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[Sarah Dead-Wolf]

This is a fiction for my LARP Changeling character, Cassandra Fontenaine, from the point of view of an unfortunate caught in her web.

~~~~~~~~


"Do you love me?"
"Yes"

"Do you fear me?"
"Yes"

"Do you worship me?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
[18 March 2008]

Three years.  Three long and brutal years of endless criticism.  And what, thought Barry Lyons, do I have to show for it?   Soulful eyes, the sort that could - and had, on occasion - bring a girl to her knees, dropped once again to look at the paper in his hands.  *In accordance with Federal regulations and grading reports from the College of Arts and Sciences, we regret to inform you that your financial assistance has been...*

Crumpling the baleful words into a tight ball in his sensitive hands, Barry dropped the end of his scholastic career in the waste can as he left the studio for the last time.

The young man could never be quite certain how or why or by what paths his feet led him as they did, by what twist of fate or fortune he had crossed the long city blocks.  But when he looked up from the rain-soaked concrete once more,  what looked back was a vision.  

He couldn't quite describe her in any sane fashion even if he tried, that strange woman who stood in the gallery door.  Of average height but taller than life; skin of too-perfect tones set beneath eyes that were deepest blue one moment and rich green the next;  long hair that seemed to play tricks with his eyes and mind, defying any attempt to categorize it.  Despite the spring air, Barry would later swear that he heard dry leaves rustling in some phantom chill wind in that moment, something that had touched a hint of ice to his heart as this strange woman looked not so much to as through him.   But when she spoke, her voice gave him what he needed most of all.

"Do you want to create?"

Wordlessly he nodded, and followed into her world.


[23 May 2008]

Another Friday night.  A few months ago, and he would have been in an alcohol-fueled haze at any of a dozen bars near the campus, poisoning his nervous system in a desperate attempt to numb the stress and failures of his academic career.

Instead, he stepped back from the canvas and gave his latest creation a good look.  What the young artist saw made his skin crawl.

The landscape was both familiar and alien, sinister overtones creeping in from every corner, every shadow.  Palaces could be seen through a tangle of vines and trees, towering improbable things that seemed a product of whimsy and nightmare.  And not every shadow was just a shadow; some had form before mere darkness, teased into the edge of perception by deft brushwork and shading that had eluded him until two months ago.  Until he met Her.

How and why he could create like this here, in Cassandra's studio, was a mystery.  Hindsight was 20/20, and there was no doubt in his mind that a mere nine weeks before, Barry Lyons was  a slop-artist at best.  Oh, there had been the fleeting glimpses of insight, mere moments of inspiration that had always flickered to momentary life like a firefly on a hot summer night... but always to fade, and never to make the transition from thought to canvas.  No, before meeting this strange, reclusive woman, greatness had eluded Barry as surely as everything else.

But no more.  Out in the front gallery, arrayed along the west wall, six more of his works - his masterpieces - hung in series, each as haunting and terrifying and marvelous as the next.  It was nothing short of a miracle, he knew, but this miracle wasn't going to be looked in the mouth.  For whatever reason, here - and only here, he found, as efforts back in the humble surroundings of his meager apartment had fallen short of the mark - Barry was no mere hack; here he was a true artist.

A wave of fatigue rolled over him, and Barry slumped onto an old sofa as he dug for the cellphone in his right pocket.  As usual, there were no bars; something was odd about the walls or something in Autumn Harvest, and he'd never managed to get a signal here.  But the time still displayed in digital precision.  01:53

Blinking, he looked again, as if the sleek modern device had told some improbable tale.  But no, the numbers assured him once more that it was nearly two in the morning.  "I'd swear it wasn't even really evening yet..." he mumbled to himself.

"Time flies with inspiration's wings."  He almost dropped the phone at her voice.  Somehow, she always managed to surprise him a little, a brief bit of fear running cold through his veins at her first words before really knowing that Cassandra was there.  Shrugging it off with a nervous chuckle, he replied, "Yeah, I guess so.  I... I think I finished another one.  Damned if I know what to call it though," he added, pointing tiredly at the disturbing image that filled his latest canvas.

The smile that came across his patron's face was one part joy mixed thoroughly with one part predation, and had just a dash of something darker blended in.  "Oh, I think I know what to call it, Barry.  False Hope.   Seventh in a series by local artist Barry Lyons.  Yes, I think you've really found your muse."

Despite a weariness that was bone-deep, Barry smiled in nearly child-like pride at her words.


[15 Aug 2008]

Something was wrong.  Of that, Barry was certain.

Summer had somehow failed to truly arrive.  This was August, a time when he should have had to rush his work from air-conditioned car to air-conditioned studio for fear of the oils softening in the blistering Missouri heat.  Instead, a cool wind caught his tussled brown hair as he opened the car door.  Carefully applied plastic wrap covered his latest work - a haunting window into some twisted parody of something straight out of the Brothers Grim - to protect it from a cold rain that spit from a sky full of roiling dark clouds and the echoes of thunder.  In this strange world that Summer seemed to have forgotten, the artist dashed from his little subcompact into Autumn Harvest.

As always, She was here.  And as always, sight of her was a mingling of fear and joy, like that first moment of descent on a roller-coaster.  Or maybe a bit farther down the hill, Barry thought with an internal giggle that only verged slightly on madness.  Somehow, it was fitting that the bright sun of August had seemingly skipped over this place, this sanctuary of creation over which Cassandra presided.  Some mad little corner of his mind wondered if she was somehow responsible, if this wonderful woman who had revived his muse had somehow given August a new muse as well, a harbinger of seasons to come.  It was a ridiculous thought, of course, and when he unwrapped the canvas at her silent approach, it faded away as did so many outside thoughts.

It was another Friday night, but no part of Barry even vaguely missed his old bar-hopping ways.  This strange spirit that filled him, this fluttering thing that drove his hands to produce works out of the darker corners of imagination, was better than any chemical buzz.  It was a natural high... or at least, one that came from something other than booze and the occasional hit of pot.

As he set the piece on an easel and broke out his pallet, Barry reflected on how much progress he'd made on the work in this back studio... and how little he managed to accomplish at home.  For whatever reason, the muse failed him at the apartment, regardless of lighting or music.  Slowly, he was becoming aware that something about Cassandra was driving him to brilliance, and that without her all the technique in the world wouldn't help him produce true art.

Yes, something was wrong.  Of that, Barry was certain.  And if so, he never wanted things to be right again.


[6 Nov 2008]

Please answer... oh god, please answer...

Four rings... five... then the voice of an angel.  "What is it, Barry?  I'm doing a private showing."

He felt bad about interrupting her like this.  The last thing in the world that Barry wanted was for Cassandra to get upset with him.  Not just because there was some odd hint of a threat about her, something that told him this slender woman could do horrible things to him if she wished it.  No, the real fear would be that she might send him away... and that would be unbearable.

But the need was so strong....

"I know, but is there any way I could come use the studio?  Just in back, I won't disturb your show.  I promise."

A sigh like the rustle of fallen leaves came across the line, and he knew she was upset before she even spoke.  "I told you, no.  Not tonight, not with this going on."

Desperation drove him to press the point.  "Later then?  After the show?  I don't care how late it is, I need this.  I need to get this on canvas!  Please..."

Another sigh, and for a moment he thought he'd gone too far.   Then:  "Fine.  I'll give you a call when I'm done for you to come over.  But not until then.  Understood?"

A grin as wide as that on the jack-o-lantern that sat past-due on his porch spread across Barry's face, and excitement bubbled up in his voice as he agreed as quickly as possible, fearful of his patron changing her mind.  The line gave a click after the first half-dozen iterations of "Thank you!"

With little else of meaning in his life, Barry fidgetted in his chair, waiting on edge for the call to greatness.

~~~

"Not now.  The studio's closed until the police are done.  It could be a few nights."

He couldn't believe his ears.  No, this couldn't be happening.  He needed to be there, needed to put brush to canvas and get these images out of his head in the only way he knew how.  "Tell them it's an emergency!  Tell them a show is due!  Tell them anything, just let me come and paint!"

"I said no."  Her voice never raised so much as a decibel, but near terror tore through every fibre of Barry's mind.

"Imsorryimsorryimsorryimsorry..."  The terrified apology poured out of the man like water, and nearly half a minute went by before he realized she was speaking again.

"Shhhh....  it's OK.  Just be patient, and I'll let you know when you can come back.  You mean a great deal to me.  Remember that."

The line fell dead, and for a moment so did Barry's heart.  It would be a long, long wait, he knew.  Hours, maybe days.  But the fear was mitigated by something akin to pride, as her words echoed through his addled mind:  "You mean a great deal to me.  Remember that."

Remember it, he would.


[8 Nov 2008]

Sleep was impossible; every moment dragged by interminably, the ticking of the bedside clock seeming to slow like a metronome winding down.  This waiting was horrible... but more frightening was the thought of calling Her again only to receive Her ire.  No, Barry could not risk that.

But a look... just a look...

Columbia was never the most raucus of towns, and at two in the morning it may as well have rolled up the streets.  Even so, Barry could see activity as he fast-stepped west along Walnut, coming over the hill past Short to where the gallery would start coming into sight.  What he saw chilled his blood.

Police cars were lined up at the curb in front of the low storefront of Autumn Harvest, officers both uniformed and plain-clothed making their way into and out of the sacred space as if it was a coffee shop.  How dare they... how dare they!   Anger welled up from some strange corner of Barry's heart and his pace picked up into a run.

Blood was in his eyes when a beat cop grabbed him by the arm, moments before he would have broken through the yards of yellow tape surrounding the gallery.  "Hey hey there!  You can't go in there, buddy!  Crime scene!"

When Barry swivelled, the cop saw madness in his eyes and felt unaccustomed fear for his very soul.  "But this is wrong!" the madman ranted.  "This place is special!  A place of true art!  Why can't you just leave it alone?!?"

Shit... a nutbag artist.  Just what I need. "Buddy, you need to calm down right the fuck now, or I'm gonna take you down the street to cell.  Is that clear?"

A cell... locked away... from Her.  All of the anger washed out of poor Barry, leaving a pale and frightened shell of a man in its wake.  "I... I'm sorry.  I'm an artist for the gallery and... I get a little carried away.  Um..."

"Yeah, a little carried away."  Like in a basket, you fucking nut-job, the cop finished silently.   "Look, you shouldn't be here.  Go home, OK?  Gallery's closed."

"Y-yes... home...  I-I'll go... home."  Shuffling back eastward along the cracked sidewalk, the one resounding refrain in Barry's mind was, but this is home.

~~~

"Barry, it's Cassandra.  I'm afraid I have some bad news."

His untouched breakfast cooling in front of him in the wan light of the overcast morning, the artist felt blood freeze in his veins as he braced himself for the worst:  you can never come back. It was almost a joy when Her blessed voice explained, "One of your works is missing.  Your first.  Along with the reference photo from the logs.  I'm sorry."

"That... that's bad, yeah."  In truth, it wasn't that bad; his earliest work had been his worst, though he knew its lost would be felt.  No, 'bad' would have been the loss of future creation.  "B-but I can come back now, right?"

If She was surprised at the focus of his desires, it certainly didn't show in Her voice.  After the merest moment, She gave him that wonderful, long-awaited news.  "You can come."

He left the house at a dead run.


[7 Dec 2008]

"I know it's a loss, but think of it this way:   now you have the opportunity to perfect your original concept."

She can't be serious... can she?   When Cassandra first returned from Kansas City, Barry had been close to estatic.  Oh, to be sure, recovery of the "Series of Seven" - his indisputable masterwork, stolen a week earlier - had been part of it, but it paled next to the truth of the matter:  She was here, and he could bask in her terrifying light once more.

But then, She'd dropped the bomb.  The first painting in his series - the very foundation point of the entire effort - had been destroyed, lost to reckless thieves who cared nothing for all the meaning and soul he had poured out across the canvass.  Somewhere inside, a small part of Barry died at that loss.

And now, She was talking of re-creating it?  Was she mad?  This wasn't some slop-artist landscape, the sort of thing churned out by the dozens for the county art circuit.  This piece had come from depths Barry didn't even know he had at first, had lived and breathed and flowed across the canvass with a life of its own.  It was real, it was true... and now She thought he could just whip out another like baking a cake?!?

The outrage reached such heights that Barry did something which he was barely capable of anymore:  he turned his back to Her and took a shaking step toward the studio door.

He was undone by the lightest touch of Her hand upon his shoulder, and three whispered words:

"And I'll help."


[16 Dec 2008]

It hadn't been easy, Barry realized.  None of it had been easy.  But he was here, and so was She, and that made it all worthwhile.

How foolish he had been to bicker, early along, about re-creating the lost work.  And bicker he had, arguing of the fallacy of reinventing the theme, at time lost of newer project, at the difference in seasons and light and mood from that first moment of brilliance.

But at every turn, She had the answer.  It was thrilling, he knew in retrospect, though terror had struck deep at his heart during moments when his foolish pride threatened to push Her away.  Time and time again he had come close to being cast out from Her brilliance, and time and time again did he relent and listen to Her instruction.

The work itself he had thought impossible... but true to Her word (and when was Her word anything short of stark and frightening truth?) a strange muse flowed within him so long as She stood by his side, and the brush seemed almost to move of its own accord.  With a clarity of vision previously unknown, with deft use of shading and such subtle shifts of hue as to be nearly indistinguishable to the eye, with a skill that he knew within his heart was not entirely his own, Barry created something that was not merely a foundation portrait, but was in a way the series in full - innocent at first glance, but with hidden portent at every turn, the barest of hints of the beauty and horror to come swirled in a complex tangle of oil-paint hedge.

Standing back, Barry looked at the final product, and knew without a shred of doubt that this was his true masterpiece, the finest thing he had or would ever create.

"Is it beautiful?"

Her voice sent shivers up his spine, lovely fear and an endless fount of meaning wrapped around every word.

"Yes... oh god, yes...."

"Then turn to me."

Don't do it! What shred of self-preservation Barry still possessed screamed at him from somewhere in the back of his mind.  Run!  Flee!

Perhaps someday he would lament his choice.  Perhaps it would come back to haunt him with torments greater than could ever be imagined.  He could not know...

...but he turned, and saw Her for the first time in all Her glory:  a masterpiece of terrible beauty, every brushstroke applied with inhuman skill, every colour so rich and vibrant as to hurt the eye.  He knew now from where Her art flowed:  She was Art, made flesh and given life.  And by some miracle, She had seen fit to gift him with Her favour.

"Do you love me?" She asked in a voice like silver bells.

"Yes," he promised without hesitation.

"Do you fear me?" She asked in a voice barbed with terrible thorns.

"Yes," he proclaimed as his soul trembled in Her sight.

"Do you worship me?"

The question hung in the air for a full second, before the merest bit of air escaped from Barry's lips to seal his fate.

"Yes."



~~~~~~
~ FIN ~