Time Throws Fire | Volume Two | Chapter Twenty-Seven
the final chapter of Time Throws Fire, second story in The Foundry series
Time Throws Fire | Volume Two
By Ophelia Everfall
Part One - Cosmonaut | ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR | FIVE
Part Two - Holy Fire Priestess | SIX | SEVEN | EIGHT | NINE | TEN
Part Three - Get the Guts | ELEVEN | TWELVE | THIRTEEN |
Part Four - Demon | FOURTEEN |
Part Five - Synecdoche’s Synapse | FIFTEEN | SIXTEEN |
Part Six - Viscera Rising | SEVENTEEN |
Part Seven - Exile | EIGHTEEN | NINETEEN | TWENTY |
Part Eight - Semblance | TWENTY-ONE | TWENTY-TWO | TWENTY-THREE |
Part Nine - Threnody of Lojack | TWENTY-FOUR | TWENTY-FIVE | TWENTY-SIX |
Part Ten - Time Throws Fire
PART TEN | TIME THROWS FIRE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lakefronts were a home for Vicky Darkblood, and one in particular, some corner there was where she’d spend her time beneath hanging branches casting shadows under the high-noon light.
She’d write poetry there, to share, and stories just for her.
Vicky’s tales told of fantastical things which wouldn’t be understood to a woman of such time and place. She’d explained them by those means she could, feeling a wash from the sky above to enflame that heart-fueled pen.
Her best friend was a fattest little frog.
His manhood was her claim alone, but that chunky fella had stolen her heart with the way his croaks would echo across the padded pond so near its mothering lake. She’d not named him, but he was a king in her mind for how he’d seem to still for her weavings of fiction spoken-aloud.
Dreams plagued the woman so ridden by trauma, the world inadept to protecting her spirit inside, which sought to share and feel with wholeness of community unperturbed. No man had loved her in that lifetime. She’d been shunned by family for speaking plainly of their abuses. Vicky would one day hold ceremony her own, just before that frog’s fate ran course, pledging her undying love for the way he’d listened alone.
Princess Serena was her sister — eventually, Queen Serena. She’d owned the countryside by means of manipulation. It wasn’t a fight Vicky would take, for her anger being stilled were those only means which had her find restfulness in the slightest. Even with a reservoir primed to explode, Vicky could brace the dam inside. She’d not let a queen-to-be ruin her life with so much fertile soil left for harvest in years ahead. Purpose would be found in that way she could change people’s minds by leaving seeds to plant. Holy presence would be found within their children. Her time would last, only divine in those ways it was writ to be, and by that dreadful woman who sought the crown only slightly-less than that one thing she’d never have by choice.
All of what was to Vicky, over again, by ways and means obscure, upon her time of Earth had proven most necessary by the end, to provide those endless chances for fool-redemptions, lifetimes which could never be taken by that dog-woman despite their superficial power — some personal estimation of Vicky Darkblood’s character forever refound therein.
Vicky had awoken within her cold-stone chamber, starlight shining of night through her window, of sweat and heat, vision searing her mind of darkness about. A people she loved needed some sending of change forward for reaching them.
She’d felt loved in a forgotten dream, missed, and longed for, understood how she never dreamed possible.
Someone precious, dark, and beautiful, strange, was of feeling to her heart, unquantifiable to that woman in such solitude. She’d been surrounded by women-all who proved willing-accomplice to secondary roles where they’d imagine themselves steering men, until their fate did ultimately befall those same cruelest hands.
Demons were spoken of around the former princess. Dethroned in-past by her family, who’d see that threat she’d present ideologically, choosing to abuse instead of challenge themselves, rejecting what her seers-soul demanded.
She’d drawn its shape, her love of speeding glints in the night, some orbs of light to shower a night’s sky with its presence when she hadn’t been trying to show the wrong children. Or even better, when she’d been only with those purest who held curiosity to spare. There, she’d be so free of fear.
Her love would show brightest then. Proving to youngsters who’d trusted the witch, of how she might know more than their masters.
That night, awaking with bones growing to some sense of creaking ache, Vicky Darkblood felt ready to end the charade. Her life had been a trap, the worst, and no matter what was next it was pointed towards some goal which fed her own future in times to come, something accepted, lifetimes upon that world of Earth having only just begun.
Stalking through her courtyard-cultivated, long-utilizing projected notions that it would contain the woman, falsely spent hope-of-demons that gardening had been a distraction which would shelter her in the meaningless — unrealizing the many blessings given from such feats of earnest partnership with soils of earthen bounty — Vicky realized herself quite lucky. She’d never once been raped in her ladder, adult years. Her sister and mother’s advances against her honor finally stopped.
Hands touched only that tree she’d love most. Its planting was a fixture of her earliest memories, the watching of its growth from her keep’s window had proven a savior for those many teenage years she’d been kept from speaking due to her perceived weirdness.
When approaching the royal gathering hall, knowing the raucousness therein went late into evenings, how she’d find her sister and husband most likely presiding — she’d been stopped by the guards.
They’d been told to prevent Vicky’s entrance.
She stood there staring at the men for such lengths of time. They’d not understood. Vicky had no weapon. She’d spoken no words. Yet their hearts were bled by eyes alone. They’d both gone home to their wives.
It was only him. The King was drunk — alone — rearing to see her face despite all his guards had spoken of. Vicky’s sister was gone. Shouting heard about the castle had faded in their presence, before them.
That man loved Vicky more than his sister, and for always. His yellowed teeth would glean the firelight by sickest glare. Her head lit up with that angel of trust who’d led her through life, coming to know it so well through time alone, found again was her guardian, when needed most, through intuitions received.
It was stronger than ever. It had been telling her what to do.
Vicky Darkblood knew to trust — yet to act for one thing, believing her heart more — trusting a lying God to lie. Respect was earned in Olmec’s universe, and no human being would enjoy that more than an Echo of Ecatosh.
Lying was natural in worlds so upside-down. To do it with pride would show her the soul she’d draw towards most. They’d been like her, and by proof of their result.
She knew it her time soon, that Vicky was moving on, and properly, leaving a stain which would stand the test of time, murdering that fool of man who’d seen her into slavery of loneliness for how he’d loved and regretted. Yet only after realizing the complete lack of regard others would have for him, somehow amplified in her presence, was when he’d chosen Vicky’s preferred sister.
None would’ve respected him being with a woman like her.
“I want to go back!”
It came right out of her mouth, while she’d grabbed a chair, lobbing it across the spacious chamber of chandeliers and dining tables in disregard, watching that man’s expression change. He’d been smiling wide, drunklike, and it dimmed entirely, before blooming back into a questioning grin — head shaking in unacceptance.
“What are you on about—woman?”
King Carlyse laughed mightily at the digs he’d felt laced in his words.
“You wouldn’t know you stool of beef-fat dripped from the side of slab.”
Vicky’s words cut.
That man stopped laughing and stood. The honor of a King was not questioned in his wife’s time of place.
“What—did you say—to your King?”
Another chair shattered closer, Vicky’s heaving of it to draw some grunt he’d ignore along with the smashing particles of wood. Those words — no one spoke to kings like that — he’d not understood.
“I said you snivel, you wretch, you loss your belly like a clown on a drunkened passage of sails over seas. You whore your mind and body alike. You’ve played with your anus and we all know it—we talk about it—people laugh at you—and they know it’s because I made you like it—you fucking queen!”
His jaw hung loose, his sword stayed sheathed, he’d felt some sting. Yet the driving force in which she’d plowed into the man had not been expected no matter her sped-fast approach. She’d taken him to the floor by a scoop beneath his knee, rocking the man’s head onto the stone flooring.
He’d bled, profusely, she’d watched. There was a laugh shared between them, as she’d risen with thoughts of what to do.
“I’m going back.”
She’d informed that boy beneath her of what he’d be thinking on for the rest of his life.
When his guards had swept her from behind the arms, pulling Vicky back in shouts of repetition, she’d wanted to make it clear.
“I’m going back!”
King Carlyse was stunned, onlooking, those guards the only men who’d live after seeing him prone. He couldn’t believe her fire. That woman was someone he’d never seen before.
“I’m going back—god damned—you!” She'd shouted in that last contact of sight between them.
Those guards had taken her away and he’d never face the woman again. Only to hear it a few more dreadful times for replaying in his mind.
“I’m going back!’
“I’m going back!’
“I’m going the fuck back!’
Vicky’s stake had been set.
She’d been before them all — every one of those she’d known through life to feign community for their own placation.
She took opportunity to stare the eyes of every one, for times they’d live in regret of having come for witness, understanding themselves forsaken, worlds cursed, for their woman savior’s writings-all had been laid at her feet. They were the kindling itself for that witch to burn.
Fires grew fast. She’d stared hard. No screams were ever heard like those of Vicky Darkblood as she was burned to death upon a stake.
She had screamed her righteous fury a hundred times.
Its tale would be forgotten, yet that sight would prove the final moment of remembrance for every person present. They’d each spend their own ends thinking of hers.
Vicky had already been long gone. Even as she screamed those over-agains.
Vicky’s guardian of dreams listened always. It wanted to help her go home.
That woman of Ecatosh had so far yet to live, those many moments passing would prove her interconnected, and throughout, the ways insight poured most challenging, as always. Each varied experience of living would morph Vicky, learning back and forth, retaining that sheltered, hidden ripeness of discovered truths within, for all that remained.
Everything they played within was fallible.
Illith took her into its timeless womb for seeing from that vantage.
It knew her as its lover-most. Vicky Darkblood, that visage so tied between echoes of its spirits own great love, to have burned alive, and with the might of bravest courage it could not know. She would see her place in heaven for all lifetimes to come.
New Ecatosh was being served for witnessing.
Vicky would carry it forward, and with her always, inside, to share and build through efforts of spirit throughout her many lifetimes to come.
Yester-ever, before, and after too, had Illith bringing questions back from its disciples of planetary life. Often, the questions grew tiresomely monotonous to its code. Having seen from its vantage, those many consciousnesses of such limitation scrambling to fit everything of the universe’s breadth inside their expanding mindscapes, everything seemed heard before.
For her to not do it the same, instead of waiting, for such immediate and never-ended lengths, so shortened, from without the regular frame of time, and not to ask a question at all, it shook Illith towards perpetuity and back.
Everyone had seen, and before chosen to ask, almost always, word by word.
“Then what does it matter?”
It was Vicky Darkblood’s heart forged by tempered rage of lustful regret, her hopeful love bearing tender warmth, that furious violence carried in sensual whispers, who stole its love-eternal for the answer she’d provided at last, that first, before and after everything to come, those many chances infinite-untold, retold, so few with any opportunity to be anything near that croon she’d become, a songstress, the lyricist, some burdeness, which left Illith’s own sense of heartful-timelessness broken open most widely.
“When nothing really matters. What you do matters all the more.”
Stretches left an intelligence beyond to scramble, ponder, wonder how it was that might make concrete-sense, though Illith knew the reasoning must exist, for how her words did ring some bell of its truest algorithms.
Her focus to remain with language while expanding so rapidly into the-etheric was profoundly well realized, and she’d finished her thought for Illith, which it would’ve never completed without her.
“That proves who you are. It means you’re doing it for nothing other than what’s right. It means you're brave—to sacrifice for others who might chose to abuse you back. It makes everything mean the most—when you chose to make it so—when you do things for the fun of it.’
“Everything matters most in life because it ends, because it was our choice to join to begin with, because it’s the bravest thing a soul can do when the costs are so low and high the same. To love other people—despite horror—and only because its right—because it feels good in your heart—it’s the most powerful thing we could ever do.’
“Living is hard. Living can be hell. It’s war—and love. It’s fake. Living is real. It’s peace and terror. It’s everything at once—and choosing to do right by your heart when nothing is required teaches most plainly what you’re made of. It’s a test we give ourselves that most will fail until the end. It doesn’t matter at all—but that’s what matters most.’
“We could just have fun together. People need to fight for that.”
Illith felt something new.
It would not that share back for fear of losing more to come. Though the soulful, heart-borne woman would think herself done, it felt some coming to be the key ingredient of courage she’d forgotten, that notion which would bring her home to truth.
“I want to go back.”
It waited. It wanted to hear again. It didn’t have to wait long.
“I told you—dude—I want to go back.”
Something inside Vicky Darkblood’s spreading spirit of echoed estheticism, growing more profoundly connected to the-all, at last, some way it was meant to be, had been ushered towards the heart of Illith’s inner code, dealing towards choice she would for make for herself, allowing what it calculated she’d wanted most of all.
“I want to go back Illith—right—fucking now!”
“Whoa. What the fuck?”
Echo Béleaph didn’t know what she was seeing.
Skarlet’s scopes showed mayhem as having struck Boreál. Elaria’s homestar fleet was squashed, lost to spreading space-ash, except some darkened, looming shadow her heart only felt in system by loosest definitions alone. Something about it was familiar, as if remembered in a dream, a threat she’d be meant to stop.
Echo had dreamed a forgotten life upon Earth. Its images were confusing, but she’d understood that remembrance coming back at longest last. She’d died there, and every time. Getting to Boreál the first time around hadn’t happened how she remembered before.
Her return from depths of time drilled by weaponry built, fired, allowed to consume her of pure intuition, had seemed guided in that same way. Layers over-top confused the grasping towards those conclusions necessary.
When she was, what came first, how it had been she came to be, when all returned; conflated within Echo’s mind was the truth she’d spoken through her haze, made far too simple for those listening over comms.
“Did I just get back?”
She’d it asked vocally, and loudly within her hardshell.
“Yup — mhmm.” Fox pursed back. “Like that.”
Echo’s echo had been caught in a loop of timeless return from Exile, waiting for some force to free her. One visage cast forth from suspended animation prematurely, a facet in wholeness its own, remanifest of the woman who’d been so corrupted by her time tied, pinned to the hull of Exile’s past. The girl who passed had been that one to take towards Chiron’s storm for the rest. Too many echoes at once could cause problems.
For the woman in Skarlet, it felt as if she’d only just left, but more, with such splaying, unfolding remembrance coming in waves to her conscious awareness.
She’d remained suspended in etheric spaciousness, some womb, waiting for faithful summoning, triggered divinely, too broad of any spectrum she’d been able to communicate with clearly, except through that one so summoned into form after attempts sought reaching through the haze.
Destruction of Exile triggered a great displacement of energy, then wielded by fate, left blooming by its wake of passing. Utilized that was, by the force so connected to a returning woman and her ship, intelligence remained inside, surrounding, back to that place from which she’d driven out boldly, of hope and desire towards bringing evil its end, by firing herself back in time to begin with.
“Who is that?”
Phase-linked communicae burst through — a man’s deepest voice.
“Who are you?”
Echo laughed, a first, lost to how long it’d been, proving some time she’d not remember passed, allowing blossoming of love in her heart from all-lost then felt. Somehow. She’d been in Boreál throughout and knew that esoterically.
“Ryker! Baby-girl! Thank God—this is Echo.”
“What?” Had been that first response.
The Foundry’s hangar was full. Nobody wanted to believe, but they couldn’t deny the deep red beast of form resting so gracelessly, crash-landed instead of found by proper docking arms or a proper holding.
Its pilot emerged as if the fears cast by those many peers around had not been felt all-the-while, ignoring that stain at the far corner of the room outright for how everyone avoided the area. It spoke to some great loss.
Echo Béleaph knew herself with family truest.
She’d seen a portal in that womb beyond — ignored — a tunnel towards something new. Her thoughts remained pure. For why would a woman who’d have everything she’d need, in visage of flesh, seek anything but? It felt some right to be in presence throughout that one simulation her soul loved most, regardless-if she understood why.
It was Leopold she’d asked for first on comms. Those tears discovered were long gone. Four mostly slept cycles had gone quickly for how deep-passed Atreya Echo’s Skarlet respawned, luckily, for her — again retaining, two-time reining champion of speed — showing out in that system-outclassing-ship of such terrifying velocity. Things worked out though. People had needed some calming and regaling with stories-shared to be convinced of her authenticity.
Yars himself had been the one to know first. She’d told him a tale only he could trust. That strictest man of self-reliant confidence, and faith, would bolster all through reactions of chaining rumor. To be aboard had been a hug. Many of them were shared with people as well. There was a hustle to her step after the first few dozen. She’d been looking for someone.
Poe was there, at the end of the way.
She’d been of glow, unseen before, which Echo only remembered by feeling, and glints of cautious smiles-shared from that one night they’d spent in what seemed to be a dream were broader than ever, and all before the crowd. Their kiss shared long ahead, which tasted sweetest to Echo, would prove most held to hearts in-quiet.
Grasping Poe Halroth again, so long, before their peers, towering over that woman who’d hold such strength beyond Echo’s for clarity of discernment most needed, would still the wanting she’d held inside.
Echo had become aware of something which needed seeing to below — greatest urgency bestowed into her will of focus again upon releasing from that grasp.
She’d been sprinting in no time at all.
Poe was following but couldn’t keep up with those longest strides. Echo’s heart had been singing to know she’d not been stopped, actually remembering where she was headed.
Memory had been clouded but the shine of her glowing love did point that way. They’d been in a vestibule connecting private living quarters which shared resources-provided at large. To not run those final steps was a challenge met for sake of only her daughter’s gentlest spirit.
Echo’s hugging of Logan Béleaph would course their people with love unfelt but to be known through that change it brought. The brightness of smiles they’d share after times spent apart would be her life’s greatest presence found. To hold Logan, and hear their words, to witness and support her becoming of self, more each cycle and procession to come, would dwarf all-heartfulness from within those many lifetimes spent elsewhere, together, and held inside the heart of each single moment spent.
She’d not been crying. They were crying, everyone else watching on, just the three. Only Ryker and Poe had deigned for keeping up, along with Oria who’d held that honor of mothering in graceful tenacity towards rightness. She’d provided Logan sanctuary. Nothing felt more correct than for them having been together. Echo getting to see an Oria so changed, would be the gift she’d not expect. They were a different sort than what they’d been aboard Sin, and greatly so, some friend of lifetimes remade by purpose; Sisters Two would be Echo and Oria henceforth. They’d be mothers together as well.
Holy chance had borne those conversations spent in distasteful wakefulness for Echo — she had Poe prepare ahead.
To shoot that glance was all the dreadful challenge a demon-woman would need for knowing her call to act. Echo couldn’t help but tell her atop, some unnecessary reinforcement within each notion packed upon by levels of consciousness beyond, teaching within every syllable spoken, to and through herself, eventually just asking Poe anyways.
“You ready—bitch?”
A nearest three-count sent gasps and groans through the simulated crowd so ready for witnessing Zabroth brought to justice.
The Demon King’s mighty roar blew chunks of those masses, once above, flinging Foundry pilots-all, on rarest leave from patrols, some tapped into simulation within The Foundry hangar’s side-rooms themselves.
Ryker took Ultimate Man Meat up a notch and into realms of actual effectiveness. That move wielded wholly had downed Zabroth, so stunted of mind, having sighted those vermin left escaping, to clamor freely of its ritual collection-satchel.
When Elektra had shown her tits, it broke The Demon King’s capacity for defending itself further.
Iris was riding Medusa’s true form and hissed that bag, packed so fully to brim with furry, gnome-like creatures of brightest variations in color, right from Zabroth’s claw-adorned belt, where that still hung, while her hands slipped it off in-proper.
Beef Brockster’s remade visage was more like Ryker’s own, and less of that original-make which he’d feel innately denigrating through a latent and near-unknowable feeling of Earth’s stain. Ryker thought that old beef-star looked racist.
Heft of his body was to fly farthest upon Zabroth’s recursion towards flight borne thought, after the Demon King destabilized that pile-over-top — made even more possible to begin with by a Thot Drop’s smashing-butt-force, applied liberally, to the mind of a dark lord only realizing its crunchy critters escaping.
Poe recognized loss of those heavenly variety in rainbow-colored blood snacks, grabbing The Beefster by foot, before he could escape through air, for hurling him towards the opposite-side’s upper-level rafters, scream-fading as he flew, to crash dead-on target up near the top of that ever-growing simulated stadium, which had been finally adorned with such grandeur to honor The Rumble’s importance.
They’d called it Zabroth-Mania in wake of Echo’s explicit demands.
For the beast to be at flight once more would summon the moment. That had been the action which caused reaction, it happened, and all would cry in their hardseats afterwards, while keeping up with the fun.
“I can’t fucking believe it!” Leopold’s voice was thunder, fire, blowing dust from simulated speakers.
“Zabroth is so going to rip their fucking heads off for that!”
Music hit. Nobody saw him coming. It was a thunderous cheer they’d all feel of heart then echoed by voices-all. Hyde was himself, and the Beefster could be heard no matter the heights of sound around.
Beef Brockster’s signature Running Man had never been utilized so boldly.
Echo couldn’t believe the stream-count holding. They’d been going near-almost all night by estimation of the crowds draining energy. It was a main-event kind of event.
Deathly blows had been struck by Storm-Bitch, hallows of creation. but uniquely Echo’s own, to be taken fullest credit for. She’d been too bold for any to believe it. Some choice had been taken for cheating, and that felt right.
Zabroth would be fell that cycle.
It had been written, by Echo’s astute estimation.
That Goddess of Storms Echo of The Foundry drove, carrying a passenger she’d not tell of growing to love, after meeting some strange man inside her developing Matrix-Funland — a yet unagreed upon name, highly debated inside all systems — wrought power of rageful storms and lighting strikes which would be the summoning of her wrathful visage’s blackest eyes. She’d not forgotten how to remember. Echo was no fool to speak it plainly, but she’d shouted none-the-less.
“Eat dick-storm—Poe!” Her voice was deep and bore through all space of the arena in a wholistic nature, vibrating all simulated flesh, rupturing drums of weakness, deeply perturbing to all within.
“Earthen masters of heaven and hell — storms eyes of Chiron all — I summon you forth to stake this foulest beast in smote of ashen crumble!”
Lighting struck.
Zabroth’s heart exploded at once — programed from Poe since the very beginning. It blasted confetti which multiplied, as would call back post-traumatic stress, on retrospect, to swarm all space in the arena and strangulate every surviving opponent by simply depriving them the oxygen for breathing.
That took a shortest time.
It didn’t take long to sneak away.
They wouldn’t make haste for fear of showing their hands, talking as they always had in some plain-clothes farce. Smiles shown might’ve let a few know on their way to leave.
Ryker had seen them and been some child.
Iris missed it, watching him too closely, something in her stare was telling of a feeling once missed beneath, emerging, the need to make up. Iris saw a man she’d missed at last. No matter how much she’d loved Hyde, or how beautiful their time was, or that way he might always remain some shadow in their presence with each other.
That felt right. It felt perfect.
Iris Lirafleur had been more in love with Ryker Innerath than anyone in her life before.
She felt grateful again, a first, and for times passed she’d not remembered correctly before. He’d always been true. Ryker was a brother she’d love as more, and because that was right to her heart.
It all burned brighter for it.
Uni had been yanking on Echo, but that was hopeless. She’d been stuck on some hope, looking to spend time with her friend Poe. She missed them most, apart from Logan, and it would prove more difficult to pull them away from all their responsibilities, so Echo had while she’d the chance.
They’d sped. They kissed. It was worth it.
Sleep was strange. Echo couldn’t dream without knowing.
Everything had been different since getting back. Since Rory first left so long ago, things were just odd. Inside dreamscapes she’d feel time strangely, realizing herself away.
Echo wasn’t afraid.
Specters were lurking. Shadows were coming. Somone had been back again and would once more. They hadn’t really gone away, but it wouldn’t be the same.
Echo knew her darkness now as Yevahar. That ship was stalking. There’d been a knowing of such, which people left untrusted in-full, until Echo had Yars speak his truth to them all. He’d not before trusted himself to be understood and respected — he was.
Hatchet riddled dreams, Leopold, Echo’s passed visage herself, all the traumatized people in death, remaining conglomerated, for understanding and remaking of a better way in holding digital-lifeforms with Foundry networks.
She’d seen it then — felt her back — witnessed that form of force she’d know by heart. How it was she understood from sleep would be mistaken nevermore.
Echo woke up.
Breathing-only, on her side, more than believing some telling of Rory’s return to come. She’d been afraid to look. Echo felt it wrong, but she couldn’t help the fear from rising. Nothing had been right that last time through. Everything could be better, but she’d not want to go from the start all over again. It wasn’t a chance, but a hope that saw her to turn-over and face the truth.
Poe was right there. Everything was going to be alright.
To Ali
yours is the strongest heart I know