, the sun's light glinting on it as it swung slightly on the cord.

  J'role could no longer feel the longing the ring had given him. He was unmoored now.

  Whatever he needed—and he still needed so much—he no longer knew where to go to get it. But he remembered the sensation—now no more than an echo of longing. The city promised so much, and he wanted so much to have the ring back, to taste the longing again. Even if the promises never came true, the belief that something could finally make him happy was so sweet.

  Yet the queen promised even more. Perhaps she would give him all he craved. Why go on the quest when all he desired, so beautiful, stood right before him?

  "Don't you do it, brat," the creature in his thoughts said suddenly.

  He looked up at the queen, pleased to distress the creature.

  "NO!" the creature screamed. "Don't give it up!"

  J'role nodded to the queen.