A Prayer For The Bound

Here's the thing about addiction. There is a moment, this beautifully sweet and fleeting instant in time, there in the throes of your chosen poison, when all the pain, and the stress, and the worry, just flow out of you. In that moment you are at peace, you are free, truly free, free from all the human bullshit that piles on top of you day after day after day. You rise above all of it and see it for what it truly is: an absurd and wonderfully pointless dance on the edge of oblivion. From the day you find that place you will spend the rest of your life trying to get back there. That is the monkey on your back. That is the dragon you chase.

The name of my dragon is "Story". Anyone who makes anything will tell you about how “that moment” manifests itself in the act of creation. Be you writer, or painter, or dancer, or singer, or carpenter, it doesn't matter. You come to a place where you are swept away in the flow of the work, the momentum of the thing takes over, and everything becomes effortless. In that moment you are a god, Lord of Creation, breathing whole universes into existence through the sheer force of your own will. Whatever you wish to be... Will Be. There is no feeling in the world like that. Forget drugs, forget sex, forget love, forget all of it. That is the place we are always trying to get to, that is the dragon we chase. Is it any wonder that artist have driven themselves mad in pursuit of their vision? Because the bittersweet truth is, in that moment, you are at the mercy of a force greater than yourself, you feel as though something is moving through you, and you are just a willing puppet, dancing on the end of the its strings. Can you see how these seemingly mad women and men were caught in grip of something beyond their control?  Though we may be gods in our own worlds, in truth we are but slaves; thralls to our master Art.

Spare a thought then for the artists. We have committed ourselves to enriching your lives by choosing a life of bondage. The demons that haunt us are legion and they never sleep. We will give to you all that we have, bleeding ourselves to the brink of collapse if only to see you smile, or scream, or laugh, or weep. We reach out to you, searching for an all too brief connection, a place where our hearts can touch yours, and share with you a piece of ourselves.
 

On Fear

{Now playing: Matthew Sweet, “Sick Of Myself”}

“I am not who you think I am; I am not who I think I am; I am who I think you think I am.”
-  Charles Cooley

Fear is a funny thing. The other day I was looking over the view counts for this and I noticed that there were views on pieces I'd put here that I hadn't linked elsewhere, only a handful, but that still means that some of you are here reading this unbidden. It honestly scared me; I've always imagined this as the place that I shout into the nothing, never really thinking that anyone might be listening, unless I specifically asked for it. Of course this is a public thing, anyone can come here and read it, and I want them to, but it was like walking around talking to yourself and suddenly finding that there have been people watching you the whole time. That's the dichotomy of my life: wanting to be heard, as we all do, but also afraid of it. But then, why cast my voice out into the world at all? Better to let that fear be my motivation than my obstacle. So stick around, bring your friends, and let me put my thoughts in you.

I'm not very good at talking to people. I don't know why that is. I never have been. I can talk, converse, even be funny on occasion, but when it comes time to say anything of importance, to say the words that actually mean anything, I mumble it all away, avert my gaze, and fall silent. I'm embarrassed by my feelings,I  lack any confidence in my inner thoughts, being so sure that everyone around me will see me for the useless idiot I really am. Better to hide behind a fake smile and a witty retort. Better to brush it off and bury the thing I wanted to say with all the others. The field of my mind is littered with uncountable graves.

The search for my voice has been a long and trying thing. Tears have been shed. Screams have been uttered. Fists have been bloodied. At times I've felt like some mad butcher, blood and gristle flecked across my face, chopping, cleaving, and sawing away at all the useless crap.  Cutting and cutting and cutting, fiercely meat digging for that gleaming, thrumming heart, clinging to the notion that there's something worth finding down there amidst all that rotting flesh. A lifetime with that will break anyone. I have much shame but not for that. I don't fault myself for being so twisted up inside by this point that I can't even tell what I want to say half the damn time.  I didn't ask for this, I've never wanted it, I can't find its true source, and I have no idea what to do about it. So I write, I lay it all down like this, because at least this way it's out. I don't ask to be forgiven and I don't ask to be understood. I know what I am. Here, on the page, I am agonizingly close to free. There are no judging gazes here. No painful rebukes. I'm free to be the coward I've always been, I can say what I can't say out there because I don't have to listen to the response. But fear is a prison that keeps you from all yearn to have. Fear is a weight on our back that grows heavier with each turning away, until it grows so heavy you can no longer move forward. Fear is a screaming monster that knocks you down whenever you try to break free and run.

The search for my voice, in life and in my writing is, in many ways, the struggle that has defined me. And it is only in the later part of my life that I have begun to understand that, perhaps, it is not the destination I had imagined it to be but rather a journey that only ends when I do. And isn't that for the best? Long ago I dedicated myself to the idea of being better every day. There's a whole story there, maybe some day I'll tell it, but for now it suffices to say that I came to the conclusion that life really doesn't matter much to me if I'm not doing that. After all, what's the point of being here if you're not going to try and be the best you can be? Why wouldn't you want to end every day as a slightly better version of yourself? What's the point of simply drifting along for a lifetime? I won't fault those who do; a life is a life and it should be lived however one chooses. But for my money a life spent in pursuit of something greater is the only life worth living.

Our struggles define us, push us, make us stronger. Without them we're just motes in the air, aimless, drifting according the the whims of happenstance. That's okay sometimes, I don't believe anyone has the will to struggle constantly, but if that's all you do, you become weakened by it. Any muscle you don't work becomes atrophied over time, and that goes for the mental sinew as well as the physical. The struggle can be painful at times, though. It can bring us to the brink and even take us over it, if we give ourselves to the idea. Perhaps that is the thing that truly separates the artist from the rest: that willingness to deliberately fling one's self over the edge, out into the nothing, and shatter against rocks below, to be remade from that ruined mess into something greater. It isn't easy, it's damned hard to be honest, and the fear that grips a person as they stand on the precipice is unique and all encompassing. We know what waits below, the pain and isolation that will come as we break and then heal. It's enough to make anyone turn away and seek the comfort and security of stagnation. But fear and pain are the way and through them we find the truth of who we are. And who we can be. There's no shame in fear, anyone who claims to be fearless is either a fool or a liar, usually the latter. In fact, fear is our best guide to where we need to go. The greater the resistance we feel on a path the more we can be sure that we are heading in the right direction. The darkest places are all too often exactly the places we must explore if we hope to become what we wish to be.

Yet, there are still limits to what I'm willing to say, even with this distance between you and me. There are things I could say here, things I want to say, but never will. Because, though I can't see you, I know you're there, or at least I imagine you are. My voice is bound by chains of fear I fashioned for myself and I have no idea how to break them. All I can do is prattle on with my all too imperfect words in the hopes that somehow, if I just keep going, if I can just push back at the fear enough times, I will finally drag myself out of this pit and find the courage to speak all the words I've never been able to say.

“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”
- John Milton

There's a playlist on my phone
With your name on it
Every one a love song

I wanted to make you a mix tape
Like I used to do when I was a kid
The digital revolution is lame

I may not be cool
I may not be sexy
That's all I wanted to say

The beating heart of the world
Shines within your eyes
Its light makes me feel whole again

The South Shall NOT Rise Again

Okay, I gotta talk about this fucking confederate flag bullshit. I saw one the other day, a small one, a sticker really, in the corner of someone's back window. I tried to get along side them, I had some shit to say, but I lost them in traffic. I was . . . incensed. You may have heard not too long ago about NASCAR officially banning confederate flags at all their events from now on. I gave them precisely the minimum amount of credit I could over that and not one iota more. Because it shouldn't take global protests and an impassioned plea from one of your own to take that stand. It is my belief that they did the right thing because they were backed into a corner and knew that any other response would irreparably damage their brand. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe they really didn't see the problem until it was pointed out to them. Maybe they really were that clueless. Or maybe they didn't want to lose the money that their racist fans bring in and they just hoped nobody would notice. That's not even the real point here. The point is it was happening, to an extent that someone felt the need to say something, and they were letting it happen until someone made them stop. And before you get all righteous and jump on the NASCAR hate train you might want to take a step back and think. Because it's not just them. Like it or not, NASCAR is a symptom of a much larger problem, and we are all complicit.

You see, confederate flags are everywhere. Even I know that, and I don't live in a part of the country where they're all that common, certainly not the way they are elsewhere. And we, all of us, ALL OF US, have been letting that shit go down. I'm genuinely livid over this. I've been cycling through waves of anger every time I think about it, which has been way too much, and I've been trying to parse out why this is the thing that has finally set me off.

First there's the sheer stupidity of it all; that we even have to have this goddam conversation in the fucking 21st century. I'm not talking about people being racist, I'm not so naive that I think bigotry will ever go away completely. It's just such a stupid thing to have to talk about. “Stop openly displaying your racist proclivities”. Jesus.

Second, there is the fact that we, as a society, have allowed this to go on this long. The fact that you can slap a confederate flag sticker on your bumper and not worry about the impact it will have on your life. You couldn't do that with a nazi insignia, could you? How long do you think you could get away with that? If you were lucky you'd just get screamed at. Most likely, depending on where you live, you'd get your ass kicked, or worse. But that's not even the real reason you wouldn't do that. The real reason is because of the impact it would have on your life. No matter how adamantly you believe in those nazi ideals, you don't want to be “that nazi guy”. That's going to create all kinds of problems for you, so you keep it hidden, revealing it only to the like minded. So what does that say about confederate flags? Same thing with the damn statues and military bases. What message does it send that you can get away with that? And white people have the gall to wonder why so many people of color in this country think that all white people are, at the very least, a little bit racist. What do you expect when they see us tolerate this kind of bullshit?

Finally there's the responses from defenders of this behavior, specifically the whole “free speech” argument. Let me be clear right now: I draw a pretty hard line when it comes to free speech. Everyone, no matter what they believe, has the right to express themselves. The problem is that these bastards are full of shit when they make that claim. This is not free expression. If you want to put up confederate flags in your own home then go nuts. They want the reaction. Not just the positive reactions either but the negative ones as well. Maybe even especially the negative ones. These are people with an axe to grind and they're just waiting for someone to speak up. That's not free speech. That's just being an asshole. More to the point however, “freedom of speech” does not mean “freedom from consequences”. You have the right to express yourself, publicly if you are so inclined, but you must also be prepared for whatever backlash comes as a result. It is not censorship when you are shouted down for expressing beliefs that are not accepted by most people. This argument shows a fundamental misunderstanding about what free expression is and it takes a giant shit on one of the few truly great ideas the founders of this country ever had. Do not sully the ideal of free speech but using it as a shield for your jackassery. And don't even get me started on the whole “heritage” argument. It's not even an argument, it's just stupidity. You want to celebrate the “contributions” of your bigoted ancestors? Do it on your own time and in private. It's a symbol of slavery, plain and simple, not being “rebellious”, not “valuing state's right”. It's racist. Shut the fuck up and go be racist somewhere else. We're done with you.

So why do we tolerate this? Is it the violent nature of diehard racists? Seems unlikely that is the real reason. We've drawn the line on other things, even in the face of potentially violent opposition. Is it wanting to protect free speech? Also doubtful. We have acknowledged that publicly expressing certain view points, in certain ways, is not acceptable in our society. Again, we've drawn the line, so we can draw it again. Is it the numbers? Now we may be getting closer. This crowd seems larger than most of us want to accept. When you have a large enough group behind you then you feel emboldened to express your opinions, no matter how unfavorable they may be to everyone else. This too feels shaky, though. They're not the majority. There may be enough of them to be intimidating but that feels more like a byproduct of the real reason. It wasn't that long ago in our country's history when people owned slaves. It persists even now, in our supposedly progressive nation, we just call them “inmates” rather than “slaves”, but it's still the same thing. Racism is baked into the DNA of this country. We're built on it and we, even those of us who do not actively engage in it, perpetuate it through our tolerance of it in others. We run from the idea, we don't like thinking about it, and we certainly don't like confronting it. To do so is to acknowledge that we as a nation are less than perfect and not nearly so advanced as we have convinced ourselves we are.

Someone once said to me that racism is a hereditary disease. Some people can catch it, but most of the time it's passed down to you. Then they asked the question: how do you combat that? That's a really good question. How do we deal with something that is ingrained in people from birth? I acknowledge my biases whenever I can but I have no illusions that I can erase them. They are part of me, placed in me by a generation that had a different idea of what was acceptable, using ideas taught to them by a generation that had even less acceptable ideals. As time goes by we get a little bit better and we try to raise a generation that will have less of the bad. All I can do is try to recognize those impulses for what they are and self correct. That's great for me but what if you weren't given those tools in the first place? How can you self correct when you don't know that there's anything to correct? That's where the rest of us come in. Sooner or later a person has to get out into the world and when they do it is up to all of us to set the example for them. A quick google search will show you that it is possible to reform racists. It isn't easy, it isn't fun, and it's pretty rare but it can happen. And even falling short of that we can contain them and make them accountable for their beliefs.

What everyone needs to understand right now is that we are at a tipping point. The people of color in America are done being abused, harassed, mistreated, discriminated against, and killed. They've had enough and they're done being nice about it. They've given us, the white people of America, every damn opportunity to do something about this problem and we have failed. This could very well be the last chance we have for civil discourse and a peaceful resolution. If we fail to address this now we could be looking at blood in the fucking streets and innocent people, on both sides, dying. The time for sitting on the sidelines is over. You don't get to just say “well I'm not a racist” and move along. There are two sides in this: right and wrong. If you're not on one then you're on the other, simple as that. Time to choose. And for the record, if it comes to blows, I don't care what color my skin is, I know what side I'll be standing on.

So fuck this confederate flag bullshit. It needs to be done. We as a country need to see that it is done. We need to make these people understand that it is no longer acceptable. No one in this country should be able to move about displaying racist propaganda without receiving a very clear message about what they can do with that shit. We've started down that road, and we will hopefully continue, but my real concern is, when the uproar dies down and people's attention turns elsewhere, that we will go back to quietly tolerating this. That cannot be allowed to happen. We may not be able to stamp out discrimination completely but we can sure as hell let those who practice it know that they are unwelcome amongst us, loudly, fervently, and in no uncertain terms. THAT needs to become the “new normal”.

#aflagworthburning

7-4-2020

244 years ago the founders of this nation declared their freedom, setting us on the path to where we find ourselves today. In the time since then we have done some amazing things . . . and some terrible ones. The history of America is checkered at best. But here's a radical idea: it doesn't matter. None of it. Not the good and not the bad. We should no more be proud of the accomplishments of our predecessors than we should be ashamed of their failures. History is, at its best, a tool. We should learn from it, replicate what works, discard what does not. Too often in this country we cling to our past and glorify those who came before, looking back on our history with rose colored glasses and patting ourselves on the back for successes we had nothing to do with. Or else we demand that those present today pay for the mistakes of their ancestors, in a misguided attempt to somehow balance out the wrongs they perpetrated. Worst of all, when we do these things, we fail to be in the present moment, and we miss the opportunities that this moment presents to us. I'm not saying we should ignore the past, I'm simply saying that allowing it to dictate what we do now robs us of our agency in the present, and often causes us to repeat the same mistakes in the future. There is nothing wrong with having pride in your heritage but that isn't who we are now. And now is where our minds need to be.

As a father I did my best to raise my son the best I could. It wasn't always easy. Part of being a parent is being on the watch for negative patterns of behavior and doing what you feel you must to correct them. At times I got angry, especially when I felt he wasn't listening, and I did what I felt was necessary to get his attention. That anger did not come from a place of hate, it came from a place of love, because I wanted him to be the best person he could be, and I feared what might become of him if I failed to communicate what I thought he needed to hear. That's why, when I look out at all the people of this country marching in the streets, refusing to be ignored, displaying their anger, I understand. They are accused of hating this country, of wanting to destroy it, to tear it down, but their accusers are wrong. They love this country and they are outraged at what has become of it. Because they want their country to be better, to be worthy of the ideals upon which it was founded, and they will not stand idly by while lip service patriots tell them “love it or leave it”. They are the true Patriots, defending the honor and integrity of the nation they call home, even as those who have “sworn to protect” attack them for it. And if they are violent it is only because the true enemies of this nation have shown that they will listen to nothing else.

So, as we celebrate the day we declared our independence, it behooves us to take a moment and remember what we are really celebrating: a nation that was founded, however imperfectly, on the ideals of freedom, justice, and equality for every one us, without exception. Our founders may not have truly believed in those ideals but that just means that we must learn from their mistakes and strive to be better. We must be honest with ourselves about who and what we are, how we got here, and what needs to be done now. We must remind ourselves that patriotism is not turning a blind eye to the failings of our nation but rather turning to face them, accept them, and demand that we change them. To do anything less than that is to condemn our home to the ash heap of history.

Have a safe and happy Independence Day.

No Tears For The Wicked

I

    It was morning on the eve of her sixth birthday when Princess Julma awoke to the sound of trumpets from beyond the outer ward, signaling the return of The Queen. Rumor had been circulating for weeks that Queen Rosalyn would be returning soon and Julma's prayer that she might arrive in time for her birthday had apparently been answered. Desperate to be waiting when her mother's carriage arrived, Julma sprang from her bed, threw on a random selection of clothes, and ran a brush through her messy, chestnut hair. By the time her handmaiden arrived to prepare her for the occasion, Julma was already out the door and halfway to the courtyard.   
    Queen Rosalyn's carriage arrived without the usual pomp afforded the ingress of a royal personage, at her insistence, with only Julma, King Antero, and the few retainers she traveled with permitted to attend her return. Julma could hardly contain herself. Her mother had been gone for over a year, having left with very little warning and – though there had been rumors – the circumstances surrounding her departure remained a mystery to all save The King. Julma paid no mind to such things. Her mother was home again and that was all that mattered. Where she had gone and why could not have been further from her thoughts.     The Queen emerged and descended the carriage steps, moving slow and deliberately, a mysterious, swaddled bundle cradled in her arms. The moment The Queen's foot touched the dirt of the courtyard Julma's patience finally failed her.
    “Mother!” Julma cried as she bolted across the yard, colliding with The Queen's legs so hard that she nearly toppled the both of them. The King, following his daughter's example, hurried over and threw his arms around her as well.
    “My goodness,” sniffed The Queen through a teary eyed smile. “One would almost think you'd missed me.”
    “Every day,” sobbed Julma, her words muffled as she squeezed her mother ever tighter.
    “Quite right,” agreed The King, kissing his wife gently on the cheek.
    The Queen pulled Julma free from her legs, with some difficulty, and knelt so she could be face to face with her daughter. Julma looked curiously at the mysterious bundle in her mother's arms, which now appeared to be moving.
    “What is it?” asked Julma. “Is it my birthday present?”
    “As a matter of fact it is,” said The Queen. “I really should make you wait until tomorrow but I suppose it's too late now.”
    The Queen turned the bundle towards Julma, revealing the face of an infant child. The baby squirmed and opened her dark eyes to look up at Julma.
    “This is your sister,” said The Queen. “Her name is Mackenzie.”
    Julma looked down at Mackenzie and smiled. “She's beautiful.”
    “Would you like to hold her?”   
    Julma nodded and took her sister into her arms. She reached down and gently stroked the end of Mackenzie's nose, making the child giggle.
    “Hello 'Kenzie. I'm going to love you forever and ever.”

II

    Mackenzie awoke before dawn and began making the final preparations for her journey. It was imperative that she be out of the castle before sunrise, if she were to have any hope of escaping unnoticed. It was her intention to travel cross country, the chance of detection on the main roads being too great to risk, and that meant traveling light; no sword, no heavy armor, no horse, and no backup. She tightened the last buckle of her leather cuirass and strapped the sheath for her dagger around her waist. 
    King Antero had given her the dagger for her tenth birthday. It was perfectly weighted, with a blade of cobalt blue steel that shifted to purple in sunlight and a handle of polished, black stone. Tiny, silver lines, thread thin, traced intricate patterns across the handle's surface.   
    It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
    The King had then spent the rest of that day teaching her how to throw it properly.
    He had told her: “Everyone must learn to defend themselves my daughter, for this world is full of dangers, and we must always be ready to face them.”
    From that day forward Mackenzie had spent three hours every morning practicing with her dagger. By the time she was twenty there was no target on earth she could not hit.
    Mackenzie checked and re-checked every fitting and fastener on her armor, twisting and stretching in every conceivable direction to test its stability. She could not afford to have anything slowing her down, knowing that her absence would not go unnoticed for long. Word of her departure would spread quickly through the kingdom and surely all would know her intended destination. It would take all the speed and stamina she could muster to outpace the castle guard, who would be after her the very moment The King learned she was gone.
    With her final preparations completed Mackenzie opened the door and stepped out into the night.
    The air was cool and damp. Thick mist covered the castle grounds and the streets were mostly deserted, save for the castle guard out on their nightly patrols. For anyone else, escaping the castle undetected would be nearly impossible. However, as High Captain, Mackenzie had personally mapped the guard's patrol routes, and avoiding detection was easy when you already knew where everyone was going to be.
    As she made her way towards the rear of the castle Mackenzie passed by the guard barracks, where the majority of her troops now rested. She'd pulled all but a handful of them back from their duties in the surrounding lands, which would not only make traversing the countryside less worrisome but also ensure that as many soldiers as possible would be there to defend the castle should she fail. If the previous attacks were any indication, their enemy's forces were growing stronger. Mackenzie doubted that having her troops there would be enough to make any real difference – most likely nothing would be – but it made her feel somewhat better about abandoning her post.
    Unlike the main entrance of the castle grounds, the rear gate was primarily reserved as an emergency exit for the royal family, though Mackenzie couldn't recall a time in her life when it had been needed. It was much smaller, really more of a large door than a gate, and lightly guarded; perfect for her needs.
    A single guard tower faced the rear gate. Mackenzie approached it and slid up the ladder, so quietly that the guard stationed there never knew what hit him. She was loathe to harm one her own but there was too much at stake to risk being caught. At least she had taken him by surprise. She didn't care to think what she would've had to do if he'd seen her. Hopefully, if everything went as planned, he would be the only one she needed to assault that night.
    From her new vantage point Mackenzie could see the entirety of the small yard. Two guards stood on either side of the gate, chatting  amiably to one another. Off to their left, just now turning the corner, came the Captain of the Night Watch to collect their undoubtedly brief and uninteresting nightly report; right on schedule.
    Mackenzie drew a single throwing knife from a pocket on her belt. Magic was not her forte, quite unlike her sister, but she had managed to pick up few useful tricks over the years. She whispered to knife, quietly has she could, letting her breath wash over the blade, then pulled it back quickly as it began to glow red hot, and flung it out across the yard before it could burn her fingers.
    The decorative hedgerows planted along the inside of the castle walls were not particularly flammable, which was why she had been sneaking piles of hay and tinder beneath them for the past few weeks. Mackenzie slipped over the tower railing as the blade whistled through the air. She landed on the ground below, with all the noise of falling feather, and watched as the hedges erupted in crackling flames.
    The captain rushed off, no doubt meaning to gather men and buckets, should the fire grow out of control, while the two guards tried futilely to stamp out the blaze. It wouldn't be much of a fire, certainly not enough to hurt anyone or do any real damage, but it gave Mackenzie the precise distraction she needed. In a flash she darted across the yard, unlocked the castle gate, and disappeared into the dark forest beyond. 

III

    Julma was playing in the castle garden when Mackenzie found her. In days past they had been all but inseparable, doing everything they possibly could together, but now it seemed that Julma wanted to be on her own more and more often, leaving Mackenzie to wander the castle grounds in search of her. She didn't like it, and this was not the only troubling change in Julma's behavior of late.   
    Julma had never been what anyone would call a “calm” child but she had always done her best to be kind and compassionate towards others. However, the past few years had seen a change in her demeanor. At times she became mean and spiteful, easily angered and slow to forgive. Mackenzie came to refer to these fits as Julma's “bad times” and they were happening with increasing frequency.
    She'd done her best to cheer her sister up when she got that way and most of the time she succeeded, yet there were times when such interventions only served to upset her more. All her life Mackenzie had wanted nothing more than to be just like her big sister. Now she was not so sure.
    Julma was kneeling near the outer wall of the garden, her back to Mackenzie, playing with something she couldn't see. She looked up at her sister's approach and smiled a smile that Mackenzie had grown to distrust … and even fear.
    “'Kenzie! Come and see.”
    Mackenzie stood next to her and looked at the ground in front of them. Two days before one of many cats that roamed the castle grounds had birthed a litter of kittens and the two girls had been to see them. Afterward, Julma had practically begged The King to let her have one and he had, with some reluctance, finally agreed. Julma had taken her new pet everywhere, showing it to every resident of the castle she could find, each one giving her the same concerned smile. It was the same smile The King had worn when she'd first made her request. Mackenzie hadn't understood those smiles then but now, seeing what her sister had done, her young mind began to grasp their significance.
    The kitten was laying on its side in the grass, breathing heavily. Its mouth worked as though it were trying to cry out but no sound came. It was hard for Mackenzie to tell exactly what Julma had done to the poor thing. Its legs stuck out at odd angles, each one bending in too many places. With every breath it took, blood trickled from its mouth, staining the grass beneath it. Pain glistened in its pleading eyes.
    “Isn't it silly?” asked Julma, grinning widely.
    “Why did you do!?” Mackenzie cried, recoiling in revulsion. “Why did you hurt her?”
    Julma looked back at her sister, puzzled. “Because I wanted to see. It's mine, I can do what I want with my things.”
    “It's not a thing. It's alive … now it's probably going to die.”
    “So?” said Julma, growing irritated. “What difference does that make?”
    “You're not supposed to hurt things.”
    Julma laughed. “That's dumb. It's just a cat. Why should I care if some stupid cat dies?”
    Mackenzie looked down at her feet, suddenly unable to meet her sister's gaze. “Daddy's gonna be mad.”
    In flash Julma was on her feet, grabbing Mackenzie by the arm so hard that she cried out.
    “No he most certainly is not!” Julma hissed through clenched teeth. “Because no one is going to tell him. As far as anyone else knows it ran away and we're both very sad. Understand?”
    Mackenzie looked away and Julma shook her, hard.
    “Do you understand me?”
    “Yes!”
    Julma let go and Mackenzie fell to the ground crying. Julma's face changed instantly, the dark cloud of her anger passing away, and she dropped down next to her sister.
    “'Kenzie! Oh 'Kenzie I'm sorry.” She stroked Mackenzie's hair gently, as she'd always done when she cried. “I didn't meant it. Please don't tell daddy. It'll just be our secret, okay? Please?”
    Mackenzie looked up into her sister's eyes, the sister she still adored more than life itself, and nodded with a faint smile. It would not be the last secret she would keep for her, to the sorrow of all.

IV

    Mackenzie reached the outer edge of The City just as the sun was setting. Stretching out before her was a barren field of scorched earth, littered with the debris of sixteen failed campaigns. Through the thick smoke that filled the air she could just make out the walls of her destination: The City of a Thousand Sorrows. As she surveyed the area the first twinges of fear tickled her mind. She'd heard tales from the few who'd managed to return of the horrors that guarded The City's gates. Scores of monstrosities, hideous beyond description. An army straight from the Infernal Pits.    
    There was nothing, no one, not even a single guard.
    What did you expect? Mackenzie thought. She may have been content with that for all the others, but she'll have something special planned for you, and if you have any intention of living through this you'd better stop underestimating her.
    In the distance, as though on cue, the city gates split and slowly began to open.
    Mackenzie laughed and began walking. “To think I actually entertained the notion that I might catch you off guard.”
    The city gates closed of their accord as Mackenzie stepped inside. The smell hit her first, its choking miasma rolling over her in waves; a vile stench like sulfur mixed with rotting meat. Bile surged up and caught in her throat, making her gag. At first she could see only shadows. The fading light of the outside world had vanished with the closing of the gates and she now found herself in darkness. The only light was a faint, red glow in the sky above, that made the world appear awash in blood. As her eyes adjusted she could see that The City looked like any other great city, if that city had been abandoned and left to rot for a century or so. There wasn't a single structure that anyone would call habitable, every building was either collapsed or on the verge of doing so.
    The streets were littered with bodies, some of which still looked mostly human while others had been ... changed. Mackenzie had seen her fair share of death but this was something else entirely and it looked as though the dead might be the lucky ones. Looking forward towards the heart of the city, where Julma's stronghold sat, she could see the shambling “citizens” of The City: broken revenants milling about in a twisted parody of human existence, each one an affront to every known tenet of biology. Standing there before what her sister had wrought, Mackenzie felt the last vestiges of her hope begin to fade. Julma had at last become the monster she'd so long played at being and such hopes might well be fool's hopes after all.

V

    Julma stood over her sister, glowering down with fire in her eyes.
“Something to say? Hmm? I thought not. Do as you're told Mackenzie, I know you think you're everyone's 'favorite', but don't you go forgetting that I am still Princess.”   
    Julma turned and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her, and Mackenzie collapsed in tears onto her bed. She was just starting to get herself under control when a soft knock came through her door. She would recognize that knock anywhere.
    “Come in mother.”
    Queen Rosalyn entered, smiling ruefully. “I hope I'm not disturbing you. I saw your sister earlier. She was in quite a state. I suppose you two are fighting again.”
    “When aren't we fighting these days?” Fresh tears welled in Mackenzie's eyes and she fought them back. “What happened to us …  to her? I barely recognize her anymore. She pushes me so hard, like she wants to me to fight back, and when I won't sink to her level she becomes even more infuriated. Some days I think she truly hates me.”
    The Queen walked over and sat down on the bed next to her daughter. “You must never think that, dear. Your sister loves you, she has from the day you met, and I believe she always will. I know it's hard to see it sometimes but it is there. Yet, as I'm sure you've realized by now, there is something else there as well. A ... darkness in her heart. It's always been there, some thing beyond her control. She needs your help, now more than ever. You may be the only one left who can help her.”
    “What can I do that I haven't already done? I used to be able to calm her but now she just turns on me if I dare to interfere. She constantly accuses me of trying to usurp her role as Princess, even though we all know it's impossible for me to inherit the throne. I've shown her nothing but love and kindness all her life! How can she treat me this way?”
    “I know this is hard, but I need you to promise me that you will take care of your sister, no matter what. Without you she is lost. Give her your love, Mackenzie, as you have always done, as we all do. We must have faith that our love will be enough to turn her from the path she is on.”
    “And if it isn't?” asked Mackenzie.
    The Queen said nothing at first and there was a look in her yes that Mackenzie couldn't quite read. When she spoke again the forced cordiality in her voice broke Mackenzie's heart.
    “That,” said The Queen, “is a conversation for another day.”
    In spite of her doubts Mackenzie looked into her eyes and nodded solemnly.
    “I promise mother. I will always look after her, no matter what.”
    She would never forgive herself for making that promise ... or for trying so hard to keep it.

VI

    “Welcome to my home dear sister,” a voice whispered in Mackenzie's ear, “what do you think?”   
    “I think it's time we ended this 'dear sister', don't you? Why not come out and face me? Unless you're frightened.”   
    “Oh come now; a petty taunt? I would think such things beneath you. No, remember what I told you. I must know that you are worthy of  the effort.”   
    “You're only delaying inevitable, but play your games if you must, I'm not afraid.”
    “Either you're lying,” Julma cooed, “or you're every inch the fool I always said you were. Let's find out.”
    With that, what little light fell on the city suddenly vanished and Mackenzie was left in total darkness. Panic tried to dig its icy fingers into her mind,  but she brushed it aside, and focused on her other senses. Unfortunately, it seemed the darkness was not merely lack of light. Something hung in the air, impeding her vision. It filled her ears as well, making everything sound as though she were underwater. Moving through it felt like pushing through a wall of cotton. All she could do now was try and remember the world before it had disappeared.
    Mackenzie took a tentative step forward and nearly tripped over something directly in front of her. Had there been something there before? No, she was fairly certain there hadn't. She tried to step the side, which she knew had been open street moments before, and narrowly avoided knocking herself unconscious on some low hanging beam that could not possibly have been there either. Mackenzie was sure her sister was watching her somehow, no doubt giggling with delight as she flailed about futilely. She sat down on the dirt road, which turned muddy beneath her as one final insult.
    “Now who's being petty?” said Mackenzie spitefully. “Are we here to play children's games? Is that all have you to offer me?”
    The darkness vanished immediately and Mackenzie rolled to the side as an arrow sliced the air where she'd sat an instant before. Another came flying past her face, so close she could feel the feather of its fletching brush the tip of her nose. She screamed as yet another fell from above and pinned her hand to the dirt. A fourth caught her in the side, only partly slowed by her armor, and embedded itself in the flesh of her midsection. She had no time for the pain though; from all around she could hear the whistling refrain of a thousand more hurtling projectiles closing in.
    Mackenzie snapped the arrow pinning her hand and pulled herself free of it. Ignoring the arrow in her side she sprinted up the street towards the castle, the first of the volley peppering the ground where she'd been. They came down like rain, so fast and so numerous she couldn't possibly hope to track them all. Focusing on the path to the castle she ran as fast as she ever had, letting instinct guide her through the hellstorm of flying arrows. As she ran the denizens of The City closed in, hands outstretched, filling the path behind her, heedless of the torrent that fell upon them. Perhaps they even welcomed it.
    The arrows assailed her from every direction, razor sharp tips caroming off her armor or slicing through her skin, and with every step she braced for the one that would find its mark. By the time she reached the relative safety of the castle she was somehow still alive and bleeding from dozens of shallow wounds.
    The castle doors flew open as Mackenzie crashed into them, a hail of flying arrows traveling in her wake. She scrambled for cover behind one of the doors and sat there panting as she listened to the staccato rhythm of metal splitting wood. Closing her eyes tight, she yanked the arrow in her side free, biting back another howl of pain. Upon inspection the wound did not appear as bad as she had feared, but it would definitely slow her down.
    Mackenzie cursed herself. Hadn't she trained for this, to be ready for anything? Twice now she had been taken by surprise. What was wrong with her? Until that moment she had never doubted her resolve but perhaps these hesitations told a different story. She was lucky to be alive.
    Not just lucky though, she thought. Surviving that wasn't merely luck ... it was miraculous. I ought to be a pincushion right now. Even with my training there's simply no way I could have come through that alive, let alone with little more than few cuts. Are you pulling your punches sister? Is your heart as conflicted about all this as mine?
    The castle door's slammed shut behind her, pulling Mackenzie from her reverie. She got to her feet and took her first look at where she'd ended up. The castle's foyer was enormous, its ceiling rising above her so high it was lost in shadows. Before her stretched an impossibly long hallway, lined from one end to the other with doors. So many doors, doors beyond counting, each one a massive slab of dark red stone, as foreboding as any door she'd ever seen. At the far end she could just barely see another set of doors, similar to the ones she'd entered through, and she could only assume that this was where Julma intended for her to go. Outside she could hear the choking moans of The City's populous as they pressed themselves against the castle entrance.
    Certainly won't be going back that way. Alright Julma, let's see what the next stage of your little torture test holds in store.
    After walking for some time it became apparent that more of her sister's trickery was afoot. While the way she'd come drew farther and farther away her destination appeared no closer than it had been at the start.
    As she walked Mackenzie could feel eyes upon her. There was a presence behind all those doors, something straining against its leash, yearning to pounce. She was nearly a kilometer in when she heard the first door open behind her, its stone face slamming into the floor with a thud. Then another, and another, until it became a cascading drum beat of stone on stone, growing ever closer. Beneath that sound, quickly rising over the din, came a screeching wail that rattled the very walls around her. Mackenzie decided it would be best not to wait around and see what was making that sound. She ran as fast as she could, which turned out to be far slower than what she was used to; she'd lost too much blood and the pain in her side was making her limp. It only took about ten minutes of running for her to feel on the verge of exhaustion. Still more wails came, a chorus of them, blending into a sickening harmony that drilled into her ears and split her skull.
    Mackenzie came to a stop, hoping for just a brief moment to catch her breath, and looked back down the hall.
    This was a mistake.
    Her mind  refused to reconcile what she was seeing. They had too many limbs, too many faces, more than they could ever possibly have. The geometry of their physicality defied explanation. Mackenzie turned away, instantly forgetting what she'd seen, as though her mind's only defense against what she'd witnessed was amnesia. Her pain and weakness vanished as she tore headlong down the hallway towards the ever receding exit before her.
    The crashing doors closed in, quickly approaching the point when they would overtake her, and with each step her renewed vigor threatened to abandon her for good. She was just beginning to think that this might really be the end for her, when all at once she was there, the doors standing before her as if they hadn't seemed miles away mere seconds earlier. She shoved them open and stared, disbelieving, into the space beyond. For that was all it was; space, an empty void, formless and endless. A chill wind drifted up from it and washed over her. It felt like despair. The wail behind grew deafening and Mackenzie cried out as blood trickled from her nose and ears. The terror or the void? What choice did she really have. Mackenzie took a step forward and tumbled into nothing.

VII

    It was the morning of Julma's eighteenth birthday when Mackenzie knocked on her sister's door for the last time. Lately things had changed for the better, they'd been fighting less, and Julma had started to seem like herself again. She'd had even said that she wanted Mackenzie at her side for her birthday banquet. It was her mother's contention that maturity was finally softening Julma's hard edges and Mackenzie, like the devoted fool she was, had actually started to believe her.   
    However, something wasn't right that particular day. Mackenzie had been beset by a vague sense of dread from the moment she'd awakened, and her sister was no where to be found, a combination that forecast little good for anyone. After searching for hours she returned to where she had started: her sister's room. She gave the door a perfunctory knock and turned to leave.
    “Come in, dear sister.” Julma called.
    Mackenzie opened the door to see Julma sitting on her bed, a large book spread out before her.
    “I was hoping you'd drop by,” said Julma, without looking up, “wait until you see what I've got.”
    Mackenzie stepped closer, her feeling of dread intensifying. She knew that tone and she did not care for it one bit. Mackenzie looked over Julma's shoulder at the book she had acquired. Strange words scrawled across its pages in red ink, written in a language she didn't recognize, alongside sketchings ripped straight from her darkest nightmares. It all seemed very familiar but it took her a moment remember where she'd seen it last … on a stand … in the High Court Wizard's study. …
    Mackenzie drew back, her eyes wide with fright. “The Libru Di I Morti! You can't have that Julma, it's forbidden, even to you!”
    “Calm down, it's fine. I'm just looking at it. Stop being silly. Why don't you sit down and have a look with me?”
    “Have you lost your mind! You could summon something simply by looking at it. If you don't put that back right now I'm going to father, I don't care what you say or what you do to me, you've gone too far this time.”
    “Alright, alright. Goodness, you always were such a little fraidy cat. Fine, I promise, I'll go put it back right this instant.”
    With that Julma closed the book and held in under her arm. On her way out the door she smiled a smile Mackenzie hadn't seen in ages. It was the old Julma's smile, warm and loving, and all at once she was again the big sister Mackenzie had toddled after a lifetime ago.
    “Happy now?” Julma teased as she walked out the door.
    Mackenzie smiled back, genuinely believing every word, because she so desperately wanted them to be true. She dared, for the first time in forever, to believe that the faith she'd placed in all her mother's talk of love conquering darkness had not been in vain.

VIII

    Mackenzie was lost. She fell for a moment. She fell for a millennia. Time stopped, sensation stopped, she became as formless as the void around her, spreading out into it, dissipating in its infinitude, til there was nothing left but her mind, her soul, hopelessly lost in eternity. It should have been terrifying, that total loss of self, but instead she felt only peace. With the loss of her form came the loss of pain, of doubt, of fear, of worry. All that remained was a profound sense of contentment. She knew she could remain there forever if she wanted and would that really be so bad? Let the world take care of itself. Hadn't she done enough, suffered enough? She had tried her best, why couldn't that be enough?   
    She let go, let her mind drift, spreading herself further and further, until she was the abyss, and it was her, and in that place Mackenzie ceased to be.
    She might have remained there forever – in a sense she already had – if not for an ever so faint sound that flitted through the nothing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere, within and without, all at once. It was a voice and Mackenzie knew it as surely as she knew her own.
    Remember your promise, her mother's voice called. She needs you now more than ever. She is lost without you. You are her last hope.
    Mackenzie had bound herself to her sister's fate the day she'd made that promise, though in truth their fates had been intertwined from the day they'd met, and there could be no peace for her so long as Julma was loose in the world. One way or another, this had to end before she could ever hope to rest.
    Something in her shifted and she could feel herself pulling back together, reconstituting, and then she was falling again. Faster and faster, faster than free fall, faster than terminal velocity, accelerating beyond any physical limit, speed beyond what her mind could ever hope to comprehend. Faster and faster and...

IX

    Mackenzie could hardly contain her excitement as she descended the stairs and made her way down the corridor to the castle's great hall for Julma's coming of age ceremony. Ever since seeing her that morning she couldn't stop thinking about how wonderful it was going to be sit at her sister's side and share in such a momentous occasion. Julma had even chosen a dress for her to wear: a beautiful, lustrous green gown, that she'd said would be “a perfect match for what I'm going to wear”. To think she'd once believed this day might never come. At last, she had her sister back.
    The first thing that Mackenzie noticed was the silence. There would be hundreds of people in attendance at the ceremony, the hall would be absolutely packed with guests. So why was it so quiet? No music, no murmurs of conversation, nothing but a faint buzzing crackle that she couldn't quite identify.   
    The next thing she noticed was the smell. Something was burning, some kind of meat, which was strange since, so far as she knew, there wasn't any food being served before the ceremony.
    Then, as she grew closer to the end of the corridor, she felt the heat. It came rolling down the hall towards her, as though she were walking into an oven. Mackenzie picked up her pace, her mind finally putting the pieces together.
    The sight that met her eyes as she emerged into the hall would be seared into Mackenzie's memory for the rest of her life. There were bodies everywhere, most of them charred and burnt beyond recognition, all of them dead, with the exception of King Antero, who lay crumpled against the back wall, bleeding, but apparently still alive. Green flame crawled across walls, and the floor, even the ceiling, somehow crackling with tiny bolts of lightening as it burned. Julma hovered several feet above the floor in the center of the room. She was naked, save for a few scraps of scorched cloth that hadn't burned away, suspended inside a vortex of emerald flames that swirled about her body, her hair twisting in the heat's updraft, yet she did not burn. At her feet lay the body of their mother; her wide, staring eyes telling the dreadful tale of her final moments.
    No one would ever know what ghastly thing Julma had managed to conjure that night, nor what deal she might've struck, but she had been gifted some kind of profane power, and she had chosen to turn that power on her own people.
    Mackenzie never hesitated. The world around her faded away, all logic and reason disintegrating in a paroxysm of blinding rage. She awoke some time later, lying in a heap on the floor. Julma stood over, grinning.
    “There she is. I knew you were tougher than that. Though not tough enough it would seem.”
    “What have you done?” Mackenzie wheezed.
    “i should think it's obvious. I've destroyed all these useless, two-faced, lying scum: every last contemptible sycophant who claimed to love me while secretly cursing me behind my back. All except you. I gave you the choice before … but what can I say? I'm feeling generous on my big day. One last chance, dear sister: join me. Together you and I can burn this pathetic world to the ground.”
    “Never.” Mackenzie spat.
    “You're a fool 'Kenzie, you've always been a fool. We will meet again, so do try not to disappoint me next time. I'll be waiting.”

X

    Mackenzie hit the floor hard, her body shuddering from the impact, and felt several of her bones fracture. Pain, raw and loathsome, filled her as though she'd never known it before. She curled into a ball and wept like baby. Even as the memory of the void faded she continued to mourn the serenity she'd lost, that perfect peace she would surely never know again, even in death.
    Once she'd managed to collect herself a bit Mackenzie rose to her feet and took in her surroundings. It looked to be an arena of some kind, not very big, just a circular room with a single exit on the far side in the form of a wide, steel gate.
    The blood from her side had slowed, which meant she wasn't going to bleed to death right away, so that was something, but the rest of her injuries had taken their toll. Mackenzie doubted she was in any shape to take on whatever Julma had in store next, just as she doubted that her sister would be giving her any chance to recuperate.
    Across the room, as if in response to her thoughts, a pillar of green flame erupted from floor and something vaguely human shaped materialized within it. As the flames subsided the figure began to move forward, gaining speed with each step, charging directly at her. Mackenzie stood frozen in place, precious seconds ticking away, as she grappled with the image of her own mother, dressed in her finest royal gown, striding towards her with murder in her eyes.
    Damn you, Julma. Must you always twist the knife?
    That moment of hesitation cost her the upper hand and the thing wearing her mother's face slammed into Mackenzie at full speed, sending her tumbling back against the wall behind her. She barely managed to regain herself before it was on her again, its fist shattering the wall where her head had been a split second before. Mackenzie dodged around it, only to be sent flying when it spun and kicked her in the stomach. She coughed wetly and blood splattered against the floor.
    Definitely not human, thought Mackenzie. Let's hope you're at least human enough.
    The Queen's doppelganger gathered itself for another onslaught and lunged forward, closing the distance between them with frightening speed. Mackenzie rolled to the side, evading the attack by inches, and drew her dagger from its sheath. The creature skidded to a stop and turned to attack again, when its head suddenly rocked backward and it fell to the floor, Mackenzie's dagger jutting from its left eye.
    Mackenzie walked across the arena and stood over the twitching body of her attacker. Every iota of her intellect told her it wasn't real, could not possibly be real, yet she still had to fight the urge to take the  thing in her arms and hold it close. As she stood there fighting back her tears, her “mother” began to laugh, quietly at first, but growing louder with each breath; a twisted, mocking laugh that shook its body, so very out of place spilling from her mother's lips.
    Wisps of steam drifted up from its flesh as the thing's features melted away, sliding off its skull like jelly, and soon the rest of it followed suit. The bones cracked and crumbled, mixing with the putrid slime, until all of it boiled and bubbled away, leaving a human shaped stain on the stone floor. Even after it was gone, Mackenzie could still hear that terrible laugh ringing in her ears.
    There was a loud clunk from beneath her feet and the gate on the far side of the room disappeared into the floor. Mackenzie picked up her dagger and held it in her hand.
    Time to put an end to this.

XI

    It was a beautiful spring morning on the day Julma finally grew tired of waiting. It hadn't been much of dragon, they'd only lost a handful of men to it, but Julma was a quick learner, and the next one had ravaged half the countryside before they'd managed to bring it down.    
    Soon more horrors descended on the land. Armies of goblins raped and pillaged their way through the kingdom's villages. Great beasts of the sea lurked beneath the harbor waters, laying waste to any ship that dared to try and leave. Twisted fiends roamed the forest, preying on any townsfolk who ventured too deeply. Rumor grew of a great, walled city in the east that had risen from nothing in a single night.
    Mackenzie begged her father to give her leave to face Julma alone but he refused, instead putting her to work planning one failed attack after another, though never letting her lead the campaign herself. She was forced to sit safely behind the castle walls while those who'd placed their trust in her marched to their deaths.
    The kingdom brought all of its considerable might to bear against The Princess. Battalion after battalion broke and fell at The City's walls. The Court Wizards wove spell after curse after incantation to no avail. Legions of mercenaries and assassins were hired and never heard from again. So much death, for nothing. Mackenzie could have told them it would amount to as much, but they wouldn't have listened, for they did not know her sister as she did. Nothing could repel The Princesses relentless assault and she would not stop until she had destroyed everything.
    The night before she left Mackenzie went to see her father one last time. He was sitting on his throne, massaging his temples, after another long day of futile arguing and planning. Their war had raged for two years now but he looked as though he'd aged ten times that number. King Antero looked up as Mackenzie approached and smiled a smile that quickly faded when he saw the expression she wore.
    The King heaved a great sigh. “Please daughter, I am in no mood to argue with you as well. I can see what you've come to ask and my answer remains the same.”
    “How many more of our people must die? You can't stop her. Two years of this and you're no closer to defeating her than you were at the start!”
    “And what makes you think you'll fare any better? Have you even considered that? You've seen what she can do, the kind of power she wields, what possible chance do you think you have?”
    Now it was Mackenzie's turn to sigh. “It doesn't matter if I can defeat her or not. This is what she wants. It's what she's always wanted and she's never going to stop until she gets it. You always gave her everything she ever wanted. Why stop now?”
    “I will not send you to your death!” The King bellowed, slamming his fist on the throne.
    Mackenzie pulled back as though she'd been struck. Even at his angriest her father had never spoken to her that way, not once. She could see every ounce of fear and frustration he felt etched into the lines of his face and she at last understood that he was never going to bend. No matter how much sense it made and no matter how many others he needed to sacrifice; he could not bring himself to let her go.
    Mackenzie approached the throne and put her arms around her father, hugging him tightly.
    “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. “I know you can't. I shouldn't have bothered you with this again.”
    Mackenzie kissed him on the cheek and smiled at him one last time. She hoped he understood what she must do, that somehow he could read in her eyes what she dared not say aloud.
    “We'll talk in the morning,” she said as she turned to leave. It was the first real lie she had ever told him.
    She could only pray that she might live to apologize for it.

XII

    Mackenzie thrust open the throne room doors and stumbled inside. The last of her strength finally leaving her, she slumped to her knees, and looked up at the thing her sister had become.   
    High above her Julma lounged on a throne that looked like the scorched, black jaw of some great beast. Shadows twisted and flowed over her, cast by the shifting streaks of flames that climbed the walls of the room like living things. Julma watched her sister for a few moments, a wry smile on her black lips, before rising to greet her.   
    “Oh my dear sister, I must say, this isn't quite the showdown I had envisioned. I truly did expect you to fair better. What, pray tell, have you been doing with yourself all this time?”
    Julma had grown shockingly thin. Her skin had turned ashen, like burnt paper, giving her aspect a skeletal overtone. Unearthly light danced behind her pale eyes. Black hair spilled down across her bony shoulders beneath a white glass crown that curled around her head like smoke. Her dress was very similar to the one she'd given Mackenzie, though hers was tattered and charred at the edges. It shimmered in the firelight as she descended the throne steps. Julma knelt down beside her sister, stroking her hair as she'd done so long ago, and sighed deeply.
    “Look at the state of you. And for what? It didn't have to be this way, if only you had listened to reason.”
    “Reason? You ask me to throw away my humanity and call it 'reason'? You would have me turn myself into an abomination as you have, I suppose? Shall I torture innocent people for my own amusement as well?”
    Julma laughed. “'Innocent'? I'm afraid there's no such thing, little fool. If you could see into the hearts of your people as I have, you'd see the truth; that I only made the outside more closely resemble what was on the inside.”
    Mackenzie raised her head to look into Julma's eyes. “I honestly believed there might still be some chance of saving you. Even after everything you've done, I wanted so badly to believe that you weren't completely lost, but there really is no hope is there?”
    Julma kissed Mackenzie gently on the forehead, leaving a smoking brand in the shape of her lips. “Oh dear sister, that's a lesson I would have thought you'd learned by now, especially after all the effort I've expended to teach it to you.”
    Julma rose and stood over Mackenzie, hands on her hips, in a pose of mock maternal disapproval.
    “Now, what am I going to do with you? Seems so unsporting to kill you like this, though I don't imagine you'd afford me the same courtesy. If I were where you are, you wouldn't hesitate to end it, would you?” She smiled sardonically. “After all, you came here to kill me. So who's the real villain of this tale?”
    “You killed our mother!” Mackenzie hissed through gritted teeth.
    “Oh yes, cry for our poor, departed mother. The woman who loved an orphan peasant girl more than her own flesh and blood! I was her daughter. I was the one she should have loved.”
    “She did. She always did. No matter how terrible you were, she tried so desperately to love you.” Mackenzie dropped her gaze. Her tone softened. “We all did.”
    Mackenzie struggled to her feet, wincing as she held her wounded side, and laughed to herself.
    “Is that what this was really all about? That your mommy didn't love you enough? Or, more to the point, that you were too stupid to see how much she loved you?”
    Julma's eyes darkened. The air in room grew hotter. “Careful, dear sister, you are in no condition to incur my wrath.”
    “Oh yes,” Mackenzie laughed again, harder this time. “'Fall on your knees and bow before the might of 'Her Majesty, Princess Crybaby'. How terrifying.”
    “I will not warn you again.”
    “What are you going to do? Whine at me some more? Doesn't seem to me that you have the backbone to get your hands dirty.”
    Mackenzie took a step forward, her face inches away from Julma's, the heat coming off of her nearly more than she could stand.
    “You were given everything, anything you ever wanted was yours for the taking, no matter how abhorrent you were. All anyone ever did was try and love you but you were always such an ungrateful little bitch that it was never enough!”
    Julma lowered head. Iridescent green flames flowed in waves across her arms. “They never really loved me. None of you did.”
    “Of course not!” Mackenzie shouted. “How could we? How could anyone ever hope to love such a horrible little monster? Born bad, spat into this world with a twisted, black heart, so full of anger and hatred you could never hope to truly love anyone or anything. How could anyone ever love a freak like you!?”   
    Julma screamed and thrust her arms forward, jets of green flame erupting from her outstretched hands. The blast caught Mackenzie square in the chest and sent her flying across the room. She slammed against the far wall and fell in an heap on the floor. Julma, wreathed in flames, strode across the the room, shrieking at the crumpled mass of her sister's body.
    “Get up damn you! I am far from finished here.”
    Mackenzie didn't move.
    “I said: 'GET UP'!”
    Mackenzie's body remained still, not even breathing, and Julma's corona of flame faltered. The twisted mask of rage she bore softened and one of fear slowly took its place.
    “'Kenzie?” Julma whispered, her flames vanishing. Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed across the room, falling to her sister's side. “I didn't. … Please, no. What have I done? I'm sorry 'Kenzie. Oh god please get up.”
    The blade slid so smoothly between Julma's ribs that she scarcely felt it, its finely honed tip finding her heart and piercing it with ease. Julma's mouth fell open, trying to form words that wouldn't come, and she fell to floor clutching her side.
    Mackenzie got to her knees and pulled Julma to her, cradling her in her arms.
    “You left me no choice,” she whispered. “It had to be this way. I wanted to help you, but how could I? You knew as well as I did that this was never going to end. How many people was I supposed watch die, or worse, while I tried to save you? I'm sorry sister, I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to bring you back. Please forgive me.”
    Julma took one last breath and spat out her last words in a spray of blood and fury.
    “Never.”
    Mackenzie knelt in the City of a Thousand Sorrows and held her sister's body close as it grew cold in her arms. Try as she might, she could not bring herself to weep.

Something that just occurred to me

If a friend insists on being thanked every time they do something nice for you, they are not your friend.

If a friend becomes irritated that you don't compliment them back when they compliment you, they are not your friend.

A friend does not require compensation for their kindness. A friend does not expect to be repaid for helping you feel good about yourself.

Knowing they helped you, knowing you are happier, these are their reward. For a friend, that is all they need.