Only a few leaves remained on the great oak tree which the old man had instructed should mark the site of his grave. The fever had gripped him for three nights and days: but he was comforted by the presence of his daughters, and their families, standing vigil by his bedside.

They had kept him hidden these past few years: and none had betrayed this most hunted and hated of Welshmen to the English king. His fate would not be that of Owain Lawgoch, last of the ancient line of the House of Gwynedd, assassinated in France by an English spy. Nor would it be like that of Dafydd ap Gruffydd, brother of Llywelyn the Last, who had been dragged through the streets of Shrewsbury, before becoming the first notable person to suffer that most heinous and barbaric of deaths: judicial murder by hanging, drawing and quartering.

No, this Welsh rebel would die peacefully in bed. His rebellion had been the longest and most fiery of Wales’ mediaeval wars for independence, and the one that had come closest to achieving its aim: three years had passed since it had effectively burnt itself out. A new king had come to the throne of England, one who had struck a more conciliatory tone than his perpetually insecure father. Royal pardons had been offered, and had come to the attention of the weary old rebel, but he had scoffed at them. Though his dreams had been shattered, at least he would die a free man of Wales. He would not bend the knee to the new English king, even if the news accompanying the final pardon spoke of Henry V’s great victory over the French on the field of Agincourt.

He peered at the parchment lying across his lap through weary eyes, and chuckled gently. ‘My joints are far too enfeebled to permit me to bend the knee to anyone now,’ said Sychath’s greatest son.

*

Two nights later the final chill had come upon him. On the third evening of fever, he lay abed, gazing up at his three ever-faithful daughters. His sons, alas, were lost to him. His firstborn, Gruffydd, had been taken prisoner by the English, and had died from bubonic plague in the Tower of London three years before. Three of his other four sons - Madog, Thomas, and John - were also dead, or taken captive. Of his sons, only Maredudd remained at liberty, hiding somewhere in the mountain fastness of Gwynedd, reduced to the level of meagre banditry in his continuing futile resistance to the English. None of his sons had sired heirs: the old man knew that, with his passing, the male line of descent from the royal dynasties of Wales would surely fail.

His daughters, at least, were safe. Alys, Janet and Margaret had all found English husbands amongst the gentry of Herefordshire. It was here, in the home of Alys and her husband, Sir John Scudamore, Sheriff of Herefordshire, that the wily old fox had found a final bolthole. If only the young English king knew, that one of his most faithful servants in the Marches, had secretly married the daughter of a Welshman - and the most notorious Welshmen at that! Love is a mysterious thing, pondered the old man drowsily. I’m in the last place the king would think to look for me: and I am safe. If only my beloved homeland could be so!

‘Fear not, Owain,’ spoke an unfamiliar young voice from the crowd assembled around his bedside: ‘We know of the hiraeth you feel. You can rest now. Your labours have not been in vain.’

Who was that who had spoken?

The old man struggled to raise his head - surrounded as it was by comforting pillows - and, concentrating as best he could, tried to focus his uncertain gaze upon the attentive crowd. They looked different, somehow. In place of his daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren, a strange assembly of figures were standing there. The dress of most of them was unfamiliar, outlandish even. Most - though not all of them - were smiling at him: as if encouraging him, soothing him, by their mere presence. They seemed to be standing slightly apart from one another, as if only half-aware that they were part of a greater company. Their focus was firmly fixed upon him. One of them, he realised, was richly dressed, in a manner not entirely unlike the way he himself had once dressed, at his court at Glyndyfrdwy: though not even at his coronation had he been arrayed as splendidly as this figure was. Here before him stood the imposing figure of a great - if somewhat portly - king.

‘Hail, cousin,’ cried the king, laughing heartily. ‘Rest easy, knowing that the red rose and the white will be united, and the white dragon and the red will wage war no more. The Sons of Penmynydd will sit upon the throne of England. Camelot will rise anew.’

Next to the king, another figure, younger, much slimmer, was also dressed in princely garb, though less sumptuous than that of the merry monarch. ‘Mamma thought a crash course in y Gymraeg and a term at Aberystwyth would suffice to win over the hearts and minds of the Welsh towards their newest prince,’ the young man announced dolefully. ‘But, alas, it takes more than an investiture ceremony in an English-built castle of occupation to achieve that. I may bear the title, for a while: but you were the last true Prince of Wales, old man.’ There was a look of grave respect upon his face, but also deep sadness.

‘They drowned our valley, then stole our water,’ chimed another, bitterly, ‘But we do not forget. Cofiwch Dryweryn.’

‘We laboured in the darkest pit,’ continued a fourth figure, ‘not just us, but for many generations our children.’ His face was blacked, and he was wearing strange headgear, from which a dim but discernible light was radiating out, blending with the glow of the dozen candles flickering across the old man’s bedroom. ‘The dust blackened our lungs, the rocks scarred our bodies. Four hundred of us died beneath the earth in one day at Senghenydd alone. As for Aberfan–’ the man stopped speaking for a moment and swayed silently, as if overcome with emotion, before continuing: ‘But as we toiled underground, we also built the finest communities overground. We became a land of chapel and of song…’

‘And of rugby,’ interrupted a younger man, with a mischievous demeanour. His clothes were different, again, exposing more skin than any of the others, and he was mostly arrayed in red and white. Tucked under his right arm he held a strange elongated bladder-shaped object. But this was no court jester, despite his garb. ‘They sang Bread of Heaven in the stand, and angels wept at their rapture; we played on the pitch, and devils quaked at our determination.’

‘I was determined too,’ said the eldest individual. He had a once-impressive, now thinning head of white hair. He declaimed (somewhat imperiously): ‘I was inspired by Gandhi and King. And by you, of course. I threatened to go on hunger strike if they didn’t give us the Welsh language television channel they had promised us. They gave in. I was President of Plaid for thirty-six years, but that was the crowning moment of my life. Cymru am byth.’

‘And I walked twenty-six miles barefoot over hills and valleys to buy a book,’ said a young girl softly, clad in the traditional chequered shawl that Welsh women had worn virtually unchanged for generations. ‘But not just any book. They called me: y Gymraes fechan heb yr un Beibl. The Welsh girl without a Bible. But my story led to the foundation of societies that would take the word of God throughout the whole world.’

‘And it wasn’t just the Word that went out from Wales.’ This new voice belonged to a smiling sun-drenched brown skinned woman who spoke with a peculiar accent, neither Welsh nor English. ‘The people went too. And they built Y Wladfa, on another continent, remote and cold. But it was home. Buenas noches, dulce príncipe, descansa en paz.’

The bedridden old man could stay silent no more. ‘What manner of words are these?’ Tremulous and rasping though it might be, there was unmistakable awe and wonder in his faltering voice. ‘What portends do they present before my eyes? Visions from hell?’

‘No, not hell. Nor, indeed, of heaven - despite what Gareth Edwards might say.’ There was a languid mocking tone in this new voice. It belonged to the last of this strange crowd, a dishevelled figure with a bulbous nose, and messy hair, who was standing most markedly apart from all the others. ‘He may have been the greatest player ever to don a Welsh rugby shirt: but I’m the wordsmith, the heir to Taliesin, not him.’

‘Taliesen was never described as a roistering, drinking and doomed poet,’ said the imperious elder severely.

‘True, Gwynfor,’ said the younger man. ‘But as for you, Owain: take some small comfort, if you can, from my words. Dead men naked they shall be one / With the man in the wind and the west moon / Though lovers be lost love shall not / And death shall have no dominion.’

‘Romans chapter 6, verse 9,’ said the young girl, and the old man realised that she was the one who had first spoken to him. ‘Worry not for the future of Wales, Owain. The universities, the Senedd, the dream of a people proud and free - it will all come to pass. Because you did not give up, because you remained defiant to the end, we shall not give up either. Cymru am byth.’

‘But who will become prince in my stead?’ The weary freedom fighter gasped, straining heavily with the effort of speaking. These strange interlopers - from another time or place, he could not say - they had to hear his urgent words, even if they were to be his last. ‘The royal Houses of Gwynedd, Powys, Deheubath: I am the last of their lineage. My sons have no heirs. Though we may not not yield to the Enemy, our deepest longings remain unfulfilled. After a thousand years of striving against the invader from the East, what hope remains for the land, for the people, without their prince?’

It was the white-haired elder who responded. ‘We are Meibion Glyndŵr - the Sons of Glyndŵr. All of us. We have no need for princes now. You will never be forgotten, though we know not where lies your grave. What need is there to know where they have buried your body? You cannot bury a dream. In the hearts of your people, you will always remain alive. You will always be our Prince.’

The old man closed his eyes.

‘You will always be our father,’ sobbed Alys. He opened his eyes again, but this time it seemed to him that he was standing there, with his three daughters and their families, looking down upon himself. Of the mysterious visitors, there was neither sight nor sound. He was there, alongside Alys, Janet and Margaret. He was staring down at the body of Owain Glyndŵr, last native-born Welshman to hold the title Tywysog Cymru - Prince of Wales.

*

The next morning, they laid him to rest beneath an English oak tree - the irony of it! The precise spot that he himself had chosen. No gravestone would mark the site of the burial: though six hundred years and more might pass away, and a new millennium come, still his descendants would honour their promise to provide an inviolate sanctuary for Sychath’s greatest son. They stood in silence as the priest intoned the burial rite in Latin. As he concluded the service, a chill east wind whistled through the creaking branches of the tree, and with a sigh the last remaining leaf broke free and fluttered down into the open grave.

Unmarked by the grieving family, nine further onlookers - muses and witnesses from the future for which he had laid the foundations - watched as the final deed was done. They also said nothing for an age, waiting until the mourners had dispersed. Then at the last one of them turned his gaze heavenward. Slowly, in his deep sonorous voice, he said:

‘When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone / They shall have stars at elbow and foot / And death shall have no dominion.’

***

Commentary:

Owain Glyndŵr was descended (through the male line) from the Princes of Powys, and (through the female line) from the Princes of Gwynedd and Deheubath: the three main principalities of mediaeval Wales. His rebellion (1400-1415) was the most protracted and most nearly successful of all the Welsh wars of independence waged in the Middle Ages. Although it sounds extraordinary that ‘Wales’ most wanted man’ was able to spend his final years in seclusion just across the border in England, there’s good grounds for believing the story to be true. Descendants of his daughters continue to be around today (most notably the descendants of John and Alys Scudamore).

The nine characters from Owain’s future are King Henry VIII, second king of the Tudor dynasty that was distantly related to Glyndŵr; Prince Charles of Wales (now King Charles III), seen musing on the mixed response to his investiture as Prince of Wales in 1969 at Caernarfon Castle; a witness to the drowning of Tryweryn, a Welsh village destroyed to create a reservoir in 1965 to provide water for England, acting as a spur to Welsh nationalism; a coal miner who reflects on the mining disaster in Senghenydd (1913), the greatest industrial accident in British history, and the Aberfan disaster (1966), the collapse of a colliery spoil tip in Wales on a primary school; Gareth Edwards, widely acknowledged as one of Wales’ greatest rugby players in the 20th century; Gwynfor Evans, President of the nationalist party Plaid Cymru, whose threatened hunger strike was instrumental in securing the launch of a dedicated Welsh-language television channel, S4C, in the UK in 1982; Mary Evans, a 16-year-old girl whose determined quest to obtain a Bible of her own in 1800 led a few years later to the foundation of the British and Foreign Bible society; a descendant of the Welsh colonists who settled in Patagonia from 1865 onwards; and Dylan Thomas, the most famous Welsh poet of the 20th century (here speaking lines from his poem ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’, inspired by Romans 6:9). Why nine? Because they’re Muses, of course.

Various Welsh words and phrases are peppered throughout this piece, which functions as a companion-piece to my last effort, ‘The Dragon’s Son’. The most significant of these is ‘Hiraeth’ - a Welsh word that is difficult to translate into English, the nearest approximations being ‘longing’ or ‘homesickness’. The title here - ‘One Last Hiraeth’ is also a play on the English phrase ‘One Last Hurrah’ - which this is, of course, for Owain.

Owain Glyndŵr was born at Sycharth in North Wales in 1354. His burial site (probably in 1415) remains unknown to this day. Unless - perhaps - you’re a Scudamore.

Chapter 5:

Ashton marched to Carson’s office. Heart racing, worries flooded through his mind. Cole stood against a wall in the main building. His arms were crossed against his chest and a smirk was plastered onto his face.

His eyes fell on Ashton and they locked with one another for a moment. Cole smirked again. “Good luck,” a sinister laugh came with his next words, “You’ll need it.”

Ashton tugged against the collar of his coat. The fabric rubbed against his throat, adding to his nerves. “Come in, Ashton.” Carson called, his hands splayed on the desk.

“Good afternoon, sir.” Ashton stepped in.

Carson looked up at the young man. His dark eyes flashed angrily at Ashton, sending a warning. “I’ve heard rumors.”

“Rumors, sir?” Ashton masked a look of innocence onto his face. Yet, a feeling of dread wrapped its fingers around his heart.

“Yes, rumors.” Carson growled. “I’m in no mood for games. Did you, or did you not speak with Sage Bennett before her transport?” His fingers rapped impatiently against the desk.

Ashton gulped. He didn’t answer.

“Ashton.” Carson stood and rounded the desk to face him. “Answer the question.”

“I did, sir.” He bit his tongue and held back slashing words.

“Why?” Carson’s hand instinctively laid on his gun’s handle in the holster. The holster hung from his belt, the handle of the gun rested just above his hip.

“I needed to have a word with her about her work.” He spat out.

“You’re lying, Ashton.” Carson flashed a small smile. A mockingly sweet tone peppered his voice, “You know what I think of lying.”

Ashton gulped, his face started to pale. “Sir, I-“

Carson narrowed his eyes and pulled the gun from his holster speedily. “The truth, Ashton. Or you can choose a slow, painful punishment.” He aimed the gun at Ashton’s shoulder.

Ashton instinctively whipped out his gun, pointing it at the chief. Carson cocked the gun, his voice was deadly. “Ashton, put the gun away. And tell the truth.” A snarl twisted his face. “Now.”

Ashton aimed the gun at Carson, his hands shook as he cocked it and placed his finger onto the trigger. “Put the gun away.” He hissed, “Tell me the truth.”

Carson’s aim held steady at Ashton’s right shoulder, Ashton slowly lowered his gun and pointed it to the floor. His muscles were tense, ready to spring it up again. “I told you. I was talking to her about her work orders. I informed her she would be transferred for a couple days.” His heart raced.

“That’s not what Cole told me.” Carson growled, taking a step up to Ashton. “He said you and Miss Sage Bennett were making escape plans. You were scheming to kill me, take down each of my soldiers one by one, and take over the camp.” His eyes flashed. “Then, you could free everyone.”

Ashton started to raise his gun, but thought better of it. “I assure you, I had no such contact with Sage about that.” His jaw tightened. “We talked strictly about work orders.” Ashton steeled his glare and looked Carson in the eyes, “We both know Cole has a reputation for creating and spreading rumors, sir.”

Carson laughed and lowered his gun for a moment. “You are right about that.” He de-cocked the gun, as did Ashton, and they both re-holstered them. “I want to speak with Cole.” Anger spiced his voice. “Where is he?”

“He was outside when I came here, sir.” Ashton straightened.

Carson twisted the door open, “Garris! Get Cole in here. Now.” He shut the door again and looked at Ashton, “You may stay here. I need a witness to Cole’s words.”

Cole marched into the office moments later. His green eyes darted around and landed on Ashton. He scowled before shutting the door. “Reporting to your office, sir.” He growled.

“Cole, Cole.” Carson clucked pitifully. His boots clicked against the floor and he stopped across from the now shaking young man. “You know what I think of rumors being spread.”

A bead of perspiration dripped down Cole’s cheek. His face reddened and his hand sat on his gun holster. “I-I don’t know what yo-you mean s-sir.” He stammered nervously.

Studying his nails for a moment he spoke, “You know exactly what I mean. You set a bad reputation for sharing rumors and lies, it gets you into trouble.” His eyes flashed maliciously. Carson’s hand pulled out his gun and lightening speed and aimed it at the young man..

“Sir, please.” Cole pleaded. He didn’t pull out his gun, he knew he wouldn’t be able to shoot faster than Carson.

Carson cocked the gun. “I gave you a chance. You blew it. I gave you a second chance, you also blew it. They say third times a charm, but you’ve shown it’s not.” His finger twitched on the trigger. “Three strikes –– you’re out.” He growled.

Cole blabbered, sweat started to dampen his hairline. “Please, ju-just give me one more chance,” He begged. “Please I promise I'll be better-“

Carson growled under his breath and re-holstered his gun again. “Get out of here.” He waved his hand. “If I hear you spread rumors such as this again, I will be sure you never set foot on this camp again, or any other.”

~*~

“Obviously, having your daughter here isn’t much use, is it?” Maverick snarled. “Take her back to the camp.” He hissed. “I have no more need of her here. It’s no use.”

The guard smirked and dragged Sage out of the door. “Sir-“ Maverick interrupted him with a nod and a flash of the eyes. The guard’s smirk grew larger.

Sage followed, cringing in pain. He stopped her outside and pushed her against a wall. His eyes glimmered at her. “So, you’re a trouble-maker, huh?”

Sage gulped as he leaned close to her face and blocked her from moving away. “Looks like you need-“

“Harlen!” A male voice chuckled from the shadows. “You’re taking orders all by yourself?”

Harlen scowled and turned around. “Oh shut up.” His body shifted and he turned to face the man.

Sage snuck away from the wall then started running. Her feet flew and she ran out of the prison. “We have an escapee!” Screams sounded from guards all around.

Harlen pulled out his gun and a bullet whizzed past Sage’s head. Her feet flew faster. She ran outside of the prison. Guards pulled out their guns and started aiming at her feet or arms. They didn’t dare kill her.

Sage looked behind her and suddenly bumped into a strong muscular body. Steel like arms wrapped around her waist and stomach. “Settle down.” A voice hissed. Sage panted and twisted again in the man’s grip.

Harlen marched up to her a growl spiced his voice. “Trying to escape?” He cupped her chin and tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. Defiant eyes glared back at him. “We’ll see what Maverick has to say about that.” He pulled out a walkie talkie device and radioed his boss.

“We have an escapee –– the girl.” He announced to Maverick.

A voice came back staticky and annoyed. “This isn’t her prison, you take her to Carson and he deals with her.” A beep sounded.

Harlen scoffed. “Get in.” He pushed Sage into a car. She slid across the seat, trembling as the burly guard scooted in next to her.

In moments they arrived to the other prison yard gates. They were let in and Harlen harshly marched Sage to the main office. Ashton stood outside the office. “Is Carson in?” He asked while gripping Sage’s shoulder.

Ashton glanced at Sage’s face, while she was stern and stoic, he saw determination in her eyes. “Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?”

Harlen glowered. “I took her to Maverick and she is charged with attempted escape from the prison as I was ready to transport her. Maverick dismissed her and I started to grab her but she ran-“

The office door swung open and Carson marched out. “Sage..” He crooned. “Lovely of you to make an appearance.” He motioned for them all to enter.

Ashton strode in, Sage walked in front of Harlen. His grip sent aches of pain up and down her arm. “What’s the problem, Harlen?” Carson took a seat at his desk and whirled a pen between his fingers. His dark eyes flashed and landed on Sage’s straight figure for a moment before turning to the guard.

The man relayed the events from moments earlier. Carson nodded and dismissed Harlen. “Thank you.” He waved him away.

Ashton stared at Carson before speaking. “What’s your plan sir?” He asked gruffly.

Carson chuckled and stood from his desk, coming around to Sage. She brought her eyes to meet his for a moment then quickly averted them. He saw the determination in her eyes. Yet he sensed a hint of fear in her. “She needs to learn.” He grunted as he grabbed her chin and tilted her head up.

“Learn what?” Sage spat the words in Carson’s face. “How to work like an animal? How to be exhausted, and be tortured? How to be a slave to all you ugly, disgusting people?” Her eyes were defiant, fearless. “Learn how to be a human robot, obeying your every command?”

Carson gasped, sarcasm laced his voice. “Sage! My dear, you don’t understand.” He walked around her and talked, his boots clumping with every step. “This camp was set up to keep the world a better place. Secrets don’t help anyone. Ever. They’re dangerous. The world is a dangerous place.”

Sage’s eyes followed his every move, bracing for what might come next. “We’re merely trying to sort out the secrets. Lying never helped you get through life, did it? It only made it worse. The time you lied about stealing a cookie, and then later felt guilty. Or maybe a time you lied to yourself.” A pause. “Tsk-tsk.” He clucked, “You must learn, things work differently here. You work, we earn. You talk, we learn.” His eyes stared into hers for a moment. “You hide secrets, we find them out."

Ashton watched, trying to maintain his composure. He saw what Carson was doing –– trying to brainwash her, make her see things his way. It scared him more than the other horrors he witnessed. Carson glanced at the young man. “Take her back. She’s still new.” His dark eyes locked onto hers. “Still adjusting.”

Sage suppressed a sneer at the chief and turned to Ashton. He opened the door and shoved her out it, then pushed her to get outside. Once they were clear of any eavesdroppers and other guards, Ashton grabbed her shoulder. He turned her around to face him. “Are you insane?” He almost screamed in her face.

She didn’t flinch. “I can’t let him win. I won’t back down.” Her bright green eyes grew more defiant and fearless. “He took my life away, he took my family away.” She whispered harshly. “If you want to let him win, then fine. Be my guest. But I’m not backing down.” Her back turned away from him. “I’m done being afraid. I’m done being an oh-so-obedient-slave. I’ve made up my mind.”

Ashton blew a frustrated sigh and ran a hand through his slicked back hair. “Listen, I know you want to fight back. But this isn’t the way to do it. He could kill you!” He grabbed her arm but she shook it away. “We have to play it safe, please. I know how Carson works, and what he’s capable of. Please, just listen to me!”

She started marching ahead of him, her stubbornness and defiance clear. “You do your job, and I’ll do mine.” Her voice hissed at him.

He walked behind her, frustration building up inside. Why was she so hard headed? So stubborn! As long as he could remember she’d always had a fiery temper. While she tended to be meek at first, her temper soon revealed itself. The stubbornness always showed through. He knew Sage, and was afraid of what she might do. Yet, he feared more so of what Carson could do to her.

Her excitement mounted in her chest like a lovely blossoming flower as she went quickly behind the wall through the employees-only door, into the backstage where the magic happened. Humming softly, she pulled out the supplies for the coffee. The cheery little bell went off at the door, and Frankie peeked her head through the window to the main part, on a high with the first customer of the day.

Her heart plummeted. Ah, Evangeline; the only one Frankie wished was never employed.

She frowned and ducked her head before the other girl smiled at her. She was always outwardly cheerful, almost as though she had no other emotion. She was always serene, she was somehow on another level above everyone else. She was just not…human. She was too perfect. Even her lovely fire curls were nearly perfect, unlike Frankie’s wild brown hair that claimed to be straight. Evengeline was short, never wore jewelry, and had hips too wide for convention, but Frankie still somehow struggled to contend with her, despite having the body of a model and jewelry chosen by the careful eye of Wolf. Worse, everyone loved Evangeline. Frankie could have sworn her face glowed in the dark. Heck, her whole body might as well at this point.

Frankie let herself scowl before Evengeline walked behind the door into the kitchen. Now it suddenly felt like someone was intruding in her home, her space. She shot her a glare as the other girl accidentally dropped a bag of flour from the cupboard above them near her supplies. No, not even this time did Evangeline appear fazed. No matter how many times Frankie tried, no matter how biting her comments, Evangeline was never fazed. She was impenetrable, like Wolf. She was predictable, unlike Wolf, who was unpredictable except in that he went with the flow of the moment.

“Fran!” James called from the storeroom, startling her from her daydream. “It’s 7:30! The first customers will be coming soon!”

Evangeline was a waitress. She would be leaving Frankie’s realm soon.

She sighed in relief. This was one of the best parts of the day. Frankie fully enjoyed her job—once Evangeline left, it was perfect. The smells, the comforting familiarity of the schedule, James the baker giving her a leftover treat as she left at the end of the day. Her spirits lifting again, she snuck in the earbud she always kept in her apron pocket and carefully placed her hair over it. There, that always drowned out anything she couldn’t handle, made work with Avery the cashier yelling at her bearable. She glanced over her shoulder, and slipped her phone into her skirt pocket after putting on Clash of Light and Doom from her newest grunge band. Bobbing nearly imperceptible, memories flooded her mind with the song. She had been listening to it when she heard very good news indeed.

Today was Friday. Wolf was going to take her to his buddies after work, for one of their parties. She had just bought a snazzy dress for the occasion, since there was a birthday in the group. It was going to be the biggest smash yet. She couldn’t wait—today was going to be perfect.

Another minute, and the bell went off again. Frankie let herself smile as Evangeline disappeared behind the wall. Now, she had full reign over the coffee making. Just her, the process, and everything was in her control. Her little sphere of dominion. Such a small and insignificant realm, but anything to satisfy her thirst for autonomy. One day the kitchen, next day the management, she thought giddily. A spot was opening up in the higher ranks, but before Jace Brandish, the aged sole proprietor retired, he was going to choose someone to take his place, and it was going to be her.

All of a sudden, there was another. A bright-faced little girl (or so she seemed to Frankie) of about fifteen, a few years below her, with pale orange hair maddingly halfway between wavy and straight, and shockingly green-blue eyes brighter than headlights. Her face was speckled with an unholy smattering of freckles that at first looked like some kind of disease. After the shock, Frankie’s chest rose in offense; there was someone else in her space.

They call you a loveliness, but I don’t think that’s true.

Yes, you look splendid in your spotted red coats, with wings poking out in a hint of black lace, but your splendor does hide something wicked beneath.

You are a monster, truly.

A devourer.

A cannibal.

I release you into my garden, not because I like to look upon your colors, but so you will destroy.

I want you to feast on other small green, and white, and red little bodies.

I want you to devour their young until they are obliterated in my small corner of the world.

Oh, how I hate a purposeless insect.

But you are not that.

You are my wicked little friends.

You are the only creature with six legs permitted to crawl along my skin without being promptly batted at or, more likely, murdered without a second thought.

Your friend the mantis is also allowed to live, but never to touch, for her devouring spirit is not cloaked in pretty robes of red– her monstrosity is plain to see. She need not hide her true intent, being such a large, battle-adorned creature. But you are small: lovely.

You must be unassuming as you crawl across fingertips and freckled cheeks, for if one knew your true nature, surely such a little thing would not be allowed to live? To feast on soft bodies?

Yes, you look lovely, but the red on your back may as well be blood.

It is at the very least armor.

Perhaps that is why in every iteration of your name, they call you lady.

A pretty thing.

Unassuming armor to hide a hungry monster.

No.

You in mass form are not a loveliness, but rather a lethality– at least to the other garden bugs.

But.

I do know you. Deeply. You and I are not so different, are we?

That is why when I let you out, I found myself alight in genuine surprise…

Because I did not think: Monster. Beast. Cannibal. Destroyer.

I did not smile my usual wicked grin at the havoc you would unleash upon my garden foes.

Instead, as you crawled across the fingertips and forearms of my own little ladies, I could think of but one word:

Loveliness.

We perceive with our cosmic powers, but we do not use them to destroy worlds.

Old, or new.

We use our power to search for lost souls.

We try to go above and beyond as we carry on with our tasks in High Council work.

We have been around since before Genesis.

Before the very beginning of time...

Ah, see how the sun in the centre of the Milky Way shines on all there. Oh, see how powerful that light is, reaching even the farthest asteroid— the planetoid, -dwarf, or minor planet, Pluto.

Meanwhile, in a land far, far away from the Milky Way, a young warrior wishes to join the High Council, so she gathers her bags and charts her ship to the High Council’s planet, Nuben. While she is on her way, her ship misses its trajectory. Finding herself wandering space for aeons

Until she lands on another planet, Frith, Once she lands on Frith, she tries to breathe in its air, but her lungs feel like they are on fire!

The young warrior tries to cool her lungs with Frith’s cool waters. Her frown turns upside down as the swiftly moving waters extinguish the fire she felt.

A voice cries out to her from the calm planet’s starry evening sky; it lets her know that she will be okay. The voice also shares with her that even while she is on Frith, she can join the High Council; they are willing to let her be a member because she has taken the first step of a voyage to Frith, the High Council’s headquarters.

Now many more young warriors journey across the infinite pockets of space & time-travelling to infinity and beyond, Nuben, Frith, and the Milky Way!

#PEREGRINATIONS ©️

2nd June, 2023.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Ka_pLC7Svfo

I am the child who sits alone on rooftops, feet dangling, to watch the city burn to ash.

I am an alien observer of the intrinsic patterns of entropy played out in NYC taxi cabs speeding down broadway.

I am a heavy hearted widow,

awestruck and bewildered by

neon lights.

I am this ancient world

crumbling at the heels of

technology

my heartbeat the echo

of a small dying hummingbird

you're a good guy, I know.

it's evident in the way you smile.

a gentleman in your suit and tie,

but you can put me on trial.

I'll swear to the judge and jury,

all the sins that drip from my lips,

but I'll keep my favorite secrets,

like the evidence of your fingers on my hips.

They love you as a gentleman,

but I have loved you as so much more.

I'll wait for the light to finally shift,

Do they know what you've used that halo for?

but I've seen it, in the flashes,

dark flames creeping at your eyes-

rising when you steal glances at me.

in them, a devil in an angel's guise.

Those perfect blue eyes turn to ice,

drowning in your whiskey at night.

When you see me do you dream

how we must feel, late at night?

For a moment, do you imagine,

your hands tangled in my hair,

as I softly kiss every curve of your throat.

every sound falls like a prayer.

Do you imagine your restraint

tossed in the corner, next to your shirt?

What about my fingers wrapped around yours,

as I brush away all your hurt?

I would pour over every inch of you,

to hear your wildest desires.

and if desperation falls at our doorstep,

do we do the things it requires?

Sometimes, I swear I can feel your hand,

tracing the top of the slit in my dress.

and the higher and deeper you go,

the more I have to confess.

god, maybe you're just as dark as me,

and in each other, we find rays of sacred daylight.

One look and I already feel your hands in my hair,

oh, but you're a gentleman... right?

I’m ushered outside into the orange sun, towards the Poachers’ holding cart. The Poacher holds me by the wrist, two fingers resting against my skin like she’s taking my pulse, but I know better. One twitch of a finger and she’d inject me with the same sedative that she’d given Hunter.

I don’t fight her, not yet, but do twist in her grasp as we leave the tavern. I watch Tumek lead two robed figures in the opposite direction, scuffling across the orange sand. They’re struggling under the weight of Hunter’s unconscious form, both wearing robes painted with the overlapping cross symbol of NeRaeno. My chest tighten as I realize they’re dragging Hunter in the direction of the citadel’s center spires. It means that this Tumek is powerful, or has powerful friends.

The Poacher stops just outside the holding cart, facing me but not letting go. I stare into her golden eyes, refusing to look away, even as she gives me a pitying smile. “Weapons,” she demands, holding out a hand.

“I don’t have much to hand over,” I reply evenly, shifting my helmet in my arm to reach my belt.

Her fingers tighten on my wrist, and her eyes flash. “I will collect them.”

I instruct her to the locations of my weapons–a dagger and a baton–and she removes them from my person. My strongest weapon, however, she cannot take from me, and she knows it. The energy coursing just under my skin.

“If you cooperate, you might see your friend again,” the Poacher tells me, pushing me into the holding cart.

I bite my tongue and stumble inside, eyes adjusting to the darkness. It’s a covered travel cart with a metal cage door that the Poacher locks behind me. The inside is sparse: a bench on either side and a cloth maroon banner adorned with the Poacher’s six-pointed star emblem across the back.

Two people already sit inside. The first is a bulky creature with a breathing mask similar to Tumek’s, meaning that this air isn’t breathable to them. They keep their eyes downcast, their shoulders hunched. The second is a small form, a child, whose eyes go wide as the moon when I catch them looking at me. The child shivers, their pale, almost translucent skin darkening at the cheeks.

Within moments, the cart begins to move, rolling across the uneven ground, and I stumble back onto the bench.

* * * * *

If I’d had an internal ticker installed, I’d know how much time has passed. But I’ve never been a fan of cyber enhancements, nor seen the need. Not to mention that energy-bearing bodies like mine don’t tend to agree with internal wires and metal.

Eventually a Poacher comes to collect me, a different one than before. This one bears the mark of Coale on his forehead, denoting him as priest. I wonder briefly if they plan on using me in ritual, and then wonder beyond that whether Hunter has gotten himself tangled up in the Coale following somehow. With his track record, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Instead, he leads me to a small room with a dome-shaped ceiling, the only light a circular hole at the very top, too high to reach and too small to climb. The walls are all packed yellow earth, and unmarked. There is no furniture, but he gestures for me to sit. He has locked the door behind him, the key is in his left robe pocket, he carries no weapons but I could stab him in the neck or in the eyes with his own boot spurs if I could get my hands on them.

I relax my fingers, because they have tightened into curls, and I breathe out. Right now I am meant to be Hunter’s driver, or someone equally innocuous. Not a mercenary. We’ll see how long that charade lasts, if at all.

The Poacher’s eyes are set far apart, and he stares at me wordlessly with his golden irises. My sister Murien used to whisper tales at night, one being that a Poacher’s eyes turn more and more gold with every new creature they drain of life. I never believed her, but I almost wish it were true. The real reason, I came to learn, is because the Poachers drink fovva root, which is extremely poisonous, but grants enhanced speed and vision. In just a few years they will have gone mad or blind or both.

The Poacher priest, sitting on the hard ground across from me, holds up his index finger. It hovers between our faces, his eyes unblinking from the opposite side of the room, his face expressionless. I am not familiar enough with the Coale to understand the meaning of this ritual, but I can only assume that it marks me for death.

Energy hums underneath my skin, and I wonder how fast he can really move, how quickly someone else would come running if he cried out.

Suddenly, in a flash as if he were burnt, the Poacher is standing, maroon robes flying around his heels. He still has not said a word, but the finger remains positioned upwards, tilted as if pointing.

I glance up in time to see red dust fall down the hole from above me, polluting the air, as I scramble to put my helmet on. The priest has already fled the room, and the red dust cloud hungrily envelops me.

* * * * *

part 1: https://theprose.com/post/730796/somewhere-in-space

Distract me with words

Idioms of art

Silencing all but the beauty of prose,

Tailoring the library of my soul,

Reaching its dusty corners

And abridging the story therein.

Catalyst of imagination,

Tantalizing the real and unreal with

Idealistic words of conveyance and

Opulent recitations,

Never, please, cease to amaze.

Dancing across the parallel universes

Intuition tells me you are out there

Skirting the edges of my mind

Timing your arrival in microcosms

Racing through the galaxies

And stealing into my heart,

Carousing through my dreams

To serendipitously fill the void

In my soul.

Opulent, star-studded one,

Numbingly distract me into oblivion.