The Song Wept By His Mother

He thought it was a cook fire. The dark smoke, and the smell of charred meat spoke of dinner. Jennick smiled, it meant the hunters had returned and that meant there would be celebration. Tales would be told, and the bravest of hunters smothered in glory. After, there would be dancing, and the leafale would flow freely. With that warm courage in his veins, Jennick may even dance with Sorren. He kept his speed in check, he did not want his enthusiasm to make him look young in front of his father and the other hunters, and made his way to the centre of the village. The smoke was cloying. The smell burned his nostrils. This was wrong, there was corruption in these sensations that did not belong. Jennick heard wailing, cutting through the smoke to assail his ears. Maturity forgotten, the boy ran.

The scene did not make sense. There was smoke, and burning, and the screaming of men seared to the bone. Yet, there was no fire. In the centre of the village, filling the hunter pit, was a block of ice. It stood, erect and dominating, with no sweat on its skin despite the heat. The impossibility of it stole Jennick’s attention. He felt insensate, and did not notice as a body stumbled towards him. They crumpled, screaming out in pain. It cut through the fog of Jennick’s fear, and he ran to the form, flipping it on its back. The skin was badly burned, one of the eyes a milky white, blinded for ever more. Their hair had been singed down to the scalp, and Jennick could see her bones. His mother grabbed at him, and sobbed, “He’s gone. They’re all gone. We were preparing, we were singing. My son, we were only singing.” She babbled, and wept. Jennick did not know what to do, he merely held her, as tight as he dared, and sobbed along with her. There was more screaming. Others had arrived, and they were discovering their own families had been as devastated as his. Names battered Jennick’s ears, and he could not bear to discover if they were the names of the dead. He clutched his mother. “It’s okay, it’ll be okay. I’m here, we’re together. As long as we’re together right?” She gripped his back, Jennick could feel her nails digging in, cutting his skin.

Reality tore. A crack shattered the air, smothering the cries and shouts of his village. It carried on for a hundred of Jennick’s hammering heartbeats. He refused to look upon the ice, to acknowledge it. The screaming redoubled, fear had returned and was stronger for its absence. His mother stared, wide eyed, past his shoulder, at the monument of their destruction. She scrambled and squirmed out of his grasp, leaving behind strips of melted skin. She continued her babbling. “Come on Jennick, follow mother, we must go, and go quickly. Do not waver, follow me.” She began to crawl away and Jennick sat, his knees digging into stones, paralysed. He could not get his body to listen to him, it had abandoned sense. Suddenly, his mother filled his vision again, gripping painfully at his limp wrists. “Jennick, you must come, please, follow me, please.”

“I… I can’t. It doesn’t make sense. It cannot be real.”

His mother shook him, “You’re right, it isn’t real. We’re in a...a…dream. Just a dream, come follow the lullaby, and you will sleep and we’ll laugh about it in the morning,” She began to sing, a lullaby of his youth. Her voice was harsh, damaged by the choking smoke, but she continued. Jennick latched on, and followed the trembling warbling of his mother’s song.

Another crack, and a cold, biting, wind swept past him. The chill burned him. The dirt was being hammered, he could hear thuds, like deer herded off an edge. He crawled. He wept, and tried to sing along. Then, he was on the floor, his left side numb. Something had driven itself into him, pinning him to the floor. He cried out as icy fire shredded his side. He called out, screamed, begged and wept. His mother turned, and her singing stopped. They stared at each other, across the miniscule distance. She reached out, weakly, with her hand. It hovered there, waiting for his answering touch, and Jennick tried. He stretched, and screamed. The pain made him wretch, but he would not drop his hand. He called out for her, and saw her one working eye go cold with fear. She ran. She ran and Jennick screamed. Then it was black. He could not feel, or see. Only hear. Hear himself screaming for his mother.

It was, perhaps, two days later when Jennick awoke. He was on his front, his face pressed into overgrown foliage. He rolled over, terrible pain stampeding through him. He stared up into a night sky, at least, it resembled a night sky. He could not recognise the stars, and there were two moons. Jennick suddenly became aware that he was in a forest. Wherever he was, it was not home. Jennick began to laugh.

He laughed until the pain caused him to pass out again.

~~~~~~

His teeth rattled as the swords scraped edges. He pushed, bending the enemy’s blade closer to their face. They gritted their teeth and held, Jennick could get the blade no further. Smiling, he stepped forward, hoping to pressure the sword into his attacker’s face. They had been waiting for that. Jennick felt something hammer his ankle, knocking him off balance at the apex of his step. At the same time, the warrior swung, knocking the sword and causing it to rocket out of Jennick’s grip. He fell hard on his arm, his sword flung in the opposite direction. He rolled, reaching for the blade, and received a kick to the face for his trouble. Warm pain trickled down, and caused his vision to blur. Jennick rolled with the momentum, gaining distance from his attempted killer.

The warrior, breathing heavily, began to limp over. Blood matted his beard, and he had a gleam in his eye, a promise of a slow death. Blowing blood from his broken nose, Jennick fumbled at his back. He felt the burning cold, the lump still stuck in his spine. Jennick began to breathe rapidly, to prepare himself for the pain. He gripped the chunk, and pulled. The power, alien and hungry, was ecstatic to answer. It joyfully ripped through one arm, danced across his shoulders and erupted from his other hand, outstretched at his opponent. Black flame, screaming with power, tore into the warrior. They tried to cry out, but the flames had already seared their lungs to ash. Jennick watched as they charred, their skin peeling away to reveal black bone. The body fell. Jennick collected his sword. The coins they had been fighting for were melted. The food had been trampled into the mud. All that violence, for nothing. Just another day in this savage land. He chuckled to himself and stalked off to find the man’s friends.

As he stumbled along, he sang a little lullaby.

~~~~~~

His wrists were bound, and the rotting wood of the wall jabbed into his back. Each splinter and prick made Jennick smile, and a muffled laugh escaped through his gag. The warriors stood, disturbed by Jennick’s penchant for joviality. One scratched at her dirt caked face, and turned to her equally filthy partner. “Are we sure about this? I’ve never known someone to have a shard in their back like that. He’s clearly unhinged.”

“Gutrot said the boss wants shards. We been searching for weeks and nothing. This ones too new, not been broken in, and he has a shard? He’s gotta know where there’s more.” The man spoke in a rasp, there was a hole in his neck that whistled and made him sound like a rusty kettle on the boil. The woman picked dirt out of the fingernails on her left hand, “Do you think the bloody things grow together in bushels? Kid got lucky. Then we found him, and now he’s unlucky.”

“So what, we just kill him? Seems harsh.”

“Oh, growing a conscience are we? I’ve seen you do far worse than cut down a lad who's gone too far.”

“I don’t think he’s gone too far at all, can’t we bring him with us? Maybe Gutrot will have something he can do. He’s good with a sword, he did for Aken.”

The woman spat. Annoyance flashed over her face, as she knew she’d give in eventually. Giving the man a slap on the back of the head she snarled, “Fine. Get him in the fucking wagon, and pick that bloody thing up.” Smiling, the man waltzed over and hoisted the trussed up Jennick over his back. He made sure Jennick was settled, and proceeded to grab the short length of black wood, on the end of which was the glowing coldness that had embedded itself in Jennick’s back.

Jennick chuckled. They had ambushed him when he was trying to work the thing out. It was causing too much pain, and he hadn’t slept in days. The wood had fused to the thing, and during their ambush, one of them had grabbed it and pulled, causing agony to shred Jennick. The thing had cursed him, then saved him, then condemned him again. He had to find the funny side. As they twisted, Jennick laughed. Blackness eroded his vision, and each guffaw threw up blood, but Jennick laughed until his body gave out. When he had finally opened his eyes, they waved the stick in front of him, taunting. As if he wanted that poison back in his body. He had hoped, with their little wand as a prize, they might let him go. Sadly not.

No, instead of letting him get back to his mother, they were taking him, and the ‘shard’ as they called it, somewhere. Somewhere else. Maybe it would be home. That’d be very funny. “He’s chuckling again. Happy little guy.”

“Shut up Twister and put the fucker in the wagon.”

He soon became aware that he was not going home. Like everyone else, these people did not care that he was lost, that his mother needed him. She was waiting for him to wake up, to end the dream. He would need to do something.

It took three days to get his chance. His captors, Twister and Levex, were not complete fools. They only took his gag out at meal times, and Levex kept Twister from talking to him too much. Levex kept the shard to herself, though both refused to touch it directly for too long. Each day at the meal, Jennick would amuse himself. He’d tell tall tales, and make japes at the expense of Levex. Every day, Twister’s smile got wider, and Levex’s mood darker. He could push them both with each sentence, and he just needed one to break. It was Levex that eventually gave in. Twister snorted into his stew, and Jennick continued to prod, each comment resulting in a bigger guffaw than the last.

Eventually, Levex threw the reins down. “Right, I’ve had enough. You’re done with speaking.” She rose, and clambered over into the back, snarling. Jennick eyed her, and grinned, “Come now, don’t tell me your sense of humour died with your manners.”

“Oh, you’re a right little jester aren’t you? Making japes for a fat fool like him.” Her finger stabbed at Twister, who was recovering from a coughing fit. She leaned in, “Well I ain’t dealing with it anymore. I’m sewing you fucking shut.” Jennick snickered, and kissed her quickly on her filthy cheek. She struck him hard in the jaw. He bit down at the same time, and the power of her fist let him rip a strip out of her face. Instinctively, she had reached up, checking the flow of blood on the back of her hand. While anger and shock left her suspended, Jennick grabbed the wooden rod on her belt, and let loose a cold, cold laugh. The wave of power shivered through him, and seared through Levex. Her shriek was cut short, as ice erupted from her skin, bursting through organs and bone, showering the cart and Jennick in gore.

He wiped the remnants of Levex from his shirt, though it could not be much dirtier. Swaying, he turned the wand onto Twisted, and chuckled. “So, do you also lack a sense of humour?” The staff weaved and bobbed, but it was clear that the power it could pulse out would annihilate Twisted regardless. Jennick began to step closer, “Come on now, laugh. Laugh and we can begin the real fun.” Jennick wiped blood off his brow, and continued his chuckle. It got quieter. Eventually, the only sound was Levex’s blood dripping through the wagon floor. Twisted stared at Jennick, and smiled. He began to laugh, and clawed away the Gravedigger’s symbol on his armour. Jennick clasped the back of Twisted’s head, and pulled him into a brotherly embrace. They sat and laughed until Levex dried on the jungle floor.

~~~~~~

Only the foolish would be this brave. A naive sense of justice, the idea that there was an objective answer to what is right, had clearly poisoned these people. The gates had fallen, their wreckage smouldered behind Jennick. His people, his jesters, spread as a cackling wave through the town. Buildings burned, and the townsfolk were meeting the sharp wit of a blade. Yet, these idiots, decked in their gleaming delusion, charged at Jennick, and those who had stayed with him. He had to laugh. A hopeless charge, to defend a people already being cut to bits. These men would die, and believe it was an honour. The fervour with which people defended their homes always caused Jennick to laugh. It was laugh or cry, and he had left his tears with his mother.

“Mister Twister, if you’d be so kind.”

“Right you are boss.” The man, now wearing the motley colours of this new found Warband, cut the air with his hand, signalling the gaggle of Jesters behind him. The strings of their bows tittered, and the arrows punctured through the bravest of these guards. Their cries mixed with the cackles from the Jesters, and the cacophony left Jennick feeling charged. New energy flooded through his arms, and the rod, now adorned with a wooden laughing head to hide the burning ice, pulsed in his hand. Eager. It demanded use. Laughing to release the tension, Jennick resisted. If he used it here, now, it would destroy the entire guard house. No point taking a town if it can’t be defended later. Patience. The best jokes require preparation. Instead, he drew his sword, and waded into the chaos. His troops had already engaged the guards that had not fallen to the volley. The guards were competent, they had experience, but the Jesters had been living homeless in the wilds for too long. They had fought off strange beasts, and night attacks from Wrath’s Bane. They had scavenged weapons from those they killed with their bare hands. At one point or another, they had all stared death in the face, laughed, and won because they were just more vicious than the opposition. These guards, softened by safety, stood no chance. Jennick ran the captain through, he twisted his blade as it pierced the skin, shredding the man’s insides. His withdrawal caused pulp to slap onto the floor. The man had tried to say something, but he was choking on blood and rage. Jennick opened his neck into a red smile, the last laugh of a dying man.

The streets sang with slaughter. A stupendous song, serenading Jennick with the sounds of souls sacrificed to his sniggering soldiers. Snickering, he sauntered through the smokey streets. Slowly, savouring the screams, his steps sought the summation of this sortie. It stood, shattering the skyline with its swanky shapes. A structure of safety, of softness, a sanctimonious statement against the subjugation summoned by Jennick’s servants. Soon, their supposition of security would prove unsound, and the swaggering sultans that squat here shall shift into simpering slaves and soulless syphocants. Such sport to savour. Let’s shun subtlety, and scream my scheme to the sky. Superb.

Genni clutched to her younger brother, in hopes of keeping the toddler quiet. As her mother had ushered them into this wardrobe, she had given one simple instruction to Genni. “Keep yourself and Ostic quiet, as long as you hear noise, stay quiet and stay in here. I’ll come get you when it's safe.” Genni didn’t understand why her mother was so scared, she was the strongest person in Carnasas. Everyone worked for mother, they called her Claw, even though she kept her nails short. In her fear, her mother had forgotten Ostic’s rattle and dolls. The child constantly gripped them, and they were adorned with bells and chimes. Anywhere Ostic went, he chimed and jingled. He didn’t understand what was going on, and so it was up to Genni to keep him still, and to stifle the noises his toys made. Every noise from outside caused her to flinch. Though only ten, she knew violence when she heard it. It is hard to grow up in Carnasas without such knowledge. She heard the doors break open, and the howling of mad men from the forests outside the city. There was the clang of steel on steel, and the sickening meaty sound of flesh being cut. Screams started almost immediately. The distinctive accent of Stubbs cut through, as he called out for the guards to rally. Painful shrieks tore at Genni’s ears, and she hoped they belonged to the mad men. Something happened, something lost in the sounds riding up the stairs, and Stubbs stopped giving orders, and began to grunt, then to shriek. She heard the thudding of men becoming bodies, and the victory howl of the people her mother called Jesters. Genni shut her eyes, and forced the tears to stay away. As the attackers began to thunder through the mansion, she steeled herself. Be brave. For mother, for Ostic. She gripped him tighter.

A new sound assaulted her, the rush of wind, followed by a crackling, and the smell of smoke. Someone had summoned fire. A fire that would spread, that would consume the entire house. Genni’s home. She wanted to flee, but her mother said to stay put. Carefully, she pressed her eye against a gap in the wood of the wardrobe. The oak of the wardrobe mixed with the smoke in her nostrils, an earthly smell, corrupted by violence. Through her misty eyes, she watched the door of the room. It burst open, splintered to pieces. Genni saw her mother, Hevan and Sly fall amidst the chunks of the door. Hot on their heels, a gaggle of laughing men. Though outnumbered, her mother did not hesitate, and threw herself at the invaders with vigour. She caught them by surprise, and drove her blade through a man’s jaw and out the top of his head, stopping the mocking laughter. She pulled her sword free, and split the skull.

Hevan and Sly were only a moment behind her, and the three became a whirl of violence and blood. They had cut down five, before Sly took a dagger to the eye. He stumbled, allowing the Jesters to grab him, and tear at his flesh with their knives. He disappeared, dragged into the pack, and his screams were cut short, replaced by the deep, gleeful chucking. Hevan, taller than her mother and the Jesters by a head, could clearly see the fate of Sly. It sickened him, his resolve faltered for a fatal second, and the mad men took advantage. One jumped on him, and began to stab at his neck and back. Blood sprayed, some into the eyes of the beastly man, but it did not slow him down. Hevan wasted no time, and began to stab the attacker in the gut. They slammed into a wall, and collapsed into a heap of blood and shredded meat. The Jester died laughing.

The violence began to subside. Genni’s mother stood, panting, covered in gore. A score or more lay dead at her feet. The Jesters, gibbering and cackling, parted ways and a man came to the forefront. He had long, pointed ears, and green flowing hair. Along with his faintly golden skin, the man reminded Genni of when the trees shed their leaves. He swayed drunkenly, and his eyes had a fever in them. Genni could not see her mother’s face, she had positioned herself almost directly in front of the wardrobe. The man spoke, his voice lilting as if he wanted to sing. He sounded moments from bursting into crippling laughter, “This is the end Evika, submit. This is my hold now.” His grin showed teeth covered in blood. Genni’s mother did not move, “I’ve heard of your little band of fools. I admit to being impressed, but you’re not exactly subtle. You couldn’t have been more obvious if you’d had bells on.”

“If we were so obvious, should you not have been more prepared?” The man had cocked his head with the question, while the men behind him had begun to snicker and repeat the word ‘bells’ among themselves. Genni saw her mother reach into her jerkin, “Oh, but I am.” The man’s eyes went wide, as her mother pulled something from her clothes. He gave a chuckle, “And just what is that? A stone? Poor choice of weapon, Roseblade.”

“I would’ve thought a Fae would be more wise to these things. It’s a Stemstone, something my mages cooked up. I’ve got runes all over this place, and if you kill me, they go off. I’ll turn the town to ash before I let you depose the Thorn Knights.” At the word ‘Fae’, the smile had disappeared from the man’s face. His lackeys had started to snoop around, and picked up one of Ostic’s toys, rattling it. She felt Ostic begin to stir, and Genni realised that he was also watching the scene. Too young to understand the horror, he had focused on his toys, and did not want the strange man to play with them. He struggled against Genni’s grip, which had loosened in her viewing of the fight. Her grip was no longer all consuming, and in his struggles, Ostic’s toys began to ring.

Genni’s blood ran cold. Her mother, instinctively, turned, and the man seized her distraction. He brandished a length of wood, a jester's staff, and his eyes went hollow. A wave burst from the tip, and there was a crackle in the air. The stone in her mother’s hand shattered, and Genni saw runes all over the room blaze into flame and disappear. Her mother was knocked to the floor. She screamed out, but it was too late. A Jester had reached the wardrobe and flung it open. Genni screamed as it grabbed her and Ostic. They struggled, Ostic making a jolly jingling sound that was mockingly out of place in the blood soaked, smokey room.

The Fae had kicked her mother’s sword away, and had two Jesters subdue her. He punched her in the face, and Genni’s bravery shattered as both her and Ostic cried out. He grabbed her mother’s hair and twisted so that she was forced to face him, “Evika, you fool. Children? Toys? After all your sly comments, it was bells that did you in.” She struggled, and the man laughed in her face. She spat blood at him, and he punched her again. “I was going to let you die quick, but you dare mock me. You stand here, in your home, with your family, and mock my ignorance of my culture? How dare you. Well. Let’s see how funny this will be.” He turned to face Genni, his eyes feverish with malice.

He walked over, and knelt to be eye level with Ostic. Genni’s mother struggled and screamed. The threats that came from her mouth scared Genni, she had never heard such curses, especially not from her mother. The Fae had snatched Ostic’s toys away, and while the child cried, he plucked the bells off of them. The men that were around began to do the same with the toys left carelessly on the floor. He dangled the bells in front of her weeping brother, and in a mocking tone spoke to them, “You know, when Claws become well known, they often have a nickname. Your mother here is known as Roseblade, cause her sword is always covered in blood. Did you know that? She’s not nice. She thought she could outrun that, hold up here. Thought she could have a home. Well, I’m not from here. I don’t get a home, and I can’t get home. Ever. Look at your mother, you see her cry? Mine is doing the same. Forever. We live far longer than you, you know, and so she will cry for much longer. So, I think my name shouldn’t be Jennick anymore. That man is dead really, isn’t he? I think so, I think he died screaming with ice in his spine, begging for his mother to save him. A new name, with new connotations. One to signify how I made my rise to power.” Jennick stroked her brother on the cheek, wiping away his tears.

Then broke his neck.

Genni screamed. Her mother screamed. The Jesters laughed, and Jennick laughed, spinning around and kicking Evika in the gut. Her crying did not cease, even as he kicked again, and again, until blood ran from her lips. He laughed the whole way. Genni could barely see, her eyes blurred with tears. His voice lashed out, slicing into Genni’s soul with every word, “You’re not done yet Roseblade. This place is mine. Your men are mine. Your children are mine. You mock me? Well now I mock you. Oh yes. You’re going to cry a mother’s grief for as long as you can. In a couple of months, I’m going to kill your daughter. Then, in a couple of years, you will die. If you do not eat, I will force feed you. I will remove your teeth, so that you cannot bite your tongue. All you will know is that you failed your children, your home. And worst of all? Is this.” Jennick took the bell, and pierced it through his ear, “This will all happen while I wear the artefact of your betrayal. The trinkets of your children, which also give me a new name. Look at me!” The shout echoed through the house, as Jennick had gripped Genni’s mother’s face, wrenched it so that she must look at her destroyer. Tears flowed down both their faces.

“I’m Jingle now, and it’s your fault.”

~~~~~~

Shadows danced across the tarred head, stretched permanently into a rictus grin. Jingle’s own head swam, he had drowned himself in wine this evening. Despite the heat from the fire, and the wine, and the drugs, he felt cold. The staff at his side seemed to sap the heat from him, it burned cold and seemed to sting him. He could feel it lodged in his back, as fresh as the day it had impaled him. Gripping the rod, feeling that cold power nip at his hand, was the only way he could convince himself it was all still a dream. This land could not be true, and its horrors were a cruel jape by the bastard gods. Jingle had to laugh. The only thing that kept him hopeful was the terrible power that cursed him in the first place. He threw the bottle into the fire. The next bottle was open before it had shattered.

Some bottles later, there was a knock at the door. “Enter.” What fell out of Jingle’s mouth barely qualified as a word, the wine had slurred it so much. Still, Rumjugs opened the door. He had his paint on, and tipped the ridiculous hat he wore. The wretch seemed eager, and he spoke quickly, “Boss, there’s a Pick. They got something. Something fancy.”

“What do I care?”

“He says it opens portals, boss. To other places.” Jingle’s ears pricked. Sobering, he stumbled to his feet. His voice trembled. “Send him in. Now, right fucking now.” Rumjugs bowed, smiling as he did so. On his way out Jingle called out, “If this works Rum Jugs, you’ll be well rewarded. If this fails, I’ll make a husband for the Roseblade.” Rumjugs tried not to look at the head on Jingle’s desk, but the threat was well understood. He left.

A whip thin man, with rat-like eyes shuffled into the room, instantly sweating from the stifling heat that could not touch Jingle. He clutched to the item in his hand, something oddly shaped and wrapped in leather. Jingle motioned for the man to sit, and put his feet up. He eyed the human, his gold flecked eyes often unnerved the people of this place. Eventually the man would speak, and explain things.

It took longer than usual, but he soon began his nervous chatter, “Right so, look. You know, the Pick doesn’t tend to do many jobs outside of the wilds right? Right. Right, so, there I am, me and Pockets and Old Fizz. Talk comes from Korlam himself. Says there’s some mark, some fancy noble broad, willing to sell for some answers to some test at her fancy school or whatever. Well, we got documents right? We give it a check, and we got something that looks about right, right? So, we grab it and me and the lads, though Old Fizz is a woman, but not a lady, right? Ya get me?” The man winked. Jingle said nothing, but poured himself some more wine. As he sipped it, slowly, it became apparent to the man that Jingle was not going to speak. Wringing his hands, the man continued his long winded tale, “Well, anyway. We go, and I think to myself, Slip, Slip my boy, you can’t mess this up. Already botched a job a while back ya see, in the Duchies. Ever been? Well, it’s a shitshow over there, and we thought we’d be clever. We weren’t clever enough, been hiding ever since and Locks ended up going wacko.”

“But, like I say, ain’t no room for errors here. So, we go. Careful like. Meet the noble gal on the border right? She’s got this,” he lifted the package, “and we got the documents. Right, so, we make the exchange, think we got us an antique or something, right? Right. Well, as we grab it, a fucking arrow goes by, quick as you like. Barely misses the gal, think she was drunk to steady herself, she barely reacted. Barely. Right, but the thing is, the fucking thing is, arrows catches Old Fizz in the chest, poor bitch. She goes down, blood pumping, the girlie freaks, runs off, arrows keep flying. We duck and dive, me and Pockets and it looks like the end for Slip, but fuck me ole nan if we don’t get out of it.” Slip smiled now, hoping Jingle would join in the festivities, celebrating the man’s scrape with death. When he did not, Slip finally got to the conclusion of his winding, mostly pointless story, “Well, we run, and we got this thing, but no-one touches it. It’s too hot, Hoppy tells me to get gone, and just dump this thing, but we gotta get some money right? Anyway, mister, you interested?” Jingle smiled, and began to laugh. Slip took this as encouragement, and soon joined in.

In the middle of this camaraderie, Jingle grabbed the man's shirt, and pulled him across the desk, scattering the wine bottles and Evika’s head. Jingle’s voice was jovial, but still carried the slur of wine, “You bloody simpleton, you still haven’t told me what it is. Quickly now, or it’s your fucking head in the fire.” He did not let go.

Slip nodded, and spoke with uncharacteristic briefness. “Magic lute. Play songs, it opens portals to other planes. Thirty thousand and it's yours.”

“Prove it.” Jingle released the shirt, and Slip nearly fell into the desk.

“You what?”

“Play something. Open a rift.”

“Well, I mean, that’s a bit of a dangerous thing ain’t it, I’m not sure on the exact-” Jingle punched him square in the nose. It broke beneath his fist, and Slip reeled back, nearly falling into the fire. He looked up in time to see Jingle jam a knife into the table. It gleamed in the firelight. Jingle spoke again, chuckling, “Play the fucking lute, or I kill you. No words now, just play the lute.” Slip swallowed the blood pooling in his mouth, and nervously undid the packaging. The melody was amateur, barely passable as music. Each botched note grated on Jingle’s ears, and he had to grit his teeth to not smack the man again.

As his patience reached breaking point, there was a shimmering. It looked like heat from the fire at first, but its frequency increased. A hum began, and turned into a buzz, which grew louder. The air crackled with power, and the shimmering became like a curtain of air. It pulled back, and Jingle could no longer see his fireplace. Instead, he stared out at a field of grass, long and swaying. He could see strange creatures, half man and half horse, chasing each other and playing games.

Jingle felt the wine sour in his stomach as he noted that families were enjoying their life. Enjoying each other. Vomit rose in his throat and soon, the night of wine was scattered onto the wood. Still, he snatched the lute out of the man’s hands, the rift sealing shut just as the creatures on the other side noticed.

Rooting around in his drawer, Jingle threw a bag of gold at the fool on the floor. He plucked a string or two, “Now, get the fuck out. I suppose I have many tunes to learn.”

~~~~~~

A hundred tunes. A thousand tunes. Music, clear and beautiful, would slink down the hall, emanating from the study that all the Jesters knew to not enter. No matter the sounds, the crying, the begging. Anyone who entered that room did not leave.

For the two guards at the end of the hallway, it was just another night. They waited for the inevitable crash, the smashing of furniture and breaking of bottles. The frustration. After that would come the laughing. Shrill, devoid of any actual joy, like nails scraping across steel.

One of the men, one his fourth night of this duty, risked a sigh. It had been years and the pattern did not change, the joke was always the same.

There were just too many notes to play, too many songs to learn. So many night skies to ponder and desperately wish for recognition. Far too many empty tears spent, looking for the sound of home.

Finally, the crash. It seems the music would continue for at least another day.

~~~~~~

Had the whole world gone crazy? His own men stood against him, apparently having enough of his rule. Tekanet had some of them pinned down, but he needed help.

Jingle gripped the shard rod and channelled it, maintaining the song playing on the Lute. That done, he jumped into the fray. He disappeared in a puff of leaves and surprised one of the traitors by appearing next to him. They traded blows, and it was clear these impudent worms could not stand up Jingle’s mastery. “Why? Why now? Can’t you see, I just want to go home?” He pulled at his ears, and laughed away his anguish. He wanted to weep, but it couldn’t be done anymore.

The fight continued, and Jingle could see Tekanet getting wounded. He had to do something, he needed to kill these idiots. His own quarry had slipped away and Jingle was spinning around, trying to find him, kill him. He spied the bastard too late, the traitor ran at him, his hand glowing with strange power.

The slap felt like it shredded Jingle’s soul to pieces. There was darkness, an unending void. He felt nothing, heard nothing, saw nothing. Perhaps this was death, not the peace he wanted, but probably the peace he deserved. He tried to laugh, but nothing happened. He tried to weep, and nothing happened. There was just void, and thought. He could hear the song, the song that was always in his head. The one his mother had wept the day he was lost. He knew, down to his bone, that she wept it still. He had to get back to her.

A thousand years passed. Just Jingle, and the failures of a boy called Jennick. Oh, cruel fate, let him unravel! Let the madness finally rot him down to the core, and drag him down into the oblivion of unknowing. For all his posturing, his acting, he had never been truly mad. He had never been that almost comical level of disconnectedness. He felt everything, but all he could do was laugh. The world had been a joke for too long. Life was a joke, and so he made a mockery of it. Was he wrong to strip away the lies of justice, morality, and safety? Now, that would be truly funny. To show the truth, and be called a dissenter. A monster. Maybe he was. Jingle was unsure if he even cared anymore. It was just blackness now. Now and forever.

But it was not to be, peace and the torture of self introspection were not to be his forever. He blinked, and suddenly it was all there. Skin, blood and bone, his laughter and the tears on his face. Looking around, it became apparent he was in some sort of library. The chair he was cradled in was fine leather, and Jingle rocked slowly in it. He tugged at his ears, and wailed. It was then he became aware of others. The traitor that had slapped him was here, murkily hiding behind a sheet of pure glass. There was a collar around his neck, and it was clear he was subservient in this place. His master was obviously the… thing… sat in the chair opposite Jingle.

It could almost pass as a gentleman. Its clothes were fine, and it appeared relaxed and used to such finery. However, the large, bloodied, tusks that jutted from its mouth betrayed its savagery. The skin was a deep green, and it grew darker around the eyes, which truly reflected the nature of the beast. Jingle could see a thousand wars in those eyes. Fire and death. Bloody conquest, and all the foul rewards that reaps. A thousand deaths, a thousand times, screamed behind the eyes of this thing. The sheer brute power of this creature devastated Jingle. Unable to comprehend it fully, Jingle wept. Truly and deeply. Grief and anguish cascaded out of him, and it would not end.

“What do you want?” The thing's voice was muffled by its large tusks, and there was the promise of endless power in its timber. Jingle barely held himself together and could do nothing but answer honestly, “I want to go home. To see my mother.”

“Will you let me in? If I give you that?” The thing held out its hand. As simple as that. The blood and pain and death, rendered moot in a second. Jingle could barely believe salvation would come so easily, “You will take me home? Truly?”

“Yes. Truly. A partnership. Home, and then service.” Hope, barely breathing, fluttered in Jingle’s heart, and he grabbed the hand.

Suddenly, he was back in the room. The fight had not progressed a second. Jingle tried to turn around, to check on Tekanet, but he could not. His vision was slightly dull, like he was looking through a dusty window. The chill in his back burned, as Jingle soon realised he was not in control. Of its own volition, his hand was raised, and magic channelled through it. Jingle felt his own abilities being accessed and modified by the ancient knowledge of the creature he had let in. “Home, then.” The world leapt.

When he was younger, when he was a boy called Jennick, he had loved leafale. It had a rich, earthy, scent and tasted faintly of raspberries. It was not until the smell of it filled his nostrils, that Jennick had realised how much he missed it. A bone deep longing that had helped fuel the melancholy that kept Jennick as Jingle. But now, the smell rubbed Jingle away, and left only Jennick. The boy. He could hear the voice, it spoke to him, “Look around. Home. As you wanted. Let us find your mother.” They walked through the village. It had been years, but for a Fae that was hardly any time at all. However, it should have still been rebuilt.

This place was dead. Gone. The huts smouldered. Bones bleached in the sun. Jennick began to gibber in his own mental prison. Surely not. Surely, they did not all die? Could no one help them? His body carried him, against his will, against his black dread, to the centre of the village. Where the ice had landed. Each step revealed more destruction, ancient and forgotten by nature. Flowers grew in the ruins of his hut. Dogs had carried off bones. There had been no-one left to care. Against belief, spitting in the eye of what should be reasonable, the ice still stood. However, it had changed. Holes peppered the surface. No longer a smooth block of power, now it resembled a den for worms. Things had crawled out of that ice, horror after horror. Jennick’s body continued past the monument to the demise of his people.

Each step stabbed at Jennick’s soul. Do not. Please, do not show me this. I don’t want it. Let me believe I was right. Time seemed to slow, giving Jennick the fullest of time to contemplate what his worst nightmare might be, and how close to true it was. Jennick’s body, despite the raving and rallying of Jennick himself, kicked at the skulls of his friends. Ponderously, it reached a pile of bones. They had been scattered by winds and animals over the years, but what was unmistakable was the spear of ice pinning the spine to the floor, and another in the skull. Jennick could not believe it, and the creature knew that, and pointed. Twenty feet back, in the dirt near the ice, there was an old, dried pool of blood. Grass had grown through it, but the stain was unmistakable. It was blood, Jennick’s blood, and in direct line of sight, the bones in front of them.

Mother.

She had not wept or sung. She had died at the same time he was taken. There had never been anything for him to come back to. His home, his goal, had never been true. He had killed. Fought. Tortured. Slaved. Oh, the horrors he had committed would forever be etched into his essence. When he fell into whatever dark wheel of hell was twisted enough to contain him, he would scream out his atrocities for all eternity. The falling away of his beliefs, his hopes, meant he was nearly deaf to the creature speaking. “There, home. Mother. My deal is done, and now you serve me. Well, your body does.” The world leapt again and the truth of what had happened to Jennick now battered him in truth. That moment of salvation had cost him everything, and now he could not even die. His life would be spent serving this thing, a watcher to his own life. Horrors still to commit, death still to be dealt, all at his hand, without his mind. He had become in truth, what he had been pretending to be this entire time, disconnected. Mad. Oh, now, that was funny.

That was very funny.