16560/Ex Umbra: Gravity of Love

Ex Umbra: Gravity of Love
Date of Scene:	13 December 2023
Location:	Underworld
Synopsis:	Another shard reclaimed, but at what cost?
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon
Tinyplot:	Praxidike

---

Jane Foster has posed:
Alone.

Is Blackagar truly alone, ever?

He is here, with a chunk of crystal in his hand, in a house of memories and secrets. The chamber he exits still smells faintly of the storm-tossed sea, and the battles precipitated on its shores.

Quiet corridors reverberate with his footsteps and the gravitas of his burden. Shimmering light plays off the shard he carries, thickening the atmosphere by its presence. Proximity invites him to drift into daring thoughts and rebel at stasis. The shard itself is restless, creative.

Wanderings, then, find the Midnight King down another hall, another door. One that might take him truly aback, were he to consider it.

It's the door to his chambers in Attilan. Beyond is the very same space, reproduced so faithfully it might *be* transported here, no facsimile. A simple mark lies on the stained glass window mounted above the large rooms awash in shadow, the only source of illumination. Earthglow passes through the lightning-etched symbology of his own uniform, throwing a circular rondel on the floor.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Understanding is closer, but still not complete as Blackagar struggles to come fully to terms with all the intricacies of the situation that surrounds him. The wandering through the sea? Space? Reality perhaps is the best descriptor that he previously encountered still weighs in his mind. An alternative to what was, a shattering of a crystal shard that forced him to see a lens or fragment of something beyond. The puzzle of alternative existence will need to be contemplated however at a different time. For now singular purpose guides.

The new door, looking familiar upon second look has his step pausing, although momentarily, before he continues to press on through it. Walking into a home. Perhaps not what he may consider his true home, but a home that he has known before. Will know again?

Jane Foster has posed:
What is home? A lunar palace, a sprawling apartment in an artist collective, a scuffed-up flat, a thatched chamber open to the sea breeze? Pale blue shadows almost provide a sense of being underwater. Blackagar passes familiar furnishings, the crisp detail that leads to that stained glass reflection thrown to the ground. Beyond that lies more of his belongings, but no other exit. This deep in, even seeing the doors that led him here becomes difficult. Yet the air thickens, anticipation practically a yoke thrown across his shoulders. His own emotion? The shard's? The flame-flicked entity hidden in his shadow, only there at the margins of his sight when he shifts his gaze?

The last time he walked into the light, he found himself on a deck. This time, the traces of sound drifting out hold a suggestion of a cityscape, not the sea. Music, not the threnody of snapping sails or shots fired into the waves.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Decor shifts along the periphery of vision as Blackagar moves, in one glance the simple hallway with a hanging piece of abstract art, stretching past doorways leading into rooms of a brownstone, but the turn of the head to glance in another direction reveals the stretched out open space of a sitting room, open windows gazing to a sunset on the ocean. Still, another becomes a balcony view just beyond with the light of the dome overhead simulating evening and the stars and moonscape beyond. Home transforms and shifts around him before slowly solidifying down.

Home settles in. It manifests.

A simple cabin. From a small window of time but captured in Blackagar's mind. Under his feet, the grass crunches softly with the autumn that is settling. It was early winter, the transition and the memory struck him like a sledgehammer. A cabin, getting away for a bit. In a few days there would be an asteroid that crashes, bringing with it a virus. He would become sick, and infected. Why is this 'home'? It was a turning point, a moment when so many things pivoted. Chance meetings evolved. The course became laid out and unspoken commitments and attachments became solidified. This place was not where anything began, but in so many ways it is where many things changed. So many 'homes', but this one has jumped out.

Not for its location, but for its significance.

Jane Foster has posed:
A faint breeze slips through an open window, licking at Blackagar's spine and nape. Gold flame etches his vision for an instant, fading. Falling leaves form a tapestry beyond condensation-smoked windows, leaving the forest a patchwork of vibrant scarlet, antique bronze, and pale trees.

The cabin remains much as he remembers, albeit not precisely the same. A few coats and sweaters pile up on a peg, bright blue peeking out. Her bag hangs from another; from a time he knows, if more battered and care worn, complete with a photo sticking out of a pocket. A gap in the neat row of hiking boots by the door sticks out, as does the neighbouring pair far too small for him to ever hope to pull on. Two books lie forgotten, facedown, on a rug next to an assortment of sketches and piled stones crowned by one maple leaf.

Music emanates from beyond the slightly ajar door, where the porch leads to a clearing and the trail network. Words blurred into an indecipherable cadence twirl around the melody that ascends and twists with a lively tempo. Past the door, footprints left in slightly muddy earth still crisped by frost lead in to the treeline. Here a maple leans in close to a solid ash, the vast canopy trickling with red foliage that spills out across long branches to reach the stoic, upright tree. They don't quite touch, even in the breeze.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Fingers trace over the window ledge, contemplating it momentarily, more the space itself rather than the individual spot. Too familiar, but different enough. Enough that he can separate in his mind the fact it is not reality. Perhaps a forgotten memory, or yet another glimpse into something that could have been. But it is not quite right.

There is a temptation to cling to the hopes of what could be, but rather Blackagar finds himself focusing on the parts that are not quite right, holding to those instead as the focal point to keep him grounded from slipping into this world and losing himself.

The catch of music in his ears pulls his eyes, the door beckoning and he walks to it, through it, and beyond towards the tempo and tracing after the footprints towards the trees. Destination and purpose are at the forefront of his steps now, battling against memory.

Jane Foster has posed:
His gait is longer, though only by a little, than one pair of prints tracked into the forest. But the other is no more than half his, small imperious marks squelched into the dirt on a path that meanders and curves around the straighter course taken by the adult. The looping, spinning course weaves around in a circle in front of a small pine tree, or over by the large, scarred stump used to split wood. But the path leads onward into the woods.

Golden light and copper shadow trickle through the branches as he traverses a familiar path. He has indeed walked them, following the rise and fall of the landscape. It's only within the woods, trekking after those who went before, that he might catch sight of a colourful knit glove mired in a bush. Plucking it out offers a different vantage; a troubling one.

He has to pass the maple before he gets a glimpse of the shape reflected in the small pond beneath the tree itself. A woman with abundant red hair stands in a long formal dress, deep orchid, poured over her like a glove. Her hand extends to a man in a tuxedo, their fingers separated by less than a foot. Both are frozen in space, poised meticulously, as though at any moment the younger son of House Boltagon might step forward and clasp the heiress of House Amaquelin's in his own. Both of them are lost to anything but themselves, facing one another.

The music continues, if more distant, but present. The wind blows, leaves rustling, adding their harmonies. Another pond up ahead, if he were to look into it, reveals a younger woman with gold and black hair reaching for a lean, white-haired man in silver-blue who leans into her but doesn't quite touch. Faces he knows -- Crystal, for one -- and faces he might not.a creek should thread through the lowlands not far off.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A touch to Blackagar's temple comes, rubbing at it. A memory? Something different? It blends together in this moment and the temptation to growl at the frustration of what is unveiled before him is battled down. Rather, he takes a slow breath and continues to move forward, observing now. Familiarity is present, recognizing the faces of friends, relatives, and those of Attilan even if they do not quite fit this place. But it is far more confusing in other regards.

Something is wrong, it is not correct. In a moment it feels as if this is right, and then the next it is not. Once more, he finds himself clinging to what is not correct, to reassure himself it is simply a reflection of something.

It still does not change the sudden shiver of emotion that threatens him, pushed back as he steels himself and begins to consider his purpose. He was looking for something...

Jane Foster has posed:
Blackagar doesn't have an arduous hike ahead; the worn down Adirondacks and Appalachians of upstate New York and Vermont are nothing to the Rockies, the Tibetan Plateau. Even mountains on the moon have steeper slopes and defiles than these. He can choose to follow the footsteps ahead of him, though at times the soil is too thin or dry to support any prints at all. Then he has to rely on luck, his skill at finding other traces, or just sheer intent to find the next speckling of them. But in his advantage, there are no signs of deer or raccoons or birds miring up the route.

His memory of the place probably included guideposts or way markers when paths split. Here, there are none. When another path comes scrambling down the hill or branches off, nothing awaits him there to give any direction that resembles a sign post. Just detritus from others who passed this way. A dropped phone that plays another spritely melody, the kind that invites swaying together on the beach. On a balcony. A lost scarf, curled up like a snake, too short for him to use but maybe someone two feet shorter would think it worthwhile.

A clearing opens ahead, higher up the ridge, and there stand another pair of dancers just breaths apart, if their size and posture is anything to go by. But they aren't moving.

The footprints fade and reappear ahead of him on a different route through the trees, ostensibly following the creek, taking him further from home. Home as he deems it, anyway.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Recollections of faint memories continue on the periphery, pulling and attempting to distract but through it Blackagar remains on task, even if it is a struggle. Interesting to his mind how all the elements on the side pull him away from the tangible focus of his mind much more strongly than the previous. Perhaps it is due to being a reflection in some ways of himself.

The faint melody touches his ears but quickly he shakes it off, a movement of his head that causes a cascade of waved vision and the sense of momentary vertigo, bringing his feet to a stop. But as soon as it falls, he pushes it aside and trudges on. Disappearing footprints, reappearing later, all cause him to have to focus. Several times his path stops, waiting for something to catch his focus before he continues on. The distractions around him, dancers, music, all pull attention momentarily before he pushes them from mind and resumes the path. Each time, more difficult than the last.

Jane Foster has posed:
Leaves tumble around him, slowly drifting to the damp earth. As he rises, trickling water murmurs in his ear, urgent and fraught, at times wistful and poignant. The creek plies across its rocky bed below him. Small rills leap down the slopes to join it in tiny silvered threads that stand out in the shadows.

His trek takes a great deal of time, and in the logic of these things, not much at all. Or perhaps the constant starting and stopping elongates the journey. Maples, ashes, beech, and white pines fall back to reveal the dancers forming an arch with their arms that don't quite touch. Puddles splashed around the rocky clearing throw reflected images caught in suspension indicate a dress, the outstretched arm. There, a fraught gaze, here, a familiar face in profile. Councilor, parent, acquaintance, friend.

At least six or seven pairs are caught in the midst of a waltz, a rondo, a salsa. Hints of a skirt drifting, hair shifting, add colour to the monochrome palette. The only hues beyond nature's come in a dun jacket, dark pants, a figure hunched protectively with its back to the trail. An adult, as the size would go.

But both pairs of prints lead there.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The figures frozen dancing in the clearing draw attention, the look of consideration. But it is frozen, stuck in time. Somehow through the daze of the moment Blackagar knows he needs to press forward, press onwards and to keep his steps moving. That the destination ahead holds more importance than anything behind.

... Shard...

The word echoes in his mind and he struggles to cling to it, to hold on to that singular focus.

The footsteps ahead, the clearing, it pulls him to it regardless and through the foliage he steps into the clearing.

Jane Foster has posed:
The figures remain frozen but the autumn daylight stretches unimpeded beneath cadmium skies. Sighs ripple through the burnished forest, the occasional plop of an acorn almost jarring against the visual stasis.

Faces turned to one another in the unmoving figures display the intensity of emotions, even for those usually expected to refrain from overt displays. Longing. Connection. Private moments captured in a heartbeat, where their heads bend together, lips parted to speak a word that never comes. Is that his fa--

The larger steps lead up to the hunched figure, but it is no more frozen than Blackagar himself. He makes it no more than a third of a way before a ragged feminine voice almost spent of its strength. "No."

A cough grinds through the larynx and resolves to a barked, "Stop!"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The imagery that dances so close to the tell tale of past, the threat of invoking a strong emotional response touches yet again, battles and creases his forehead in concentration before Blackagar pushes it aside. Discipline. The strongest of which he holds to now. Blue eyes close, a sigh leaving his lips as control is fought for, regained, only to be disturbed at the voice barking.

Sharply he looks up, the hunched figure no longer appearing to him as something static as everything else, but at least a dynamic element in this world. No? He pushes forward towards it regardless, brow still creased but now instead of with resolve, it holds curiosity.

Jane Foster has posed:
Weary joints protest loudly, the balance of fluid popping, sinews cracking. The shapeless mass of an adult unfolding comes up to an unimpressive height, further reduced by the protective curve of their spine. They shuffle forward a step, still turned away, a look shot back over the shoulder. Though when the ragged tangle of chestnut hair falls free from under the hood, a straggling braid full of wisps plopping over the collar, familiarity might cleave through the confusion.

Likely the Midnight King has never heard her desperate. Not even clawing at the svartalfjar spell that condemned her to die and die again.

"I said," her voice gives out for a moment, despair clotting her throat. "Stop." Fear shoots across grief-bruised brown eyes wet with tears.

A stirring noise from behind her - sheltered by her - doesn't quite become a full inquiry, but it's audible all the same, high and quiet and sleepy. "Da--?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~What is this?~

The question is asked through his mind, but done rather loudly, pressing out to anything around him in a tone that is demanding far more than it is questioning or filled with inquiry. There is so much confusion still but the pangs of what is familiar slice in some spaces, only to be filled with further confusion at what is going on.

What is this? Quickly it is followed up with:

~Who?~

Jane Foster has posed:
Hardship and desperation leave their marks on Jane. Her gaunt face carries it, worry smudging the hollows of her eyes and whittling away the excess. Her arms tighten around their burden, all thirty pounds of vaguely squirmy, sleepy child, the oversized coat concealing her trembling. Mostly.

Jostling shifts the weight, and she sets her jaw, defensively battening down the hatches as it were. A golden veneer is overlaid on his vision, a trickle through the falling leaves. Syrupy, faint, stifling.

Her lower lip bleaches under her teeth. Jaw flexing, she gives Blackagar abrupt headshake. "How don't you know? Y-you... you are here. There's only one reason your Council would demand for that."

The drowsy toddler lolls against her shoulder, snug and warm, not quite to looking directly at him. At the right angle, though, a crop of glossy dark hair and a sleepy little face are hallmarks, a chubby fist curled in her scarf.

"They can't have him," she spits out, voice raspy. Fear rises and falls in thick staccato waves. Her eyes flick involuntarily to one of the frozen dancers.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Your Council?

Have Him

Blackagar looks at the Jane, knowing it is not his own in the recesses of his mind, or at least not the one he knows. How that knowledge is possessed he struggles to identify, but this is not right. A glance is given to the frozen figures behind then attention comes back not just to the woman but the toddler with her. His blue eyes narrow some, not with distrust or anger but the gaze of struggle, working to unravel just what is going on.

~Assume that I do not know, and explain.~

Jane Foster has posed:
The child's eyes aren't the soft chocolate of hers, or even a clear sepia. Maybe a shade darker than his. The hair's every bit as dark, glossy, but with the one difference otherwise in the child that Jane clutches to her chest.

A single spoken syllable, and the world hasn't cleaved itself in twain.

Her endurance can only go so far as she withdraws another step, keeping a fixed distance. Her boots scuff across the hard ground and then she sinks to her knees, relieved of a burden in exchange for one so much worse. Still turned at angles to protect herself -- both of them, child and adult -- from his sight, she curls low, soothing murmurs a lost cause.

"You want me to relive..." Trailing off, toneless, her eyes close and she breathes in the scent of the toddler's hair. Grief peels away, vibrating desperation a trill of danger even a blind, deaf man would recognize in a jangling alarm. "Your Council made their will clear in no uncertain terms. He shouldn't exist. Ringing any bells? They used your name to declare exile for the genetic inferior. The return of the stolen pr--" Her voice fails. It takes time to find it through a sob. The air thickens, pulsing, pressure grinding around him with an unforgiving thickness that pushes back even on his chest if he blinks, breathes, moves involuntarily.

"Progeny." Something to gag on, and her eyes flash. Property might be the other word, but she settles on that. The boy squirms unhappily. "The decree was clear, the ideal progenitor's only offspring must be reclaimed and reviewed the people. At least I thought you were a prisoner as much as we are. If we left you... then that bloody useless Council would give up. But here you are. What other reason would you be here? He's my son as much as he is yours."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
His Council?

The entire situation seems preposterous to Blackagar, his expression reflecting that as a slow shake of his head follows. His hands move, as does his mind both, the words almost creating an echo of one another.

~You speak of the Council seeking to imprison me? Of a child? These things have not happened.~

Have they?

He looks at the child, then back at the woman shaking his head. ~I am here for something... something important. But I do not recall what.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"Of course you are. The only reason you'd be here isn't for me." Through the one-sided conversation and rhythmic soft bounce in Jane's arms, the sleepy child manages to walk the tight-rope between drowsiness and full wakefulness. Fitful points of stretching or blinking threatens to push away the veil of sleep, rocking only staving off the inevitable outcome.

The same could be said for the conversation. Her defensive stance screams louder than her hoarse voice could, crossing the distance. Uncanny statues caught mid-dance might watch one another or Blackagar. Their stony eyes make it hard to be sure. Leaves tumble, slowed on their descent, before alighting silently on the ground.

"You may be a king, but they control everything." Them carries disgust that practically congeals rock-hard when spat out. "Don't you remember? The locks on the meditation chambers. How they came into the villa and dragged us out?" Disbelief holds her fast, and she shushes the child, cradling his head, swaying while her knees ache. "I had the bruises. I didn't imagine the captain of your guard. How can you forget that? Him? Are you not calling him yours--"

She catches herself, shaking her head, and the leaves stop descending mid-fall from the trees. The creek's noise becomes a low, elongated grate rather than a rush.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar shakes his head slowly, ~No, none of that is... is what has happened.~ There is an intent to try to affirm that in his own mind, and as he thinks the words it begins to resolve a bit more clearly. His perspective on this reality slipping and his own mind solidifying once more in the constant ebb and flow that he battles.

~Whatever... version... of me this is supposed to be. /I/ am not him.~

The slowing of things around catch a small glance of his eyes, brow furrowing. Something is amiss, that much is certain, but his attention returns. ~I am looking for ... for...~ He reaches up, placing a finger to his temple, focusing, ~A shard.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"How easy to deny responsibility. Not your spouse or your child. Not your authority. Not your place. I had to pick up the pieces of our life and protect them, awaiting the day you would take the remnants," Jane fires back, a plaintive rebuttal as the fracture lines widen between them. If she could bleed she would, going still.

A gulp. The fractures give. "Then how do you explain this? Any of it?"

Her tears well up and a silent shudder plucks at the taut line of her shoulders. The sleepy little boy must hear something because his head comes up, sleep-thick eyes blinking in Blackagar's direction. The dancers abruptly shift.

Turning, one quarter, positioned as though they always were there. Duets suspended in a desperate reach that never closes.

She fights for breath, losing that war, a rasp: "You left us, and we needed you."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A soft chuckle. Which is like a rumble from the man. A sardonic sound to match his demeanor as Blackagar slowly shakes his head.

~I have already told you, whoever you think I am, you are confused. I am certain, that someone who looks, acts, matches me in many ways has done these things. But that is not me.~

A hardening of blue eyes follows then, ~I do not leave unless I intend to. I do not give leeway to others to dictate that which I deem important.~ A part of him wonders just how pitiful this mirror of himself must be before dismissing it.

~All of this is a reflection of where I am from. And as much as I may emphasize with your plight, you are not mine. I am not yours. Mine is in trouble, and I am here to help her.~

A step closer, ~You see, that is the difference. /My/ Jane has died. And I have traversed into death itself to bring her back.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Blood drains from her pale face, cheekbones too prominent and eyes too prominent. Enough knowledge warns even the prospect of a sound at range could be deadly, no matter that Blackagar has the control over his volume as a master violinist coaxes the softest peal from a Stradivarius' string.

Jane squeezes the child tighter in her arms. "Who are you, if not Blackagar Boltagon? We were as good as dead to you."

The boy utters, "Da?" and the ground heaves, dust blown into the air. Concentrated vibrations rolling out knock a semi-circle of leaves and moss away. Two statues of dancers topple onto their sides in the dirt.

She goes to her knees in the tremor, knocked askew, crooning a lullaby softly that doesn't stop time from accelerating back to speed.

"He doesn't have anyone else. I don't know any other Jane." Her cheek presses into the child's dark hair, footing destabilized. "I'm sorry if you lost someone. I do not see how we can help." A lower mutter, exhaustion and distrust braided together, is tossed his way. "Medicine cannot revive someone. And he won't."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar looks at the child, then slowly shakes his head, sending the thoughts. ~No. Only someone who looks like him. But I am not your father.~ The commitment to that thought remains as he turns his gaze back to Jane.

~I do not need help in bringing her back. I have already made the bargain I must, what I am seeking is a shard of memory, it would look like glass. With that, I could return to my origin and continue my task. I will also be out of your.. hair.~

Jane Foster has posed:
He should offer relief: not the Inhuman King descending to reclaim an heir and ripping her life to tatters.

"I have nothing like that. You never gave us the crystals or anything from Luna." Jane brushes her hand up and down the boy's back, whispering again in his ear. But the resonant energy that pulsed out of him fully woke up the squirming little one and he tries to twist around in her embrace. His hands rise uncertainly to Blackagar, small fingers spreading wide.

She shakes her head, pulling him back as his blue eyes track up, way up, to the proverbial dark giant in the woods. Dirt still hang suspended in the air, clouds wrapped around them.

The dancers in the corner of the Silent King's eye have brief moments of colour and motion. Yearning marks their expressions. Two whisper, receding into the smoky shadows. Later, a man helps a woman spin, her face turned to his -- and briefly, incandescent with fear. Fingers of choking dust swirl past and they vanish, back to stone once more.

The boy draws breath, a beginning of a sound. The ground quivers. Blackagar's own bones quiver if he doesn't channel that energy.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar glances at the child, then a second time after the moments of speaking and the shuddering when he draws breath. A slow shake of his head comes then. ~Do not,~ he thinks steadily, there is no harshness in his thoughts or words, only firmness to note that doing so is not good.

He looks back to the woman then, ~If you have nothing like that, then I must continue on, press on until I find it. I can not right the wrongs you are enduring, and for that I apologize.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Whereas Jane aims to soothe the roughness away, the little boy's face crumples. He understands words, at least the tone. A swell of breath and trembling lower lip make a very good effort for someone at most three. Self-control is a lost art, and none moreso when seconds trip and even minutes pull back on themselves like a wave.

A wave that does not crash.

Where even Blackagar moving his body is in slow motion, and his thoughts might rush but in slow motion. Discomfort stirs within his psyche, copper prickling, an echelon of grief.

The boy looks down at his feet and then raises his arms again, completely unhindered by the slowing down that curdles the forest to abject stillness, the dust cloud completely stopped.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Movement slowing. Blackagar notices it after it begins to wash around and pieces of what is going on start to click and fit together like the puzzle coalescing into a clearer picture. The forest, the figures, the dust and the movements. It all begins to make sense and his blue gaze settles on the child.

~Controlled? Or no?~

The question seems to be for both mother and child, curiosity rather than concern.

Jane Foster has posed:
Does time advance?

Perhaps the Midnight King remains in the eternal present, his thoughts overwriting the moment that came before. There could be no past, no future. Only the here, this, now.

His question has only ever been the question.

A bit of confusion. "Controlled" is a big concept for a very small person made in his likeness. Mostly an image of him, but not quite.

"Why else would you... your Council," Jane amends, "want him? If he were human, they would not care. Your gifts were exceptional and his were a reflection of yours."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar almost glares, not quite but his look is rather intent. ~How many times must I inform you, that it is not mine, it is not me.~ Ok, maybe a bit of annoyance. Patience comes shortly after though, setting down the frustration as he battles with the odd dilation of time around him. It is a grieving and frightened mother, same with child. Still.

~I must find this piece of /her/ so that I can complete the reconstruction.~ The thought is mostly to himself, but loud enough it can be heard. His attention goes back to the boy. ~Where does his power come from?~

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane's shadowed look blazes hotly in the decelerated autumn afternoon, dust still aloft and dimming the clearing. Sunlight fails to pierce as strongly as it did when he entered. "His Council." An amendment offered without grudge. Adrenaline still leaves her on the teetering edge, her fingers smoothing down the child's feather-soft hair and brushing away specks of dirt peppering his sweater.

Habitual routine only gives so much comfort. Blackagar need not roar to elicit reactions. A faint whisper is enough.

His question gets a low laugh, mirthless and maybe disbelieving. "He contributed half our son's genes. Enough of those alleles expressed as dominant within the first eighteen months to all but confirm he was unique. The terror when he spoke his first word. When everything stopped. That came later." She halts, regathering her thoughts. The boy still holds out his arms again, tolerating the hug, but wide-eyed at Blackagar. His lower lip bows. Creases form on his forehead.

"Ba! I'm me," he declares authoritatively.

"Shh, shh. Even if the labs had the equipment, I couldn't make any orders without raising concern. Genetic testing was out of the question. We mutually agreed. We already were in exile."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Tied to his speech center?~ Blackagar asks, knowing quite well what that is like, although the manifestation is substantially different; or at least on the surface.

~Deceleration of electrons and other particles connected to the speech center, creating what appears to be stasis or paralysis of some kind?~

It is something he has never considered for himself. But as he thinks outloud, he begins to focus his own mind, directing the energy he controls inward to vibrate and see if it will counter the effects of the child.

~It is interesting, but does nothing for the situation.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"Creating a temporal field that wide." A nod at the forest encroaching on the glade, though the abundance of other frozen figures within the puddles and woodlands throughout the woods Blackagar has walked tell their own story. "Some questionable literature calls it temporal manipulation or chronokinesis. I still struggle a little with the mechanics. Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a cosmologist. Or an horologist."

The child blinks and scrunches up his face. In concentration. In tears.

Space. Time. In eternity, neither exists. Death is ultimately stasis before transformation. Here, a standstill.

The Midnight King's attempts to control the fluid whirlwind of countless particles around him -- a seething morass of them forced to stand still -- is something like a tug of war with a tree. Energy prances around him. He has finesse, but it's also the equivalent of him grabbing fifteen simultaneous lightning strikes. The smell of raw, wet earth lifts in the indelible signature
    of
        petrichor.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~You should instruct him to release me.~ Blackagar informs the mother, nothing threatening in his tone, more of just a statement of what really should happen at this point. ~I cannot continue doing what I must in this state, so nothing will resolve. It would be better if I could finish my search and be on my way.~

He looks at the young child again, ~So I can find my friend.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane parts her lips, but the movement is slowed to a point of silence. Her arms curled around the child loosely do not prevent him from getting free, her posture unchanging except at an incredibly gelid rate. Then she too is one of the figments of motion, concern and grief writ large.

The little boy stares at Blackagar, tears finally spilling over. "See! See?" The abrupt cry is a sound of pure childish frustration, and then he wheels around, unsteady on his feet but managing. Their pull and tug for control is an uneven thing, the smell strengthening, though the sky is still a clear, unfailing blue. Another ripple jolts through time, seconds crashing into themselves, choppy as a sea and probably providing a profound opening for an actually experienced adult to act.

"I'm me!" he cries out again, and takes off around Jane for the remaining quarter of the clearing.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
'Me'.

The child crying draws Blackagar's attention more focused, the word seeming to resonate differently in his mind. Is he looking for this child?

No, that couldn't be.

Could it?

His mind, hazy with struggle works to try to find the answer. There must be a clue, something, evidence. But in the end, staring at the child as it runs and hides, Blackagar cannot help but shake his head.

~You?~ He asks towards the young boy. ~You are who I am here for?~

Jane Foster has posed:
Responding to a child's cry remains encoded in the psychological makeup of humanity, as so many others. Evolution ensures maximal distraction. A race of sociopaths might lack an immediate physiological response to that specific stimulus of distress, but they don't tend to be there. Instantaneous responses trigger a neurological cascade to answer.

Even if that source happens to be scrunching and squishing time as a stress ball, rejected and frustrated all at once. Well, plus one for being (In)human.

Running away, the child doesn't respond on a rational level to the question. He runs for a fir tree with the misfortune of being the first big tree in line of blurry sight. The little boy isn't fast compared to an adult. Not accelerated beyond the peerless achievements of Olympians or cheetahs, or Olympic-level cheetahs artificially enhanced by meddling. He just wants to hide and sob. Wracked little sounds of abject despair aren't very well restrained.

A crackling note of disapproval wholly distinct from child, Jane, or Blackagar himself burns like a sparkler in the back of the Silent King's awareness.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar begins to step as best he can to pursue after the child, but as the foot rises to fall the crackling noise pulls his attention. It was something that had concerned him, an afterthought that the mother had said about those coming for them. The two figures in frozen time, who were they? Who else could have been here, or coming here?

There is a moment of thought, looking around calmly with the intent of appearing casual before he slowly moves in the direction the child ran, pursuing in the classic method of not rushing but using the longer steps and the patient walk; like in a horror movie. Only this time, it would seem he is the villain.

~Can you calm him?~ he asks towards the mother.

Jane Foster has posed:
Those frozen in time elsewhere are familiar. His councilors, his royal house, subjects of his. Almost uniformly figures of past or present.

Blackagar will find no help from the other adult there. Jane is still frozen in that empty embrace, kneeling on the ground, unmoving. Time does not flow for her any more than it does for the dancers caught in a stasis field.

It flows for him.

Fir, maple, American beech; the typical trees of the Northeast in their autumn splendour deepen daylight to twilit gloaming. Hard to pick out a small shape in the undergrowth, slumped over a mossy log, sobbing until his small shoulders shake. Any footfall or sound gets a startled look, blue eyes wet, cheeks streaked by silver tracks of despair. To be fair, with that age group, the sound of a washing machine can induce soul-shredding sadness when it never did before.

Slowly coiling like a spring, and all the little voice can say is, "Ba?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Just him and the child.

It may be difficult to imagine, but Blackagar is not really good with kids. He doesn't possess many of the attributes that would make him so. The ability to laugh, to talk, so many things that allow children to connect with adults. That and his own isolated childhood, to put it simply; Blackagar and kids don't mix.

So when the child calls out to him again, he shakes his head slowly. ~No little one. I am not your father. I may look like him, but I am not.~ He knows that the child probably doesn't understand, but he will not bring himself to lie, to mislead an innocent.

~But someone very close to me needs my help. Our help. For you to come with me, so she can be made whole.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"Ba-ka."

The syllables broken by a slight pause could be Japanese or something else. The child's tears keep running unabated, a small sniff another element of wallowing in misery.

A long, fraught stare and then with a watery sigh, bubbling up from somewhere, those small arms are raised again. "Up?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
At least Blackagar understand that word. The broken words, children's babbling as far as he can tell, leading no where. However, Up is simple enough and reaching down, he picks the child up. There is no small 'Up' in this case, up is lifted past arms to shoulder where he sets the child with one hand kept on him as a steadying measure. Turning, Blackagar starts to walk back the way he came, the clearing, the path, all those steps that were fraught with struggle.

Jane Foster has posed:
In a moment, he is not in the autumnal forest, but a dark arboreal swamp. Noxious odors rise from the perpetual mist that skims across the water, erasing any clear path through treacherous muck. No moon provides any sort of light to distinguish black dirt from watery graves.

This is how dark elves hunt. How they are hunted, by the wild packs commanded by the cruellest masters at the apex of their perverted society. (S)he is all too familiar with it, that knowledge somehow as familiar and essential as breathing.

Run.

Something splashes in the peaty water, the softest ripple distorted by distance. They're coming. Already so tired, (s)he pushes on, forcing one soaked, torn foot in front of the other. Press down, test if the ground holds. Hurry. Sick fear is a sensation that burns like acid, in the stomach, between the shoulder blades. But running here is certain death.

Don't look back. But (s)he does, and spots a shape at the peripheral vision. Sleek hounds large as pickup trucks slouch through ancient iron-bark trees scored by slick fungus and rattling bones.

Stumble, grab at the rough scrub. Translucent skin shows the marshy ground and branches through torn digits. Bone white thorns pierce his (her) hands, and no blood comes out, only the ichor of memories.

Self.

The hunting hound pulls its lips back, almost grinning. Strips of soul stain the onyx maw. Others creep nearer, compelled by their master. He's coming.

(S)He steps forward and hits the water, arms tight to the sides, plunging down. Despair makes odd bedfellows. The light goes out, the murky water cold and invasive and drowning--

--like the cold of dying, again--

A spasm, somewhere, a violent contraction shakes the whole body. <<I don't want to go.>>

---

In his hand rests a shard, shaped like a heart.