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Message-ID: <52136asstr$1128276602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Sangrelysia (was: Dragon's Blood) chapter 2 {Mg magic}
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Date: Sun, 02 Oct 2005 14:10:02 -0400
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                Peace on Earth!



  Dear gentle reader,

  The first chapter of this story was thrown into the
  internet stream in a hasty fit of passion sparked by a
  surge of anti-war sentiment.  As a consequence, I slapped
  on a title that knew would probably have to change, given
  how commonplace and cliche such titles as "Dragon's
  Blood" might be in these days of post-Potter haze.
  And sure enough, there is indeed already a book by the
  same title.  I thought thus it best to avoid confusion
  by altering the heading.

  Sangrelysia is a land somewhere between Shangri-La
  and the Elysian fields, where magic still happens and
  mythical beasts still abound, but not a place without its
  troubles -- "issues" which (fancy that!)  might resemble
  those we humble mortals face in the world we presently
  refer to as "reality."  Oh, and sex.


  To more fully enjoy this story in living, breathing HTML,
  please visit our website at:

  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VivianDarkbloom/www/

  Now offering over 100,000 words of pure prurient prose!

  --------------------------------------------------------




                         Sangrelysia - Chapter 2

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   In the dream, I was playing leapfrog up the aisle of the ancient
   church with two naked young girls. Between the battered dark
   wooden pews, one over the other we scampered, and I must have
   been naked as well, because I remember the distinct sensation of
   my penis gliding delicately along the vertebral bumps of the tiny
   spine under the smooth skin lit in the mystical rainbow aura of
   sunlight filtring through the stained glass. "We'll climax at the
   altar!" shouted one girl, lifting her smile joyously to the
   heavens. Just then the priest kept nudging pesteringly at my
   shoulder. Invisible in the dark, the hand at my shoulder kept
   shaking me, until the dream vaporised, leaving darkness around
   me, but still the sensation of a hand poking at me, a young
   feminine giggle in the darkness.

   "Well, are you going to just snore all night?" demanded a
   familiar voice. Damn. The princess.

   "It would seem customary," I ventured, still uncertain of my
   surroundings or whether I had in fact woken up or merely emerged
   into a different dream.

   "I'm here for my lesson," she said.

   Damn, repeated my inner narrator, for no particular reason other
   than to celebrate unwanted wakefulness, in addition to which no
   other words seemed to be available for the palette of my mental
   canvas at that moment.

   "Very well," I said, rubbing my eyes, rising to a sitting
   position, pushing aside the covers.

   I could smell her young body across from me in the darkness,
   scent of the sweet workout she had gotten from ascending the
   stairs of the secret passageway.

   "Some light?" I said.

   She giggled. "I can't," she said. "I tried."

   "Ok," I said, snapping my fingers. Instantly, all around the room
   flames sprang up from a score of oddly assorted lanterns
   scattered here and there, with the effect that the room was fully
   lit, but not glaringly. Thick crimson velvet curtains across the
   window would ensure privacy.

   A smiling Princess Sylvia wrung and twisted her hands together,
   little-girl-like. So unlike her uncle, the King, that it was
   difficult to believe they were related. As she bounced in front
   of me, her pale pink nightgown fluttered and floated, unable to
   keep up with her energetic gesticulation.

   "Hi," I said.

   "Hi," she replied.

   "You're awake."

   "So are you," she teased.

   "Right. So have a seat," I patted the spot on the bed next to me,
   and I had to pull my hand out quickly as she leapt over to set
   her cute little fanny down on it.

   "Oops!" she squealed, falling across my lap temporarily.

   Feeling her warmth, I gently squeezed her to me as she sat up
   again, running my fingers caressingly through her long black
   hair.

   "So," I began. "We were talking about time."

   "Time," she repeated softly.

   "Now, imagine," I said, pointing to a dust-smothered globe in the
   corner, surrounded by a transparent chart of cosmic sphere marked
   in astrological glyphs. "The entire universe that you can see.
   The earth and the stars, the bed, your nightgown, the lanterns,
   everything in all of creation. Imagine all of that space being
   the size of a tiny speck."

   "Really? That small?"

   "Smaller, really, because I'm a talking about a point in space
   without dimension whatsoever."

   "Whatever."

   "Now think of a thread, like this one." I drew out a stray
   thread, a strand of gold that had straggled outside the borders
   of the sleeve she was wearing. She giggled again. "Imagine that
   speck of dust, or maybe a bug that's the size of that speck of
   dust, traveling along the thread. Where it had just been would be
   the past, and where it's going would be the future."

   "Ok."

   "Now think of this --" I grasped the hem of her nightgown. "All
   of the threads of time woven together."

   Her eyes widened as she struggled with the concept. She was a
   good student, with a vivid imagination. I let her go on like that
   for a while.

   "Ok, now add this," I added, placing my hand on the tangled pile
   of sheets beside her. "Layers of woven threads, representing
   evolution of the timestream."

   "So, I don't get it. That would mean if you went like this," she
   curled the thread around into a loop, "you could go back to the
   past, or into the future."

   "That's right," I said, enjoying her puzzlement. "But let's start
   with something simpler. Over here. . ."

   I led her over to one of the workbenches against the wall,
   shuffling aside the clutter of parchments, herb-filled
   apothecaries, an alembic with a cork stopper that had a spiral
   glass tube sticking out, a skull, several sheathed blades of
   various sizes, a gold chalice or two, dust-covered leather-bound
   tomes with gold-leaf runic lettering on the cover, and brushing
   aside crumbs from the brownie I had eaten for lunch, I set down
   in front of her the gigantic hourglass I kept on the shelf.

   "What's that?" she asked, pointing at a small crystal ball,
   scarcely large enough to fit in one's palm, half concealed behind
   a white mortar and pestle.

   Rumple, the orange cat, jumped up onto the table, knocking over a
   (fortunately unlit) candle with a sweeping gesture of her tail.

   "That," I mused, reaching over to fetch the clear crystal globe
   from the pile of rubble, "I acquired somewhat surreptitiously
   from among your uncle's last collection of plunder. I noticed
   that it had the aura of magic about it, something inside me
   couldn't stand to leave in his inept clutches. Only I have not
   yet been able to discern its true secret. It seems to be a
   message of some sort. Here, what do you observe?" I placed it in
   her palms.

   She gazed into it, fascinated, and almost instantly, gave a brief
   shiver. "I hear someone crying. I can't hear any words, only a
   voice crying. And it's cold. Dark. Underwater." Her gaze
   continued for a few minutes, until she broke away from it with a
   gasp of emotion, forcing it back into my hands.

   She ran over to the hearth, and sat wordless by the fire, holding
   her hands out to warm them, eyes filled with shadowy
   contemplation.

   I sat in the wooden chair I had appointed for her, and turned
   over the hourglass. The cat leaned against the timepiece, curling
   its tail around the gracefully lathed curves of the support post,
   and stuck her nose in my face. I scratched the top of her head.
   She purred.

   When the hourglass had run down about a third of the way, I
   joined the princess by the fireside, nudging myself behind her,
   gently holding her in my arms. "You saw much more than I did," I
   said quietly in her ear, almost whispering. "You have a powerful
   way with magic."

   She turned around and put her arms around me, placing her head
   against my breast, sighing. "I know you say that, but how come I
   can't make anything work with magic ever?"

   I chuckled. "Don't worry, dear. It will happen with time. Would
   you like to try another lesson?"

   "Alright." She arose, and seated herself once more in front of
   the hourglass. I drew up a stool beside her.

   "Now," I said. "Use your concentration to slow down the falling
   of the grains."

   "Make them go against gravity? Like a feather?"

   "No, no. Slow them down in time."

   She furrowed her brow in frustration. "You always say stuff like
   that, but never explain how."

   "Don't worry," I replied. "Just continue with your intent, and it
   will start to happen."

   "How? I don't get it."

   "Remember what the root of magic is?"

   "Love."

   "That's right. The Love that created the entire universe is at
   the center of your very being. As you connect with the true
   nature of your identity, the dream-symbols in your mind begin to
   turn the spigots of reality, causing them to ebb and flow at your
   whim. But always start with Love. That's where you begin. In the
   all-powerful ultimate reality of Love, all things are possible."

   "Love," she said.

   "Don't think too much. Just try it. I'll see if I can help," I
   said.

   I watched as she concentrated, feet dangling, tiny shoulders
   swaying almost imperceptibly with the rising and falling of her
   breath, the falling wisps of long dark hair. Lost I became,
   enveloped in the beauty of her face, pale smooth skin, her cute
   little nose, the expression of stubborn determination that seemed
   so beyond her years.

   In fact, it slipped my mind that I had intended help her, but
   rather just watched by her side as the grains of sand gradually,
   but decisively come to a dead halt, and in sheer absolute
   amazement I continued to gaze as the particles inside the
   hourglass began to rise -- slowly at first, but then gaining
   momentum until they were moving at a velocity that exactly
   mirrored the falling.




  -------------------------------------------------------


  For more stories, visit our site on asstr-mirror.org 
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VivianDarkbloom/www/



  

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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