Who Are You Again?

Hi!  Welcome back!  To me, mostly.  I've been deep in the throes of starting my new career over these past two months, to the point where I actually took about a month off from the 365 project just to stay functional.  But today is the day I get back to it, and to celebrate that, I wanted to share what I did from 04/22/18-05/19/18 (which is when I accepted things would need to be put on hiatus).  I took pictures of pages rather than individual pieces, in an attempt to actually get this whole thing done today, so commentary will be shorter than usual (although, obviously, the entirety of the post will be somewhat longer).

Greenbreathing.

I spent several days trying to capture the way that being in the woods brings me peace.  There's a poem in the left image, and here's how it goes:

Steps slow and burdened/Searching for the way I’ve lost/I pace the leaf floor

Following the path/Dark and light and dark again/Deep into the wild

The weight of sorrow/Pressing on my lungs: exhaled/Gathered up by Them

The Ancient Ones, still/Breathing with me in silence/Lifting my burden

From poison to life/In the space between heartbeats/They transmute my pain

Out and in and out/The one becomes the other/The other the one

My balance restored/Light and dark and light again/I find my way home

Sweet Things

I'm super into The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl.  You should be, too.  And then I found a pretty pittie who had wandered away from her home, and she was so sweet I called her Dulcinea.  Happy ending: she was reunited with her family after I took her to the Humane Society.  Also Happy Ending: I painted her without drawing first.  Progress!

Unfinished Business

I love what I've got going here, with my maenad and her satyrs, but I spent several days on it and it refused to progress.  I'll probably come back to it, someday.

Blue

I finished the first sketchbook on the last day of April.  I'd been reading a book that dealt with whales (Deep Wizardry) and it inspired my doodling that day (and I quoted it up there in the upper right corner).  (The lyrics in the lower left corner are from a song by Young Summer called "Waves That Rolled You Under", and I highly recommend you go listen to it right now.)

X Factor

Just a little green study of Madame X, because I was still working on painting without drawing first.

Jackalope Got Me Down will be the name of my first album.

More paintings without drawing, with limited success.  The Jackalope thing is because for some reason TLG took it into his head that anytime he fell down it was appropriate to say, "Jackalope got me down!" We have no idea where he picked that up from, but obviously we find the idea of blaming things on random jackalope attacks hilarious.

Damn good appetizer

Not much to say about these, except that I put a million layers into that cherry tomato and I think it looks awesome.  Also, the quote "He's my Wade and I'm keeping him!" is from the last time I played DnD (waaaay too long ago, now), and my character Severan sort of accidentally picked up an NPC squire and basically he's the Podrick to her Brienne now.  I'll hear no arguments.

Rainspheres (as opposed to bows) over the Grand Canyon, and also some Geese.

Red lips and purple ties.

Feet silhouetted in the pool at night, Super Professional Face.

These are all from my trip to Tempe at the beginning of May, where I had maybe five minutes each night to sketch something out before I dropped into bed, exhausted.

Love Undying

This last one, you'll notice, has a whole lot of dates next to it, and no color whatsoever.  That's because after nearly a week of making incremental progress, and feeling super stressed out about it, I realized that I needed to give myself a break.  So I did.  Which brings us to today, and this blog entry.  And once I finish this blog entry,  I'll start laying in some colors.  So stay tuned, Gentle Readers, and thanks for sticking with me for this long.

Bold Persephone

I've spent the last three days on this lovely lady:

Still trying to master skin-tones darker than "vaguely Mediterranean".  ::sigh::  Practice, practice, practice.

This piece is inspired by Russian Iconography (hence the goooooolllllld), a particularly lovely Instagram update by Black Girl in a Big Dress (the eponymous web series is one of my Very Favorite Things), and Halloween 2000 (I personally was a Maenad that year, but one of my friends dressed as Persephone, and wore a very similar flower crown).  (I should try to find photos from that year- I was appropriately scary with all my blood smears, and made a lot of drunken frat guys feel more than a little freaked out.)

I'm thinking I may actually go into that gold background with some ink and do some intricate patterning (perhaps pomegranates seeds?), but I wanted to get it preserved for posterity in all it's pristine-ness, before I screw it all up.

Plus, you know, the novelty of updating more than one time in a week...

But on to not-art-related things!  I bought myself a new suit the other week (since the old suit- purchased about 15 years ago- was cut for the old body, which TLG has rendered permanently curvier) and today I took it to a tailor like a real-live grownup!  Because, you see, when you have a shoulder(-and-bust)-girth like mine, you have to buy jackets that are way too large for any of the rest of you.  Which is why I've never been much of a blazer person in the past.  Sleeveless/stretchy fabric all the way, baby.  But anyway, the tailor poked and prodded and pinned and finally informed me that next time I should be shopping in the petite section for my tops, so that she wouldn't have to shorten the sleeves so much.  The more you know!

I'm pretty excited to see how it turns out; I expect to look far more professional than I did in the dressing room, where the sleeves were hitting my knuckles and I didn't appear to have much of a waist (but at least I could move my arms without splitting the seams!  Something I have literally done to jackets in the past!  So yes I am always extremely paranoid every time I try on a "fitted" jacket!)  I'll post photos so you can be excited, too.  You're welcome!

Harping On

02.14.18

I liked the looseness of my bluejay, so I wanted to revisit bird feathers, but I also wanted to draw a harpy, sooo...

I did.

I 100% did not have time for painting on Wednesday (I was studying for nearly 12 hours that day- ugh) so I put it off until yesterday.

02.15.18

Come at her, bro.

I absolutely loved how the feathery markings came out (based on a harpy eagle, naturally).  I'm quite quite pleased with this one, especially since it's on the same page as Red Ribbon, and there's something really fitting about the pairing.

02.16.18 (OMG TODAY!)

I really liked the way I managed to keep it loose on my harpy, so tonight I wanted to do something with no under-drawing, no line work, no sketching out at all.  I pulled a tarot card from my nice little app and got the Five of Wands, Reversed (which is very true right now), and decided that rather than illustrate the Five of Wands, per se, I would illustrate its actual reversal- which, to my mind, took the form of torches being extinguished.

Anyhoo, I'm not at all dissatisfied, so I think I'll probably continue to push myself to try to paint things without drawing them first.

Now, on to non-art-related things.

You guys, studying for the Series 7 is no joke.  I'm fortunate in that I had a passing familiarity with a lot of the basics, due to working for an investment company for the past 10 years, but there are so many more complexities than I ever possibly could have dreamed of, and to tell you the truth 95% of them are actually pretty fascinating.  Like, if you'd ever told me I'd be super interested in tax strategies I'd have laughed in your face- but it turns out I totally am!  Hah!  So maybe I'll specialize in that some day, who knows...  I'll have plenty of opportunity for CE, I'm sure...

Mostly it's just so nice to be a full-time student again.  I've whined at Nathan for years that I wanted to go back to school, and he's always been firm that if I was going to do that, it would have to be for something that would actually make us money (so not, like, philosophy, which would be a total dream come true for me but isn't exactly the gateway to a lucrative career).  When I decided to make the jump to Financial Advisor I didn't really think about the fact that, uh... I'm basically going back to school.  Except this time I'm getting paid for it.  Winning!

Seiren

I did not sing
To lure them
I sang for myself alone.

I sang for myself alone
And yet they came
Claiming I called them.

Claiming I called them
They dashed themselves
Upon the sharp rocks of my heart.

Upon the sharp rocks of my heart
A scattering of broken shells
Tossed about by the tide.

Tossed about by the tide
Souls adrift in the cold uncaring sea
I could not leave them there.

I could not leave them there
And so I pulled them deeper
But I did not sing.

Happy Solstice!

Also, happy The World Once Again Has Not Ended.

(or maybe it has, and we're too busy to notice)

Here is a quick sketch I did of Artemis and Apollo arm wrestling, and Artemis is of course winning because, well, Solstice.  But tomorrow Apollo will start to get his fist off the table, and in about six months it will be his twin who is on the losing end.

Bam.

I like the concept, if not the execution- I expect I'll revisit it at some point and make the anatomy a little less, "Things do not do that thing that you have drawn there thing..."

Hard Reset: Day One (or: Transit)

First of all, here is my homage to the transit of Venus:

Colors later?  Survey says yes.

Day one went pretty well- if we completely ignore the fact that I accidentally ate something prepared with butter.  Whoops.  So I guess my hard reset technically began at noon today!  Ah well- what's starting a New Thing if I don't immediately screw it up?

Dinner was garlic-lime scallops with a side of broccoli, and friggin' delicious.

In other news, I am extremely grateful for the other people at the rock gym- I was in fine spirits today, so I stayed later than I have in a long time, and when I told Hanz I was going to do one more route, he challenged me to do three more.  I asked (jokingly) if they could be 5.6s, and he said they could be 5.7s.  So I said sure, why not?  And then I did a 5.7- and then switched over to bouldering, and did three routes (two 0s and a 1, which both count as 5.10s in terms of difficulty, or so I am assured), then did pullups until I couldn't anymore.  Which is to say, I blew my arms out for the first time in months, and it felt great.

Talk about an excellent transit.

Not By the Threads of Our Chinny-Chin-Chins

Here's another page straight out of my sketch book, with a collection of unrelated images.  The only interesting story here has to do with the sketch at the top:

That is a sketch of the Three Little Pigs as the Three Fates.  I'm currently letting that little story seed germinate.  We'll see if it turns into anything worth sharing...

Riddle Me That

Remember this girl?

Answer Carefully.

Riddle Me This

Did you know that "sphinx" can be translated as "strangler"?  I did not.  But Wikipedia enlightened me, and the new knowledge made me think, "Well if this lady is going to be strangling people that aren't answering riddles properly, she probably needs some hands.  Also maybe a garrote, because hey- why not?"

This will definitely get colored.

An important thing to know about his heavily-Egyptian-influenced sphinx?  She is wearing a wig.  That's her natural hair up by her brow, but the rest of it?  Not so much.

Nearness

(This was for an assignment for my writer's group, for which stories are theoretically supposed to be about 500 words.  I almost never stay even close to that- I'm doing well to keep it below 1000, to tell you the truth.  And my first attempt at writing this was actually abandoned about 700 words in because I had not gotten nearly far enough with the narrative- so please forgive me if this seems a bit stunted.)

(It sprang up from an story seed I had regarding the other half of the rainbow being in the underworld, and I will most likely expand it one of these days...)

***

Once when I was a child I decided to follow the rainbow to its end.  It was further away than I’d expected, and it was only after several hours of chasing that I was able to track it down to a little canyon I’d never encountered before.  I saw the rainbow had come to rest between two boulders, and was so excited by the prospect of finally dancing at its end that I forgot to take care with my footing, and so tumbled to the ravine floor, smashing my left arm into a rock on the way down.

I lay there for several minutes, dazzled with pain and wondering how I’d be able to climb back up, before I noticed that I’d landed right next to the two boulders I’d spied from above.  Sure enough, the rainbow swept down between them, but now that I was so close I could see that it did not end there, but in fact had slipped into a crack in the earth.

The crack was too small for any adult to get through, but for a child of my size it was more than large enough.  And since I could not go up, I decided I might go down, holding my left arm awkwardly in my right.

It was fortunate that the rainbow was giving off a faint glow, because the interior of that crack was as dark as- well, as the underside of a rock.  But the further into the dark I went, the stranger the colors of the rainbow became- it was almost as though they were inverting themselves, or becoming their own shadows.  Whatever it was, within thirty yards of the crack, the rainbow had become colors I had no words for, colors that I had never seen before, nor since.

I began to grow uneasy, and glanced back over my shoulder to reassure myself with a glimpse of daylight.  Surely no harm could come to me so long as I could see my way back out.  As I was thinking this, I ran into someone, jarring my wounded arm in a way that made me feel nauseated.

I let out a cry of pain and collapsed at the pale feet of the other person.

“Oh!” the voice was sweet, but strangely hollow sounding- almost like wind across a large reed.  The young woman crouched down next to me, and I saw by the quality of her garment and the purity of her skin that she must be nobility.

“You feel pain,” she said it as though surprised, and reached out a hand as if to touch me.  She stopped just short of my shoulder, however, and I was glad of it.

“Yes, Lady,” I panted.  “I fell from the cliff and I think I may have broken my arm.”

“You are far from home, I think,”

“Yes Lady.  The rainbow led me here.”

She shook her head.  “This place is not for you.  If you had gone just a few steps further you would have lost sight of the light, and you would not have been able to go home at all.”  I felt a shiver that distracted me from the pain.

“Lady, the truth is that I don’t know that I’ll be able to go home, light or no.  I’m not sure where I am- and even if I was, I can’t climb back out again.”

She looked at me with dark eyes that reflected the strange inverted colors of the rainbow, and I thought she looked terribly sad.

“Perhaps this place is for you, after all,” she said.  I felt a tightening in my throat and knew that tears could not be far behind.  She sighed, and it was like the wind again- but this time like the wind through a pile of fallen leaves.

“But no,” she continued, as though to herself, “you can still feel pain- and the light is still within your reach.  I think I can send you back, this time.”

“But Lady, the canyon walls-“

“Are of no concern.  Close your eyes and do not open them until my messenger tells you that you may.”

I closed my eyes and felt a pair of arms wrap themselves around me.  Their touch did not hurt me, not even against my arm- they were warm and comforting as sunshine on a spring day.  Somehow I knew they were not the arms of the Lady: her arms surely would be cold as her breath upon my ear as she whispered,

“Good bye, mortal child.  We will meet again.”  And she kissed my cheek.

The arms tightened and I squeezed my eyes tighter, determined not to disobey the Lady.  But I must have slept, for the next thing I knew a voice soft as rain was saying, “Wake up,” and I was in my own bed, arm covered in plaster.

Later my mother would say it had only been a fever dream- that some of the men had found me at the base of a cliff not half an hour from our house, and had brought me back and dressed my wounds.  And I might have believed her but for one thing- to this day there is still a place on my cheekbone that is cooler than the surrounding skin: an area the exact size and shape of a pair of lips.

Atropos

No one ever stops to ask just what exactly I do with the cut threads of mortals' lives. No, everyone focuses on the terror of the cutting- never on what comes after.

Well I'll tell you what comes after: embroidery.

That's right, embroidery. I take those cast off mortal threads and I use them to embellish the universe. So much dark canvas stretching out before me- how could I not take advantage of it? Anyway what else am I supposed to do with my time? Let's face it- cutting off a life only takes a split-second, and then I'm stuck waiting around for the next thread to be spun and measured. My sisters may call my hobby morbid, but in truth I believe it's because they are jealous. Indeed, there are times when I think Lachesis deliberately measures out shorter lives just so that it's more difficult for me to utilize the thread. And don't even get me started on Clothos, who wants to spin just about everyone's lives in the most boring colors imaginable. She says it's not practical to make everyone's life a different color, and blah blah blah limited dye batches- but I say who gives a fig for practicality? Embroidery isn't about practicality, it's about embellishment. And it's damned hard to embellish with a dull ecru thread that only spans fifty years. I mean really.

Stingy bitches.

(Atropos)

Living Ink

Once, in my youth, I found a magical pen. It was a pen that would write the true story, past, present, and future, about anything- anything- you just had to dip it in the right ink. And there was no telling what the right ink was for any given object. It might be a romance in puddle of rainwater, or maybe a mystery in a few drops of whiskey. You never knew what kind of story you'd find, when you dipped your pen.

Well, that's not strictly true. It was pretty easy to find the right ink to write a biography: each and every one of us carries our own in our veins. But that's what led to me giving up the wonderful, terrible pen. Long before that happened, back when I thought it merely a sort of mystical toy, I tried dipping my pen in a rainbow, and learned the true story of the creature that men called Iris...


(Living Ink)

Jack Gets a Break

They say that the passage of time is nothing to an immortal- but I'm here to tell you they're wrong. Oh, perhaps time is nothing to an immortal who isn't tied to the seasons- but when you are then mister, time is pretty effin' evident. Your existence becomes broken down into two parts: the time of year when you're doing your job, and the other nine months. And maybe that sounds pretty great to non-immortals- only having to work a quarter of the time- but then I want you to remember that I don't get to quit. Ever. Literally ever. Can your brain even begin to process that concept? No retirement, no death. Just on and on forever. And I've got to tell you- there are only so many possible frost patterns to be made: the work gets damn repetitive after a couple of millennia. Every winter I more and more seriously considered shoving icicles through my eye sockets to alleviate the boredom.

But then I met Arachne.

She's an immortal, too- but she started out human. Most people might consider immortality a blessing from the gods, but just ask Arachne- she knows better. She royally pissed of some goddess or another back in the day, and in retaliation she got a (frankly pretty ugly) new form and an eternity to 'think about what [she'd] done'. Anyway I met her one summer as I was kicking around the Mediterranean (it's just prejudice to assume we winter creatures only like cold- we don't.) and we got to talking. Turns out she's an artisan, too, although she leans to weaving rather than etching. I asked if I could see some of her stuff and she showed me, and damned if I wasn't impressed (hard to do when you've been around as long as I have).

She waved off my praise, saying that honestly, she was getting a little bored with the whole thing. When you're immortal you have plenty of time to hone your craft- and she had long ago run out of new or challenging ideas. To her everything she'd created lately was static, boring.

I told her I knew exactly how she felt.

So we sat in that bar, sharing a couple pitchers of daiquiri and bemoaning our fates, and round about glass number four (or possibly five- I lost count) inspiration struck. I couldn't tell you now which of us had the great idea, but the next thing I knew we were at my summer place and I was teaching her the fundamentals of etching.

The upcoming winter was suddenly looking a lot more exciting.


(The Rare Arctic Spider)

Saving Stitch

They don't talk about me much. Or at all. I'm pretty sure the old poets never once mentioned me in their epics. No, it's my brother who has always received the attention, and really- who can blame them? He's beautiful, my brother. Beautiful and terrible, with wings that block out the sunlight, but you don't even notice because you're being blinded by the radiance of his face. His passage leaves people wounded, broken and bleeding, and still they cry out for him to return to them. Oh, please don't think I'm harboring any bitterness! I'm not, honestly- it's not my way. He can't help what he is any more than I can help what I am. He lets fly his poisoned arrows not just because it's what he does- it's what he is: Love. Love, Love: terrible and beautiful and inevitable. People have tried to resist him- but they all fall, in the end.

And after he has abandoned them I come along, and they resist me as well. I come with my needles sharp as arrows, with my thread soft as feathers; I come to sew up the holes punched in their hearts, but most of them don't want what I'm offering. That's the poison, I guess, affecting their minds. But just as my brother is a relentless hunter, I too am patient: an unparalleled stalker. Sometimes it takes me years, one tiny stitch at a time, but in the end very few can resist me forever. But they hate me for what I do- the one who cleans up the mess Love has left behind. And maybe that's why no one ever sang any songs about me. They'd rather have the glory of Love than the quiet soothing of my healing fingertips. They don't understand that without me, without the strength I stitch into their hearts, they will never be able to survive my brother's arrows. They think that what I do devalues what they've felt, and never stop to think that what I do makes it possible for them to feel it again- to feel it forever, without the anguish. No, when that final arrow pierces them, and stays, they give all the credit to him, and none to me.

But that's alright, because I don't do it for my own glory. I do it for theirs.

(Bits)

***

(A word about the relevance of today's photo- it made me think about the drilling force of love, which gave me the funny mental image of a modern Cupid using a drill to make multiple, neat holes into people's hearts. And I thought about all the holes that have been drilled into my heart over the years, and how much it sucked at the time, but that I always managed to heal up [more or less] eventually. Which made me wonder about who was doing the patching up...)


(A word about the illustration- this is actually a variation on a sketch that I did in my one of my sketchbooks a couple of years back... which in turn was part of a series of stitching women that I did. I popped out tonight's entry and it reminded me of the sketch, so I thought I'd revisit it. This new version was done pretty quickly in pencil, but I'm pleased with it nonetheless...)

Anatomy of a Story

So I was working on Brothers again today, and ran into a problem; how, exactly, does one ride a freakin' winged horse? By which I mean, where does one sit? Well that rather comes down to the anatomy of the beastie, doesn't it? Which brings us to- how, exactly, is Pegs put together? Which brings us to (drumroll, please)...

Research time! Woo!

Not research on winged horses, per se (because of course all I've go to go on are other people's potentially illogical imaginations) but rather on horse anatomy, swan anatomy, and how I, personally, shall the interface the twain. Which (in my case) means not just looking things up on the interwebs, but also literally drawing them out. Me being the visual person that I am, I need to see it to really understand it- and drawing helps me do that. I am definitely grateful for my ability to put pen to paper and churn out what I need (although truth be told I probably could have just written the scene and never even mentioned it- but it was bugging me). It also gave me some insight that may never actually show up in the written version of this, but I'll share it (and some other tidbits) with you here just because...

Species-wise, Pegs is kind of a cross between a 'gray' Arabian-esque stallion (but with a larger, more powerful chest, for obvious reasons) and a mute swan (yes, that is an actual breed, not just a description of his inability to vocalize). He is larger than your typical Arabian, and his skeletal system is more like a bird's (complete with air-filled bones and a keel). The wing structure is tweaked just a smidge in that I gave him a cross between the swan's wings and a bat's. Yes, bat. Pegs is a mammal- it makes sense for his wings to have mammalian traits. He has a sort of short skin-sail underneath all those feathers, which is part of what made it a little awkward to place Chrys on his back. But we're working it out...

(I feel like I need to add one last point- Pegs also has divine/monstrous blood flowing through his veins, which gives him that extra little oompf which allows him to fly in spite of it not technically being possible. It also explains the ability to sort of delicately hover without any more effort than a wing flutter- not something you'll see any mortal avian do...)

So anyway, that's what a lot of today's "writing time" went toward. Hopefully me explaining this sort of thing is entertaining rather than annoying. <=)

Brothers, Pt XV

The winged horse had eyes like pools of rich black dye, and right now they were boring into Beautiful Killer’s with an uncomfortable intensity. He felt as though something important was being decided, and it left him afraid to breathe, lest he inadvertently bring about disastrous consequences. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the creature stood, walked over to him, and nuzzled his hair.

Beautiful Killer choked and almost fell over in shock, but instead raised trembling hands to stroke its snowy neck. For some inexplicable reason he found himself crying, and he buried his face in the creature’s mane, inhaling its scent- an odd mixture of feathers, sunshine, some sharp, exotic herb, and- mysteriously enough- ocean spray. The winged horse blew softly against his ear, sounding for all the world like a sea-side lullaby, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, the young man felt at peace.

“His name is Pegs,” said a low, feminine voice behind him. Beautiful Killer froze, hands and face still hidden in the creature’s mane. “He would tell you himself, but he’s mute- which of course you’ve already discerned. Don’t be afraid, Chrys. None of us will harm you.”

Beautiful Killer turned slowly, and it comforted him to feel the creature- to feel Pegs, he corrected- moving to press its weight against his back. Standing there was an achingly lovely woman- he assumed she must be a muse- with dark hair and a wise smile.

“How- how do you know my real name?” he asked, surreptitiously tugging down on the hem of his tunic from where it had hiked indecently up his thigh.

“I am Nemie, one of Pegs’s foster mothers. We are in the business of knowing things.”

“And you can leave off that fidgeting!” cried another voice, its owner invisible. “We promise not to molest any portion of your pretty golden flesh!” This was followed up by a flurry of many feminine giggles, and Chrys almost thought he heard one sultry voice mutter, “I don’t promise anything…” but it may have been the wind.

“Sisters- that is enough,” Nemie said, and the giggling silenced. Chrys, trying to ignore his burning face, stood up and faced her with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Pegs, you say?” he asked, and turned toward the winged horse. It- no, he- tossed his head in agreement. “Pegs, then. Very nice to meet you. Your foster-mother is right: my true name is Chrys, but no one has called me that in years.” Pegs nodded his head again. “And- am I understanding this right? Are you willing to let me ride you, to face Kymera?” Pegs hesitated this time, but finally nodded again.

“First you must master being the passenger of a winged horse, before you can even begin to think of facing anyone down,” Nemie said. Chrys turned back to her.

“Can you help me?” She laughed at this, a full, rich sound that made him somehow less nervous- not his typical response to a woman’s mirth.

“My stars, child, no! As far as we know, no one has ever ridden Pegs, and he is the first and only of his kind. If he allows you upon his back, you must learn from him or no one. We will allow you to stay here for the time being, and we will provision you when you go, but the teaching must be from Pegs alone.”

“I guess… I’ll need that bridle after all,” he said, looking around for it.

“I think not,” her voice was light, but Chrys thought he detected an underlying note of tension. “Bridles are for dumb beasts who cannot understand what you ask of them. Pegs is not a dumb beast, and has no need of a harness of any kind.”

Chrys felt his face flush again. “Of course you’re right. I’m sorry, Pegs, I wasn’t thinking.” Pegs lipped softly at his shoulder, and he knew he was forgiven.

“Now,” said Nemie, “Let us have a meal before things progress any further, shall we? It’s been an emotional day for everyone, and my sisters are dying to meet you.”

“Er,” said Chrys, not entirely certain he’d even be able to eat with so many semi-divine women inspecting him. Pegs leaned against his arm and caught his eye with an expression of amusement, but gave no indication of arguing with his foster mother. No help to be had there. “Alright,” he sighed, and resigned himself to a miserable afternoon of feminine companionship.

Brothers, Pt XIV

If you had asked him, Beautiful Killer never would have thought that an equine face could be capable of conveying human emotions. Now, however, he realized that they absolutely were- or, at least, this one was. The winged horse was staring at him in what could only be described as shocked recognition, and it was totally destroying any half-formed plan Beautiful Killer might have had regarding what to do with the golden bridal. Instead he let the divine gift slip from his fingers to the ground, where it coiled in and around itself like a sulking snake, forgotten in the dirt. He watched, confused and fascinated, as the expression of shock shifted to a strange war of longing and disgust. The creature was trembling, not as though it was afraid, but as though it was waiting to spring into action and hadn’t yet decided which direction to take.

“He- hello,” Beautiful Killer said. The winged horse flinched at the sound of his voice, but still made no movement one way or the other. Beautiful Killer held his hands out in front of him, to show he had no weapon, and the creature flared its nostrils in response.

“I was told to seek you out- that you are the only one who could help me. Will you…” he paused, suddenly unsure of how, exactly, he to explain himself. He was fairly certain this was not what the goddess had intended when she sent him to this mountain, this talking business. But she wasn’t here now, and Beautiful Killer was, and he knew in his gut that not even a gods-crafted device could compel this creature to do anything it didn’t want to. His only hope lay in his limited powers of persuasion, and so he drew himself up and continued.

“Will you listen to what I have to say, and maybe consider helping?”

***

Pegs blinked in confusion. This reunion was so outside the realm of what he had ever even remotely considered that his brain was doing a bit of a rebellion, turning his thoughts and emotions slippery and difficult to grasp. Here was his brother- long loved and long missed, ached for even now- but his brother was a hero, a thing to be despised, tormented, and perhaps even killed. But he wasn’t acting like a hero, swinging a weapon about and forcing his will upon others- he wanted to talk. To talk. Pegs might have laughed if he hadn’t wanted so desperately to cry, for here was the worst thing of all: he knew Chrys with a deep surety that rose up from his bones- but Chrys very obviously did not know him… and Pegs was incapable of forming the words to explain.

It’s just as Benthie warned, he thought. I have remembered for both of us, but how can I share my memories?

So he did the only thing he could do. He forced himself to relax, and took on an Air of Listening.

***

Beautiful Killer could tell the moment the winged horse made up its mind. Its body ceased its fine quivering, and it cocked its head at him in a manner that indicated it was, indeed, willing to listen to whatever Beautiful Killer had to say. He let out a sigh of relief and smiled at the creature, and then lowered himself to the ground. After a moment the winged horse did the same, folding its gleaming wings about itself, much like a swan gliding through the water might.

“Can you speak?” he began. The animal shook its head, and Beautiful Killer thought it looked irritated. “I’m sorry- I just didn’t want to assume that you couldn’t, just because you hadn’t. I met a creature that might be cousin to you earlier in my journey, and he spoke his opinions loudly and at length, so I thought maybe… well, never mind.

“They call me Beautiful Killer.”

***

Pegs let out an indelicate snort at hearing his brother’s epithet. ‘Beautiful Killer’ gave him a rueful grin and continued, “I know. That’s about how I feel about the title, myself. But that’s what they call me, and I’ve been informed that that’s what I am, so I may as well get used to it.” This gave Pegs a momentary twist to his stomach. He, too, might be described as Beautiful Killer, if those doing the naming knew of his exploits. He resolved to reserve judgment until his brother finished his tale.

The story that unfolded was a tangle of accidents and misunderstandings, and by the end of it the only thing Pegs knew for certain was that in order for his brother to be able to go home and not be executed on the way, Chrys (or, rather, Beautiful Killer) must kill the monster Kymera.

Pegs did not like the sound of that, not one bit. He had no intention whatsoever of helping anyone, not even his long-lost twin, kill an innocent monster. Even so... his heart didn’t want to believe that Chrys would really do such a thing. In fact, his heart ached with every fiber of its being for Pegs to move closer, perhaps even to lay his head in his brother’s lap.

And then what?

Pegs stared into Chrys’s burnished-gold eyes, and memories welled up. He remembered their mother’s blood, their aunts’ tears- he remembered dancing in the sand as the little boy laughed, the sense of belonging, of rightness that had been taken from him by the agony of separation. He remembered years and years of a lonely emptiness that none of his foster-mothers, no matter how loving or kind, could ever fill. No, he did not know what would happen if he were to go to his brother, make his allegiance clear- but he knew what would happen if he did not.

Chrys would leave. And he could not bear that a second time.

Brothers, Pt XIII

Some subtle shift in the flavor of the wind roused Pegs from his slumber. He flared his nostrils, trying to place it. It was a complex scent- one that both attracted and repulsed him. The repulsion was easy to place- a combination of sweat, leather, and metal that so often accompanied heroes- but the attraction… He inhaled again. Familiar… so familiar… and comforting... and yet…

Pegs shook rose slowly and shook out his wings. The easiest way to resolve his curiosity was simply to leave his cave and see what- or who- had wandered into his foster-mothers’ domain. But first- he was thirsty.

***

Beautiful Killer had reached the edge of an improbably beautiful little meadow. He felt certain it must be sacred to the muses, for what other right did such a lush, inviting place have to be on the side of a mountain? Looking around uneasily (he could not help but remember that muses, as a general rule, were female) he finally settled himself in between two rocks to eat a few mouthfuls of dried fruit and plan his next move. Sooner or later he would come across the winged horse, and when he did- then what? Fling the golden bridle at it and hope?

Stupid deities, he scowled to himself. Just because they have access to hidden knowledge, they forget that we mere mortals don’t.

He was just starting to wonder if it might not be best to try and find the thing asleep when a rushing sound grabbed his attention. He glanced upward, wondering if Grif had (for some unknown monster-y reason) decided to follow him. What he saw took his breath away.

The creature was larger than Grif had been, but far more slender of limb. Also, it was a shining white to the cat-bird’s tawny gold and brown. Beautiful Killer sucked in a breath and almost choked on a date.

That’s him, he thought, trying (in vain) to cough without noise. And it was. The winged horse banked, circled, and finally came to rest at the edge of a particularly large spring, on the opposite side of the meadow from Beautiful Killer. As he watched, it dipped its head to the flowing water and began to drink.

***

Pegs heard the man approaching. How could he not, with such sensitive ears? But he continued to drink, weighing his options. It was the first time he’d encountered a hero since the day he had killed one, and he was no longer so certain in his response to them. So instead he waited to see what the hero would do, knowing he would temper his actions accordingly. It was probably too much to hope that someone with the determination to track him to his mountain home was anything other than a violent threat, but still…

When he judged the man to be a good three meters away, Peg brought his head up and around to stare him down. What he saw took his breath away.

Long of limb, fair of form, hair and skin shining gold in the sunlight- all these things registered in the back of Peg’s brain. But what truly captured him, what made it impossible for him to move, were the eyes.

His brother’s eyes.

Staring at him, wide with some unnamed emotion, from the face of a filthy hero.

Brothers, Pt XII

Now this is more like it, he thought with a grim sort of satisfaction.

Beautiful Killer had been walking for the better part of a month, and he was currently soaked to the skin (and possibly even further than that) by rains that had been beating against him for the past seventy-two hours. Finally he felt as though he might actually be earning something for himself. Every day brought the muses’ mountain that much closer to him, and every night he went to sleep feeling more and more deserving of any epic poetry that might spring up about his current exploits.

He had no further dreams of the goddess, for which he was profoundly grateful. What he did have, however, were increasingly unbelievable stories from the local mortals; specifically, stories about a certain Winged Horse. It seemed that the closer he got to his destination, the more people had to say about the creature’s unearthly beauty, its divine grace- and its sheer mean-spirited devilry. It made him exceptionally grateful for the purported powers of the golden bridle neatly coiled in his pack- even if he didn’t entirely trust the source of said powers.

According to the locals, the monster hadn’t been seen for a while- years, probably- which as far as they were concerned only meant that it was about due to make some mischief. They warned him about its strange animosity towards heroes, and recommended he try to look less heroic. Since Beautiful Killer wasn’t entirely certain what made him look “heroic” in the first place (although he suspected it was the golden cast of his features), he didn’t even try. Besides, he had a feeling that he wouldn’t encounter the winged horse until and unless he got himself up the side of that mountain- otherwise surely the goddess would have just had him sit in a field, yelling about his own so-called heroics until the creature showed up of its own volition.

And so he continued, making the occasional stop to rescue imperiled people or rout bands of thieves (sometimes at the same time, which was particularly satisfying), and doing his best to cover as much ground as possible every day. Even when said ground had turned to mud up to his ankles, as was the current condition. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he might have wandered into a small stream- there seemed to be an unusual amount of them flowing from the muses’ mountain- and he was just starting to wonder if he might have better footing about a meter to the left, when he heard a terrible screech.

Beautiful Killer didn’t even think- he had his short sword drawn and had dropped into a defensive crouch before he’d even identified the source of the noise. It came again- a trifle less loud, this time- and he whirled to face it.

There, caught in some sort of hunter’s snare- a creature. It was winged, whatever it was, and beating those wings for all it was worth, making outraged shrieks, snarls, and a serpent-like hissing noise. Beautiful Killer let his sword drop a fraction, and moved closer to get a better view.

The beast had a body something like that of a cat- but with a sort of goofy gangly-ness that indicated juvenile status. The rain had spike its fur up in every direction by rain, with the effect of making it appear more ridiculous than fierce, but the razor-sharp beak suggested to Beautiful Killer that he’d best not take it lightly.

“There now,” he said to it in the same sort of voice he used on excited horses. “Calm down and let’s see if we can’t get you out.”

The animal puffed itself up and growled at him, long tail lashing. Beautiful Killer figured it would probably have taken a swipe at him, as well, if it hadn’t managed to twist its limbs up so thoroughly.

“Oh come now. I know you’re angry- I would be, too- but you, sir, are obviously in need of some assistance. And from what I can tell, the locals don’t take that kindly to monsters around here, so I’m probably your best bet for escape.”

“Monster!” spat the creature. “I’ll give you monster! Just you come a step closer!”

“Oh! You can speak. Excellent.” Beautiful Killer sheathed his sword. “I will come a step closer, but I’d appreciate you not savaging me. I can’t get you loose if you take off my hand.”

“Why should you set me loose?” it asked. “Your kind is always trying to capture my kind. Or worse. My dad told me all about you.” It growled a bit for emphasis.

“Your dad may have told you about mortals in general, but I doubt he told you anything about me. As for why I should set you loose- well why shouldn’t I? I think it’s rude to eat things that you’ve carried on a conversation with, and I don’t, as a general rule, go around killing for killing’s sake. That’s wasteful. In fact, now that people are calling me “hero” I’m pretty certain it’s my duty to rescue others whenever possible. No one ever said those others need to have the same sort of limbs that I do.” Beautiful Killer had been slowly moving towards the creature as he spoke, and now he was close enough to touch the rope that had snared it. The creature trembled but did not lash out at him.

“You are an odd mortal,” it said at last. “I will allow you to free me.” Beautiful Killer smiled and slipped a small knife from his belt.

“Thank you,” he said, and began sawing.

Brothers, Pt XI

(Author's note- I am beginning to feel vaguely crap-like again, so this is not as tightly edited as it might be- or will be, later. In the meantime, I beg your indulgence...)

Beautiful Killer, once out of the oracle’s cave, underwent an unconscious sort of transformation. His movements became a great deal more graceful, for starters: the sort of movements you would expect such fluid limbs to be capable of, rather than the awkward shuffling he’d displayed in the cave. Too, his shoulders came up and back, giving him an extra inch or two to his moderate height. The further he got from the female oracle, the more he began to look like he might actually be capable of killing, and not just of being decorative.

See, the thing was, women made him feel uneasy and self-conscious, and when he felt that way, well… it showed. Beautiful Killer was very bad at being anything but what he was in any given moment, and while that was a wonderful trait to have while swept up in the heat of battle, it was a something of a hindrance when it came to social interactions with the fairer sex. Not that they ever seemed to mind. Some of them even seemed to find it endearing, which of course only made things more horrible for him.

He repressed a shudder.

The oracle hadn’t been so bad, though. She’d been almost- almost- sexless, so he hadn’t felt the urge to flee as strongly as he often did around women. Women and their grasping little hands... And with the veil over her face, he couldn’t even see if she was ogling him, which was a relief in and of itself. He did get so very tired of being ogled.

He wondered briefly if he could somehow get more women wearing veils.

***

It took him less than two days’ march to find the place the oracle had foretold. It was at the top of a lonely sort of hill, in the middle of a roughly circular grove of olive trees. Standing there, Beautiful Killer had a perfectly lovely view of the surrounding plains plains (complete with misty peaks in the far-off distance), and he took a moment to enjoy it before turning his attention to his immediate surroundings. Someone had thoughtfully arranged a pile of stones, boughs, and twine that might be used to erect an altar just large enough for a young man to sleep under.

It made him very, very uneasy.

Oh he was grateful, to be certain- he hadn’t been entirely certain how he would make an altar without cutting down someone’s sacred something-or-other and getting himself in an even deeper mess- but the truth of the matter was this entire thing was just a little too ridiculously easy. Which meant that someone- and in this instance most likely a divine someone- wanted something from him.

Again.

Beautiful Killer sighed and began stacking rocks.

He was used to people wanting to help him, because of his looks. It was embarrassing, and also frustrating. It had made it exceptionally difficult for him to learn the art of fighting, because so many people kept letting him win- which of course taught him nothing. And then, too, he felt like there really wasn’t anyone in the world he could trust- because people inevitably had ulterior motives, when it came to him. Even if that motive was something seemingly benign, like trying to make him happy. Their idea of what would make him happy.

Not that he was adverse to happiness, of course. He just felt as though he ought to have more of a hand in earning it for himself. Take this whole “Beautiful Killer” thing. Oh, he was certain that the minstrel had thought he was doing a fine thing by exaggerating his minor exploits into a few epic poems, but the truth of the matter was that Beautiful Killer would much rather have actually done those deeds and not gotten credit for them, rather than the reverse. Especially once it started leading to the difficulties…

He shook his head to clear it, and refocused on the task at hand. The altar was taking shape, and he took a moment to fill in its underside with some conveniently located moss (he tried not to think about how convenient) so that he wouldn’t be sleeping directly on the dirt. Then, because there really wasn’t that much else to do when you’re waiting on a goddess, he went to sleep.

***

She showed up in his dream, almost as soon as he’d closed his eyes. Tall and terrible, the goddess stared at him until he began to feel his flesh creep, and he became uncomfortably aware of the fact that he could not move. Her gaze was different from the way most people looked at him- her eyes held no adoration, no covetousness- only a sort of cold calculation that made him long for a shadow to hide in. Finally she bared her teeth at him in what might have been considered a smile.

“How… ironic,” she said.

Beautiful Killer might have liked to say something in response, but the truth was that his brain seemed to have gone into the same sort of frozen panic as his body. Apparently the goddess did not require his opinion, however, because she continued with barely a pause.

“Unexpected, but not unwelcome. Here, take this- it will bring the beast to heel.” She shoved what appeared to be a golden bridle into his hands. He looked down at it, confused. Sure enough, it was a bridle, perfectly ordinary save for the fact that it looked as though it might have been woven from Beautiful Killer’s own hair. It did not look like the sort of thing to help him best a monster. His eyes must have betrayed his puzzlement, because she snapped her fingers imperiously and he found he could speak again.

“You… am I supposed to ride Kymera?”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous- she would char you before you got close enough to try. That bridle is for the winged horse which resides there, on the muses’ mountain,” she pointed far into the distance. “It is only with astride him that you can ride to meet Kymera, and have any hope of survival.”

“Oh. Well. That’s very-“

“Wake.”

And he did.