The Hog's Head smelled perpetually of spit, ale, and unwashed flesh. Passersby were mere shadows through the dingy windows; the rough tables might have existed only to give splinters. The place was more than a bar- it was a crossroads for the dark and the grasping and the vile. And to Joki it was more of a cozy haven than her family's mansion had ever been. Sitting at her usual table, her hood shadowing her face, she had an unlit cigarette in her lips and a drink at her elbow. Light from a single candle on the table flickered fitfully as Joki made notes in a journal with red binding.


Adam Wilde
- Believed drowned.
- Body not recovered.
- Seven years elapsed time.

Jang Ashby
- Dementor's kiss.
- Body in existence.
- Less than one year elapsed time.


She tapped her quill on the page idly, uncaring of the ink that splattered across the words. A brother, and a friend. Neither within her power to save. So why did she persist? She almost smiled as some words of Seville's came back to her.

"You're always going to be doing it for yourself."

He was right. The bodies stolen from muggle morgues, the long nights spent meticulously trying to discover what made them work, the countless forbidden books, the heartache, the dogged persistence- it was all for her. She wanted to be something better- something darker, stronger, more intrepid than the role she had been given in life. And she'd be damned if she didn't get it.

Joki Wilde was through with grieving.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

There was a pressing need for organization. Joki tapped her quill on the page of her journal. Before, the thought of sharing her ambitions would have caused her to recoil in fear and distrust. Not so anymore. She was beginning to realize the thrill of having fellow laborers and enthusiasts, united in a common goal.

She began to write a list of names. Beneath it, she listed what would be required: Silence. Fealty. A willingness to go as far as they must.

At the end she paused, thinking. A purpose must be clearly defined, or there would be chaos. In swift, sure strokes she outlined the premise of the fledgling group.

"We exist to study and to advance in forbidden schools of magic, primarily Necromancy, because we believe it to be the most sacred science."

Joki looked at the last two words. Sacred Science. She smiled.

At the top of the page she drew a cross made of a diamond at the center and four triangles at the corners. The lines were all connected, endless. The cross of infinity, to represent eternity.



Beside it, she wrote in a bold hand: Sanctus Scientia.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Joki backed up a step, the ruined wall stopping her. Aden moved in close, a wicked-looking dagger in his hand. Fear flickered behind the desire in Joki's eyes. She pulled the collar of her shirt to the left side, exposing the skin just below her collarbone.

"Joki . . . why?"

"For me. So I will never forget what I am doing."

She was trembling, a faint sheen of sweat on her face. Aden pressed his mouth against her ear. His voice was low and hard. "I am not going to make this easy for you. You will not forget it."

She could only nod.

"I was dead too." Aden whispered, lifting the knife. Joki gasped in pain as the blade bit deep into her smooth skin. Steadily, with cruelly relentless strokes, Aden etched the symbol of the Sanctus Scientia deeply into her shoulder.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

"Do you notice anything unusual? Anything different from the last one?" Joki asked breathlessly, trying hard to keep her impatience at bay.

Paul looked up at her coolly from the other side of the table. "You haven't left me much to work with. Perhaps if I had seen her before she was . . . in pieces."

Joki brushed her hair out of her eyes. "I do good work. If there is anything there, it would still be there."

"Perhaps if I knew what you were looking for." Paul was growing irritated with Joki's agitation.

She hesitated a moment, looking at the remains of the girl who had died from a snakebite right in front of her and Eglantina and Kevin the previous day. "This one isn't a muggle, Paul. She was . . . a student."

Paul cursed, summing up the situation perfectly.

"That's why I need to know if there is anything that's different from the others. I need to know the difference between our dead and theirs, if one is better to work with than the other."

"Well I can't tell you from just one," Paul replied frankly, "I'm going to need more."

"More?" Joki snapped angrily. "They're not exactly easy to get, unlike muggles. I haven't even been able to find a morgue at St. Mungo's."

"You want to know, you'll have to get me more. That's all there is to it." Paul wiped his hands on his gory apron, then changed his clothes with a tap of his wand. "Oh, and be quick about it, will you?"

The next few days blended together in a haze of frantic, failed attempts for Joki. Aden was busy on pursuits of his own, still trying to come to terms with his recent contact with death. There was really no one else to be concerned about her whereabouts, as long as she was in class on time. She haunted cemeteries. She tried St. Mungo's again, acquiring robes like those the healer witches wore and changing her hair color for a day to give her more access to rooms and wards. Still she had no luck. The morgue, if one even existed there, was well hidden and no doubt guarded by magic surpassing her own.

On the fourth night, she sat at the Hog's Head dulling her frustration on rum and cigarettes. Two tall Gryffindor boys came from the back room, talking together after a game of darts. She hardly noticed when one left and the other stayed behind, until she heard her name.

"So Joki, what can I get you to drink?"

Surprised, she looked up into the dark eyes of a slim male student whom she would never have expected to know her name, or care. She would soon learn that he knew much more than that about her- and that he just might be the solution to her problem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"As I said, I lack any real ambition. But I do have a constant need for mental stimulation. This has led me to pursue the study of Necromancy, which I am quite sure you are delving into."

"I am not delving into Necromancy." Joki replied automatically.

Gaius smiled at her from across the table. "Your immediate defensiveness would lead me to think otherwise."

Joki laughed, the merriment not quite reaching her eyes. "Gaius, listen to me. I am an alcoholic, a poor student, and a social nightmare. Defensiveness comes as naturally as breathing."

"That's why I can help you. I can explore opportunities that this . . . persona you have created for yourself bars you from."

"I don't like to get my hands dirty. Necromancy would not interest me." Joki answered flatly, lighting her sixth cigarette. "May I ask what interest you could possibly have in the subject yourself?"

Instead of immediately answering, the Gryffindor ordered Joki another drink. With a nod of thanks, she waited for him to continue.

"I can't imagine the thrill," he said gravely, his dark eyes locked onto hers, "of giving the greatest gift to something, and having it rise and thank you. Or having it do anything at all."

"It would be," Joki responded without thinking, "If I could only get that far."

Gaius smiled.

Too late Joki realized her mistake. She sat the glass down with a brittle grin. "Very clever."

"I knew you'd think of it like that." Gaius replied in his defense. "I am not out to get you. You merely confirmed what I believed, and I am glad."

The Slytherin girl passed a hand over her eyes wearily. "Did you know Jang Ashby?"

"I knew of him."

"Then you know what they did to him."

"Of course. But I believe he had no one but himself to blame. His actions were, needless to say, foolish."

"Jang was the biggest idiot I knew. But he was fearless." Joki's features tightened, each word was painful though her eyes remained dry. "There is no kindness extended to those who go their own way, Gaius. Every mercy is a lie. What they did to Jang, they could do to me, or to you if you really choose to pursue this."

"I do choose it." Throughout the conversation Gaius had busied his hands with a rubik's cube, solving it while they spoke. He stood and placed the cube in Joki's hands. "I have to go. Should you need me, have this out where I can see it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later Joki still sat in the Hog's Head, this time with Brennan Brask. She told him briefly of her meeting with Gaius.

"Do you trust him?" Brennan asked bluntly.

Joki took a drink of rum, composed though quite intoxicated. "I do not. But I'm a little desperate. I need you to keep an eye on him for me, find out what his agenda is, and if he is working with anyone. I believe he has some tie to Drith Silvermoon, but I don't know what."

"Spy on him?"

"If you choose to think of it like that, sure."

Brennan scratched his chin, obviously under the influence of some substance in true Brask/Wilde tradition.

"All right."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joki did not take long to accept Gaius' offer of help. The very next day she met with him and declared her need for wizard subjects. The questions he asked made her all the more suspicious of his intentions, as her answers no doubt did for him. She denied the location of a permanent workspace, and informed him that the people she worked with would remain anonymous, as would he.

"I only ask two things, Gaius. Do not fail me. And do not ever, ever lie to me."

The Gryffindor smiled and nodded an assent, but did not meet her gaze.

When they parted with his promise to deliver, Joki did not feel the elation she had expected. What she felt was a growing sense of dread.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Thomossa Wilde was dead. Joki twisted the letter bearing the news of her mother's death in her hands, then threw it into the fire. She should be sad, she supposed. But she really couldn't make herself feel anything about the woman who had never tried to be a mother. The thought of a week in the Wilde mansion with just her father was enough to make her skin crawl. Still, she knew she had to go.

She said her goodbyes to her small circle of friends over several rounds in the Hog's Head. Their latest drunken tradition was wearing their Halloween costumes while playing drinking games. The ridiculousness of the act was what appealed to them. It gave them something to laugh about at the end of long days and dark pursuits.

There was only time for a brief conversation with Regriam, who was growing more unstable by the day. After leaving her, Joki went to Knockturn Alley to pick up a few supplies.

With a sound like the crack of a whip Brennan apparated at Joki's side in the Alley, seeking the answers she'd promised him after the talk with Reg. "Is Regriam all right?"

Joki lit a cigarette, sheltering the flame from the rain. "There's something off. And it runs deep. I'm pretty sure she will be a killer."

"I thought as much." Brask replied grimly, crossing his arms.

"Brennan . . . you should know. I love Regriam, but I'll use her if I can."

"How could she be of use to you?" He looked at her evenly, willing her to tell him the truth.

"Supply and demand." Joki held his gaze, then looked up at the sky, letting the rain fall on her face. It was easier than facing the displeasure of this man she considered a brother.

"Supply and demand as it applies to your business does not appeal to me." Bren stated gruffly.

"But you surely know by now that it appeals to her."

"I know. Just make sure she's only the supplier and doesn't become part of the goods."

"What do you think I am, Brennan? I'd die for Reg, for you, for Aden in a second." Even as she said the words, Joki hoped that she truly meant them.

Bren sighed. "I know. I try to think good of you. Just . . . never can tell with you necromancer lot. The whole dark magic stigma and all."

"I'm not a fiend." The words came automatically, Joki had had to repeat them so often lately.

Brennan reached out a big arm and hugged her. "I know, Joki. I just don't want you to become one. Have . . . fun . . . at your mother's funeral."

Joki returned the hug lightly and pushed away. "Right. Tell Aden I missed him. See you."

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

This evening, thy sickly flesh has indolent langours;
Your gladiolus, beautiful between thy fingers, die.
This evening the storm broods, and the odor of limes
Through moments between opening , makes fade thy lips.

At the bottom of abandoned fields, eyes plunges
Under the one naked in shrouds, beginning to grow, we feel
This tragic solemnity it is to be alone
And our voices are covered with an anxious mystery.

-from This Evening by Albert Samain, trans. Kevin Germain

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The walls, floor, and ceiling of the Wilde family mausoleum were marble, blindingly white. Generations of Alexander's family rested in the walls, their names etched into bronze plates at the entrances to their chambers.

At the end of the vault an empty tomb bore the name of Adam Magan Wilde.

Alexander's hand was heavy on Joki's shoulder as they stood together by Thomossa's coffin, alone in the center of the mausoleum's main chamber.

"You look very much like her, aside from that freakish hair." Alexander's voice was low and rich, hushed as the sombre atmosphere of the vault demanded.

"I'm nothing like her."

The mounds of white roses surrounding Thomossa Wilde's body yielded their sickeningly sweet perfume.

"I hope you return to me after your schooling, Josephine. I would be glad for your company."

"So you can break me down one day at a time, too."

"You know I could help you. A daughter should be where her father is."

The terrible, twisting pain Joki felt was not for the loss of her mother. "Why this sudden desire to be a father? Not too many years ago you practically disowned me."

"I have thought of you every day."

"And I of you. I have thought of how happy I was to be away from you, how much better a man Aden is than you'll ever be, and wondered why you couldn't love me as you loved Adam." Joki spoke quietly, without rancor, as she studied Thomassa's drawn face. The vestiges of a faded beauty were not robbed by death, but enhanced. Unconsciously Joki moved closer to her father. Alexander's hand slid from her shoulder down her arm, taking her hand and pulling her to his side. The power of his presence drew her even in her loathing of him.

"Did you ever love her, even?"

Alexander's green eyes were not fixed on his dead wife, but on his daughter. "For a time, in my way."

A brief shadow of a smile flitted across Joki's lips as she recalled Angelique's summation of her character. "You're like a cat, Joki. You only love when it suits you."

Footsteps sounded in the atrium of the great tomb. The few remaining associates of the Wilde family were gathering to pay their last respects to Thomassa Demori Wilde.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

“I made her cry, did she tell you that? I tasted her tears, and oh, they were sweet . . .” The words she had hurled at him, her last gleeful attempt to wound. She had taken his beloved away and made her feel fear, uncertainty, doubt . . . she had known from the beginning there would be hell to pay.

Worth it. So utterly worth it. After he had finally spent the last drop of his hellish rage, that one thought kept Joki fighting, clawing, savagely pressing toward life as she bled out on the hot desert sand. Every breath was a torture in itself. She knew he could hurt. She had underestimated how much. That had always been her downfall- underestimating him. Assuming there were lines even he wouldn’t cross.

She moved, a fresh tide of her blood gushing out onto the sand from her mouth and the knife wound that started deep in her stomach and trailed down her hip and thigh. The injuries were too many to fully realize. Even many of her bones had left their proper places. Hot sand like glass shards filled the cuts and punctures that covered her naked, battered body. It was a fool’s hope to imagine that anyone would find her. Especially anyone who would care enough to help.

Under the hot sun, she began to hallucinate. Him, her brother, her father . . . they all came to mock her. No word of comfort was offered as she lay dying, not even from her own pain-induced maniacal visions. She’d soon be cold as the bodies she had dissected for her own sick satisfaction. And the last words she’d ever hear would be his, tossed carelessly behind him after he delivered the final blow that broke her jaw and left it hanging useless. “I left your money on the dresser.”

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

((OOC - This won't make a lot of sense. Chalk it up to blood loss and pain-fueled insanity. Not to mention heat stroke and dehydration. You've been warned.))


Get off your face. You never felt sorry for yourself- you're a Wilde thing.* Like the poem. I hate. I'm dying. I'm murdered. Stop crying. You asked for what you got. You have to see it through. Get off your face. Get moving. Can't. Born in my grave, rot in my womb.* So hot . . . where is the chill of the grave . . . You're not dead. Move. Think. Egypt . . . the Brasks lived here. People I knew? People you love. Think. Open your eyes. Find your way. I can't. I'm on fire. I'm in hell for my sins. Stop feeling sorry. Get up. Get off your pretty face. Not so pretty anymore . . . Beautiful. Now move. To what? There are no people anymore. They're all dead . . . I'm dead . . . I killed them but where is the chill . . . I'm here. I've never left you. No . . . you're the only one. Who are you? I hurt . . . I'm Will. And you're fine. Keep moving. Another inch. Another. An oasis there. One more inch. Now rest . . . when you wake we start again. This is death . . . this is life. What you were made for. I'll be here when you wake, and we will carry on. You're just finding your stride. I want my father . . . I'm better than that. I'm father and mother and brother and lover . . . and I will get you home. Get off your face. Reach . . . pull . . . drag . . . again . . . feel that? Bricks and stone. Cool to the touch. You're home.


((*References: D. H. Lawrence, R. E. Brown))

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Joki lounged in her usual seat at the Hog's Head, an empty rum bottle on the table and a cold cigarette in her hand. Aberforth was used to her strange and silent presence and left her alone. The room felt stifling, though the day was cold. Fire burned at her core, spreading through her limbs and pulsing behind her eyes. The texture of the boards on the ceiling and walls was fickle, crawling and doubling back on itself and shifting at will. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on Joki's throat and shoulders and darkened her green hair at the roots. The rum rushed through her veins like a euphoric tide, crashing on the edges of her conscious mind and then rolling back and leaving a sweet, quiet warmth in its wake. She stared unblinking at the ceiling as she whispered her litany.

"I will not be used . . . "
Zane's face leered in her mind, handsome and cruel and calculating. She had never trusted him, and she had been right not to. She could learn from him. She already had- his harsh words had jarred her from the apathy her healing body craved. She spoke again. A trip to St. Mungo's had restored her jaw. She had even begun practicing with a borrowed wand. He had helped her, yes. But he would serve his own interests, ultimately, and he wouldn't stop for her.

"I will not be made weak . . . "
Creed, her first and truest friend who had returned and suddenly, naturally, become infinitely more. But she had learned years ago that when she was happy, she was careless. When she was content, she was vulnerable. She could not afford to be either now. A life of pain, he said, a life of pain rather than a life without her. So be it. She'd be as good to him as she knew how, and hope it would be enough.

"I will not grieve for what I lose . . . "
Adam. Jang. Aden. Regriam. Loved ones dead or absent. The substance of hopes and fears. Too many of her thoughts were entwined with their fates. She had to free her mind of them, if it meant letting the love she bore for them go cold.

"I will take what I can . . . "
Alexis and Terry. They both had shown her generosity and trust beyond reason. She was fond of them, in her way. She certainly owed Alexis a great deal. Her life, even. But she would walk over them both to gain her ends.

"I will not be meat for their pride . . ."
They saw her as a broken thing now. Defeated, useless. Zane had made that clear. But she knew the scope of her will to be beyond their imaginings. She would not be fodder for their self-righteous ambitions. There was not enough pain in the world for her. She would endure, and she would rise.

"I will fear nothing . . . "

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Veils of black silk covered her hair and her face, save for her bright, kohl-rimmed eyes. She knelt and placed a bare hand on the burning sand, swiping the top layer aside and delving into the warm hidden layers beneath. The cruel, coarse grains against her smooth skin unfailingly brought a torrent of images to her mind. Her blood turning the sand to mud. The touch of Seville’s blade. The red throb of the torture curse. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, stilling her mind before she continued her fruitless search. Overhead a falcon wheeled, its strident cry piercing the stillness of the Egyptian twilight. The girl’s eyes darted heavenward. “All birds fall from time to time, little Wing . . .” Her brow furrowed in a frown. She stood and brushed her hands off on her robes, then reached for the wand that was now always a firm, reassuring presence against her side. With a loud crack, she left the place that she had come to think of as her own Valley of the Shadow.

The interior of her haven was dim and cool. Only a small cave deep in the Bulgarian mountains, it had become her proving ground. This is where she had crawled after Zane’s words recalled all her fortifying fury to life. This is where she had healed, trained, educated herself in ways she had neglected for years. Her books were stacked neatly on the slab of stone that served for her bed. No empty rum bottles littered the floor, no burnt-out cigarette butts smoldered in an ashtray. The walls were smooth and slick with moisture from an underground stream that wound through the cave. From a high rock shelf the stream swirled over its bed and spilled itself in a shimmering waterfall.

Stripping off the flimsy desert garments, Joki stepped under the waterfall. The frigid water pounded on her shoulders like knives, stealing her breath with its first touch. She stood there until she was numb from the cold, willing the water to wash away the sights and sounds and smells of the desert. Egypt repulsed her with its acrid climate and the conflicting emotions it brought. Now more than ever she should hate Seville. She should crave his blood with an insatiable thirst. And in ways she did. The old enmity was still there. But taking him down was not her primary obsession at the moment. “Maybe this is how it works. Maybe this is how Cruciatus drives people mad. Maybe it just softens the edges, just enough, that they forget how to feel even fury . . . “

A familiar voice whispered in her mind. “When next you strike from the shadows, do not strike to wound.” A touch on her jaw. “Wounds heal.” She leaned her head back to let the freezing water fall hard on her face.

At last, her lips blue with cold, she stepped out from under the falls and clothed herself in warm robes. She bent her fingers one joint at a time, flexing them repeatedly until they had warmed enough to function. Picking up the black and silver wand in her left hand and a book of spells in her right, she filled the cave with light and settled in to study.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

It was a dream. She allowed that certainty to unravel itself down the length of her limbs and up her neck to the top of her head, relaxing her fists and unclenching her teeth. It was a nightmare like every other that shared her slumbers, and it could not harm her. She could let herself liquify and seep into it . . . try to enjoy it . . . see where it would take her. She curled deeper into her bed of cushions, still deep in the thrall of sleep.

"Take my hand . . . " A swift journey through a night filled with faceless terrors, ending in a dusty circle of stone and mortar. The tingling warmth of his lips against her knuckles made her catch her breath. The intoxicating touch was followed by agony as his grip tightened into a vise. One by one he pried her fingernails off. The torture was slow, inexorable. "I'll make you a promise . . . " He assured her even as he dug deep into her bleeding flesh.

She never cried out. She couldn't- her jaw hung slack and useless, the skin and muscle stripped off and her white bones gleaming from the saliva of scavenging worms. "Didn't he?!" the man with the crooked smile taunted. "It's about power . . . and he had it all over you."

Lights off, and on again. Alone in the girl's bathroom she tried to wash the blood from her hands. The crimson water swirled round and round in the sink, refusing to run clear. Finally she gave up. Wrapping her hands in black silk scarves, she fled to the crypts. Creed was there waiting, sitting in the same place she had left him. How long ago had that been? Days? Years?

Only the lower half of his face was visible. The set of his lips was stern, the line of his jaw hard and angry. The scarves slipped from her hands and fell to the dusty floor, coiling into snakes and slithering away into dark corners. Blood dripped from her ravaged fingertips, one bright drop after another falling to the ground as she approached him.

"I've done something bad . . ."

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Joki braced her shoulder against the stone sarcophagus and pushed. The slab moved aside inch by inch, stone scraping against stone with all the euphony of a banshee's cry until the grave was half opened. The musty odor of old death rose to her nostrils. She breathed it in as easily as if it were the bright clean air of a spring morning. A jar containing a heart was lowered into the grave with great care. She moved to the other side of the sarcophagus and got to her knees again, pushing the massive lid back into place. When it settled into the proper grooves, she sat to catch her breath. The stone against her back was strong and reassuring, comforting as a friend's shoulder. As she listened to the sound of her own breath in the gloom, the words he had sent her ran through her mind, tangling with her own thoughts until she hardly knew where one began and the other left off.

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.

He was so dreadfully close to everything. A ghost made of flesh and blood. Part of her hated herself for letting him in. The other part was yearning desperately to believe him. Believe, but not to trust. She silently ticked off the reasons he was a threat on her slender fingers.

He had seen how weak she could be, after her bloody encounter with Seville.

The wand at her side was one of his winning. She lifted the thin rod and looked at it. Such a small thing . . . capable of so much destruction.

He had been to the place where she did her unorthodox research, this very evening. He had seen her with the corpse's gore on her hands, bristling like a hell hound at the thought of the exploitation of the dead.

Her brows drew together in a frown. The last, and the worst: He knew her name, and what it had cost her to give it to him.

"Fear . . . but not of you. As long as I keep you at arms length, I have nothing to fear. Anger . . . because I would be forced to live with the fear that comes with knowing there is something I cannot stand to lose . . ."

Given all this, the answer was simple. She could not put him away from her now. He was none of brother, friend or lover. He was something else entirely. He was her own self, and the finding was very, very strange.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow . . .



The quiet throb of her heart was slow and measured as she sat upon her bed in darkness. Raindrops pinged against her window and rolled down the stained glass like tears on a frozen face. Leaning against the headboard with her knees drawn up to her chest, she stared ahead with unseeing eyes. Every few minutes she would reach up and touch her lips, swollen and bruised from a blow she had said 'please' for.

The worst is over . . . her mind whispered in the darkness, trying to cauterize the edges of her raw and bleeding thoughts.

She closed her eyes and rested her head on her knees.

He would fight her with all the devil's own fury. "I do not play to lose . . . " The worst was over, for her. She could wall off her vulnerable places now. But for him . . . he'd kill them both to break them down. "Damn you, girl . . . and damn me."

She sat up and pulled feverishly at the neck of her robes. Beneath her collarbone, where her Sanctus Scientia scar had been, the skin was smooth and new under her cold fingertips. Like that. Like that. Rending, and bleeding; but then wholeness.

A letter written in a bold masculine hand lay open on the bed beside her. Even when she closed her eyes, the last line burnt into the back of her eyelids. "The break must be clean, Josephine . . ."

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

"I guess this is how you keep your promise to love me as best as you know how." His voice was dripping with sarcasm, each word intended to wound.

"I made you another promise too, you know. To hurt and to lie and to make sure you're never happy like you could be." She took a drag from the cigarette in her hand, the familiarity of the action giving her something to focus on. In her other hand she held a small amber stone, her fist clenched tightly around it to conceal.

"Trust you to keep the most hypocritical of your promises." He turned his back on her, his footfalls heavy and angry on the dirt path.

She made a quiet sound. He stopped and turned, his eyes on her, accusing, judging righteously. "I'm in something, Creed." Each word was spoken slowly, chosen with care, "And everything is going to get worse before it gets better. After today . . . I'd only hurt you more."

A few more words were exchanged, words that she barely heard. Her mind was drifting, twisting, racing away inside the fences she could erect so readily against feeling. And then he was gone, leaving her standing alone in the bright autumn sunshine. A break, Alexander. Just not the one you meant, not the one we discussed.

A brittle smile came to her face. This is the Broken Road.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."

She stared in mute disbelief at the small headstone that marked the only fresh grave in the Olgavich cemetery. The inscription was simple, but the line etched into the smooth marble was enough to make vomit rise in the back of her throat.

At last laid to rest, having been wrongfully moved.

A quick look over her shoulder, then down on her knees in the snow she went. Her bare hands clawed feverishly at the mound, not stopping even as the semi-frozen earth scraped the skin raw.

She dug until she found him, until she saw his face and was sure it was the same. Olgavich Cemetery's newest resident was the same as her latest project, stolen from her 'workshop' by someone who knew it was there, and why.

At last laid to rest, having been wrongfully moved.

It was an accusation.

She had been betrayed.

_________________
"We are not bound forever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory."