Grukagnan was dying in Semblance’s arms from blasts of cannon—his own men and women resisting what they saw as an uprising; people simply awakening to the fact of their civilization’s pending demise.

His wounds proved too intensely encompassing of vitals for her summations to judge him capable of survival. She’d see him down regardless. Every Echo knew there no greater place to witness Ecatosh than the eyes of a being so close to returning their fruit’s bounty.

True physicians were few and far between—some faith bestowed within them a rarest grace—it would be the most blessed moment when spoken those words which might prove to crack a code of belief.

She’d decided to use her hands. Echo would think it impossible. Semblance knew better of belief—magick was as real as one made it at levels beyond.

Her intentions would be held with courage despite Echo’s need for standing in truth of the rational realms she’d preside within. Bridges they were to each other, Semblance and her overtaker. Balance between them would be obscured to all but those who’d prove most brave to see.

Resting her palms over Grukagnan’s belly—there wouldn’t be another place for her testing of what she knew—ever ungrasping that unmeasured expansiveness of limitations end. Where her power might begin to fail.

Rippling was felt, unknown of means or the forces behind, of space around.

Echo Béleaph wouldn’t need the balance with Ecatosh. She would need her mind’s focus on what was before her. Each decision made forth would be chosen with thoughtful consideration and for her heart alone—her own sensibilities to see through every crack and crevice of her carvings into creation.

Rumbling grew to shaking in courses of grinding metal. Chandeliers shook. Dining tables in the concert hall collapsed on leg. Every one of the Rhienmasst’s upper class women and men were locked inside—there were no children in hell.

The void seen by Echo of Ecatosh was symbol for this place.

It was her challenge to glimpse beneath the darkness which occluded it. Within was only the same as without but true to the bleakest. Wickedness so plain that none would be able to consume it despite understanding, finding their complicity towards the destruction of self in creation willing.

Echo grabbed Rory by the shoulder and spun her round—belaying chance to right a wrong—fix her greatest stowed and perpetuated example of cowardice—she would take the kiss they’d wanted of her when failing miserably a test of their distant past; to prove she knew how they felt; to prove herself of meddle.

She’d pushed Rory across the remaining space of suite into the wall and held her hands by strength of will to stillness beside and above. Echo’s tongue took her neck and ear in repetitions lost to time.

Knees were struck to the polished granite without delay and all was torn from below Rory’s waist. Echo knew there would be no time again where they’d fall to projections of past failure and fear wrought of reflections from the world around her—she knew Rory changed and herself as well—there wouldn’t be a hesitation with awareness, now understanding that everything she’d ever hope to think in Rory’s presence had been as subconsciously orchestrated as her own doings against them.

Taste was reborn with her heart and soul in a glorious revitalization of Echo Béleaph’s rightful space of atonement. She’d seen to Rory’s loss of will—lessening resistance for some release—then took her to bed.

Rory threw her down, making unheard demands, thinking this would go some way of past. Echo wouldn’t stay down. She’d wrapped her fist in around Rory’s head and gripped her hair at the back.

“You’re mine now—cunt.” She’d spat with dead eyes.

Echo threw Rory around and surrounded their bareness with the whole of her body’s weight. Roughest tugging of hair birthed gasps of moan as she leaned in slowly towards Rory’s ear—they weren’t fighting very hard.

“You could have had this all along you fucking idiot. If you only hadn’t told me it was the last thing you wanted. If I’d known you wanted me to take it—I would have. But you didn’t want to do that did you? You wanted this.”

Something large found place inside Rory Tyrell at last.

“Now I don’t care what you want.”

They’d lost all control encompassing the entirety of this Echo’s transformation felt through.

“Just like you wanted. You—sick—bitch.”

Vysara was demolished to shreds of self. The disgusting base they had to form their sense of denial around was lost. They’d no idea who they were. Echo believed they would learn in time what it truly meant for them to fight so hard towards occluding the truth of spirit in others.

Echo eventually said the words Vysara needed to hear, “You’re just a big sissy, aren’t you?”

They would’ve heard everything through the walls if Echo hadn’t banished them to the lower-class decks—either succumbing to fate of their former subject’s wrath or atoning their own—what happened would be of no consequence as they’d be the one unallowed to follow back through the portal now in creation with Rory.

Semblance saw to push and prod her Echo for performing how she was. There was something behind it none would trust except the woman performing a miracle upon Grukagnan—some release of energies stowed to change things.

Healing power she wielded from hand was not that of physicality, nor would be the results of those designs she’d see and think herself to wield against her fellows.

No matter the belief required to entice an energy of spirit’s revitalization, no matter how much she’d feel herself believe in her power to heal this man’s physical malady in these moments of spiritual loss to the rational, the way Semblance helped was of heart and soul alone. She was seeing him to Ecatosh and that had always been her part to play.

Grukagnan was going home.

Shouting would prove muddled by fist-grasped bedding and tables had turned on Echo. She’d only been allowed to lead. Some inverse of her experience with Vysara discovered in action.

Rory’s ploy had worked to get some of what she wanted before seeing fit to take the rest.

Echo was fighting back. She’d slapped Rory across the face and harder than they’d imagine her capable. She spit on their face. Their reaction was warranted and fierce. They’d spit back and taken Echo at the throat, then spit again, and again as they held her flat.

Deer were a species of mammal on Earth—motor vehicles the human’s mode of transportation, and headlights were a fixture on the front—something cruel and usual would be exemplified in the meeting of them by fated chance and Echo’s soliloquy of the notion had never been shown back to truer eyes.

They’d lost the will to fight or think or move unless instructed. As Rory mounted them crossways and fucked their tits raw, she realized this was how she liked Echo best—not begging for it—showing how much she needed it all the same; to be owned by Rory alone, the property they always saw in her confirmed by right of lust.

Ecatosh would have to wait.

Time Throws Fire | Part Nine | Chapter Fifty-Two

the second novel in The Foundry series

Time Throws Fire

Part Nine | Depths of Bliss

Chapter Fifty-Two

Discussion about this post