#the evocator

[ophelia-network]

Do what is easy and your life will be hard. Do what is hard and your life will become easy. ―Les Brown

The Evocator by Craig LaRotonda

[reivras]

those fuckin purples

[sasster]

There's Always a Beginning

We love trips to the past here.

--

“He is a peculiar thing.”

For the last handful of hours, and who really knew how much time could have passed when the pair of moirails got together, Harlan’d been talking, while taking up entirely too much space on the couch beside him, about this or that as it related his church’s sect. Of course, Orfuse always does his best to listen, but sometimes the rambling will fly right over his head. Church stuff isn’t exactly built with the lowblood in mind, he tried not to think about what happens in them.

It is usually politics or murder, often both, and how annoying he found the other followers. Sometimes their leaders. How frustrating they could all be. Never before did he describe a fellow clown as something so kind as peculiar.

When the curious statement comes out of his moirails mouth, his eyes spring up from the historical text he’d been rewriting, having seen the events himself and finding key information missing from what was documented, and a playful smile quickly overtakes his features. A constellation of freckles shifting to broadcast his delight.

Harlan's brows furrow for a moment, then he raises one.

“Harly, have you,” he pauses for emphasis, “Made a friend?” His genuine stab of excitement at the idea of his beloved moirail going out and making friends only sort of masked by the teasingness of his tones. Orfuse was well aware of the difficulties his beloved partner had with making friends, after all.

Well, difficulty is the wrong word. Charisma oozes out of the man in waves that could snuff out even the harshest of critics, after all. Even the Empress herself would be taken with you, Orfuse once told him with glee, a statement that was only met with a satisfied hum at the time.

Resistant is a better word. Friends are not his top priority.

“Friend is a strong word.” Harlan objects, case in pointing the argument he didn’t know was being had, as he takes the opportunity of the oracle's temporary distraction to rest his head in the smaller man’s lap and allow himself to stretch out fully across the couch. Even now his legs frustratingly hang a bit over the edge. Immediately Orfuse’s hands are in his hair, nails worked into his scalp in the form of a rhythmic massage. “He is just interesting, this Thanat Lycaon.”

Orfuse pauses and Harlan turns his head slightly to get a look at the strange expression that takes up residence and contorts that freckled face. “Love, are you alright?”

He just shakes his head and laughs the strange reaction off.

”Peculiar and interesting, is he?”

”Yes, we’ve had a few conversations.”

”Conversations plural?” His mock surprise makes Harlan roll his eyes.

”I am capable of many conversations plural.”

”I know!” He chimes back, following another delighted laugh. “I think I’d like to see this man that has captured your attention for plural conversations with my own eyes, is all. I’d like to meet this Thanat Lycaon.”

[sasster]

Trial & Error

Did you know yesterday was the first day of Spring?

Happy Saekul Spring everyone.

[Doc]

— Another page is torn from the journal and added to a pile of discarded entries just on the other end of the desk. With a sigh you wipe some of the sweat that’d apparently been accumulating along your browline the entire time you worked.

Sickness had a way of making you as sweaty and uncomfortable as possible, and tired.

God, you’re so tired.

If Thanat had it his way, you would be confined to that god forsaken bed for the rest of your sick and miserable life. He’s kind of stupid for a doctor, you think. That’s mean.

He’s just trying his best, after all. The same way you are with those poor kids. 

God, those poor kids. Nothing you’ve done for them has fixed their wretched futures. In fact, almost every alteration sends them down a more horrible path. Every rule put in place to protect from the toll these prophecies take on the mind was thrown out the window to look after a couple of descendants a couple hundred sweeps down the road.

Who are you to play god with their fates like that anyway? Something twists in your stomach. This isn’t playing god, this is a gentle hand guiding away from pain.

Anyone else would do it if they had the means. It isn’t as though anyone in their present is dying to give those kids a chance. This burden feels like it was specifically designed by the universe just for you. To torture you at the very end of your life. 

A coughing fit that sends blood flying across the blank page of the journal reminds you that you are running out of time. The futures where Harlan is removed from the equation seem just as cruel as the ones with dominion over the trio.

Without a reason to leave, Veylin stays isolated on her tundra, Zurven continues on in his mediocre safety net with no real room to heal from the damage caused to him by Persep, and Benjin…Well, he’s gone altogether.

What are they, dolls? That sounds perfectly reasonable to any normal person. Who gave you the authority to decide that wasn’t enough for them?

No Ben sounds bad, though.

The blood covered page finds itself added to the pile of discarded timelines.

Discarded timelines. So you just throw away the ones that don’t meet your standards. Well doesn’t that just make the blood boil? 

Your actions betray the feeling as you grab a pen and begin drafting an idea for a different branch in the timeline.

Removing Persep puts Zurven as a Saekul on paper, the sort of company that attracts is worse than just the Lycaon alone. No one needs that.

You had the opportunity to get rid of Persep and chose to subject all of those people to his torture anyway?

What’s wrong with you?

Zurven was worse off that way.

It’s too late in present time to do something about Zerkev. Even when you were able to come between the Marauder and his win, that meant Veylin and Benjin never made contact.

Veylin lived in isolation because of you too?

Anger surges through you, but once again your body does not react. It instead continues writing out small alterations to the timeline that you might still be capable of.

You are running out of time.

Without Veylins involvement Benjins ending was truly the most vile of them all. You would kill any and everyone to prevent it.

You should just stop.

Haven’t you done enough?

You’ve done nothing.

You’re doing your best.

Again, despite the internal processes telling you to stop, your hand keeps moving. Writing out the futures that worked, the ones that didn’t, and the ones worse than the original.

The original? How many times have you done this?

The pile of discarded pages grows.

Why won’t you stop? You want to stop.

They need each other to heal, but the specific conditions that needs to be met puts them through an unspeakable amount of torture.

Why isn’t anyone else doing anything to help them? Not now. Then.

Harlan is untouchable, even his allies are powerless to stop him. They say they choose to stay out of it. Who are they fooling?

Why won’t you stop?

You want to yell at your hand to stop, but the words won’t form. the action does not cease.

Those kids need help.

You want to stop.

Time is running out.

Stop, you’ve done more harm than good.

They don’t deserve that torture.

Your mind fractures into two. Suspended from each other like oil and water.

Very sharply, reality comes into focus. The reason you can’t stop writing is because this has all already happened.

You are not Orfuse Saekul, trying to clean up a very big mess that is outside of your control.

You are Zurven Saekul, on the other side of that mess, and you are trapped inside of a nightmare.

The good news is that by the time it comes to the consciousness fracture, it means you’re about to be sent back to your time.

Guess it’s time to kick back, relax, and watch the train wreck.

You already know how it ends anyway.

Orfuse scribbles along on a fresh sheet of paper like a man possessed, which is funny all things considered, hunched over the desk with a free hand that grips it like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to this reality.

That’s believable.

The angle that the sun hits the light muddling curtains says that it is high in the sky, it must be close to noon at this point. The oracle must have snuck away from bed shortly after dawn and has been toiling away since.

Sweat seeps through his sweater, forcing it to cling against his skin as a result. The entire experience is decidedly unpleasant.

How could he stand to sit like that for so long?

Another tearing of paper, and it’s added to the pile that starts to spill out onto the floor.

His scribbling fills the page shortly after he begins again and it’s a wonder that he never really made the investment into larger books to stream his madness into.

“What if Laz meets that asshole earlier? Then maybe there’s a chance he could talk him into helping Ben.” He mumbles around the pen as he chews on it. “They can’t meet before he’s killed that ex mate though…”

Another sheet to the pile. How many lives did Orfuse choose to mess with? Was there anyone that he met that didn’t fall victim to his idle hands?

For what purpose?

“Than and Harls kill each other if they get involved too early,” they beat each other half to death either way, great orchestrator. “At this point I can’t count on Aderae being stronger than him either.”

He would never subject Aderae to that, anyway.

The power must come with some level of eidetic memory because he goes on writing memories from the timelines he changed. This is worse than any level of control voodoos you’ve ever seen.

He knew just what strings to pull to change specific outcomes. Just never to his liking.

“Persep can’t have Zurven long enough that he starts to understand them fully. Poor thing doesn't deserve to meet the bastard at all.”

It is a horrifying power to have full control over in hindsight. Another paper ball for the pile.

What a waste of paper.

Tears stream down Orfuses cheeks but the way they mix with his sweat makes it hard to tell how hard he’s crying. A migraine starts to build behind his eyes.

It would be so much simpler for him if he just stopped, if not two, three, ten sweeps ago, right this second.

He’s on his deathbed for crying out loud.

As if in response to the thought, Orfuse very suddenly lays his pen to the side of the journal and scans over what he’s written.

Drawn is a better word. It’s a sketch inserted right at the end of a stream of consciousness.

Benjin, Veylin, and you. Embracing on what you can only imagine is Benjin’s bed. There are a few instances that this particular scene can be from. It takes a concentrated effort to keep from dredging the memory up.

No one needs to know if it’s possible to have a vision within a vision.

“This is the best I can do for them..” He mumbles, seemingly displeased with his efforts, as he traces a thumb along the edges of the sketch. “They don’t have to forgive me. I just hope there’s peace for them after all of this.”

Oh, that’s rich. Suddenly his tampering with the future isn’t about making Harlan better. That’s too little too late, Evocator.

“I wish the three of you never got dragged into all of this.” He starts to sniff, trying in vain to hold back more tears from falling. The effort sends him into another coughing fit.

Blood splatters all over the image of the three of you in his notebook.

“I care so much… But maybe that’s not enough.” His feelings creep into you and suddenly you feel as though you’re getting all choked up too.

No you aren’t.

He doesn’t care about you.

You don’t care about him.

Or his problems.

The problems he caused.

You hope the rest of his days were miserable.

You hate him.

You.

You are forcefully returned to the present. Finally.

You wake with a start and jerk yourself out of the grasp of the arm that was wrapped around you. It loosens up in response and it’s owner shifts over to take the rest of their weight off.

“Did I wake you?”

Mallum asks softly and it becomes clear you’ve found yourself on the couch at some point during the day.

This is becoming cumbersome.

You say nothing as you throw your arms around him and force your face into his side. It takes a second before he wraps the one arm around you again.

“Yeah, alright.” He says as he starts to pat your back.

[sasster]

Cue the Sun

Woe, Google Doc be upon ye

-

The rain torrents relentlessly outside of the Embalmers home, it is enough to make Orfuse curse himself for taking the trip on his own without first checking the weather. But on the same hand, the rain was welcomed. Though it flattens his hair against his head, and a fleeting thought can’t help but spare itself for the day of his revival, it also sweeps his nerves up from his very core and casts them into the earth in the form of much easier to handle water droplets. In the end, the water serves to make him feel much lighter.

No matter how much of a wet cat he must look like right now, he’d waited for the appropriate time to get this done.

The oracle takes a deep breath, to steel what the rain left behind of his nerves, and knocks on the door with three quick raps. Then he takes a step back and smooths his jacket over in an effort to make himself more presentable in the downpour. 

Slowly the door opens and each second he is made to wait feels as though his heart is being held over an open flame. There’s a selfish thought. How long had he made Thanat wait after all?

In the doorway stands the vessel of one of his great loves. Illuminated from behind, Orfuse cannot see much of him in the face of the shadow cast. He didn’t need to, though, to see that he was tired. Worn thin by the struggle of holding it together, no doubt. Not that he thinks himself faring any better.

He must look so pathetic, he thinks, the way he feels his face light up at the sight of his mate.

Thanat pauses, surely with thoughts consumed with anger for the cruelty of what must be his eyes deceiving him.

“Orfuse-- ”

Caressed by the voice of his lover, like an old friend to his poor tired ears, Orfuse throws himself into his arms despite his better judgment.

“I’m clean! I’m clean from the rain!” He shouts by way of an apology as he squeezes his arms tightly around him.

For his part, Thanat is stunned. Of course he is. Seconds ago he was certain that Orfuse would sooner see himself back into his grave than torture himself in the company of his former torturer again. Now here he is, burying his face into the crook of the mortician's neck as he always did when they embraced, mumbling his apologies.

He hesitates, for a fraction of a second, before fixing his arms around him and squeezing so tightly that anyone could be forgiven for assuming he was trying to absorb the smaller troll.

“It doesn’t quite work that way.” Thanat finally responds with a good amount of humor in his voice, though not nearly enough to stave off the cracks in it.

“The rules are different for me.” He jokes, sniffling through his tears.

“They always have been, dear.”

They stand like that for a moment, Orfuse burying shuddering sobs into his partners neck like prayers against his skin.

After an eternity of holding each other Orfuse pulls back, perhaps too soon, to look up at him.

“I won’t live with you.”

Thanat shakes his head, running a hand first along the small of his back then up his side.

“I did not expect you to.”

“And, uhm, whatever fight you’ve been having with Addy… You two are going to talk about it.”

The mortician watches as his partner makes his demands, as though his death was merely a vacation and the world did not suffer for his absence, with a soft smile that Orfuse cannot see.

“I believe that one is up to Aderae.”

“Well, I already talked to him about it.”

“Ah. Of course. You know that I’ve always admired your foresight, my love.”

Orfuse laughs breathlessly, taking his turn to run a hand down the length of Thanat’s arm. When he reaches his hand he takes it into his and laces their fingers together.

“I still don’t forgive you for giving up your mortality just like that for something so stupid.” He says, not looking up from their intertwined fingers. “It was dumb.”

“I would have died without you otherwise.”

“I know.” His voice is as soft as the thumb Thanat uses to rub the back of his hand. “I know you would have.”

[sasster]

Orfuse! so i have seen you mention your powers! and i wanted to question about them further if i may.

You risk getting touself lost looking at the past, and you mentioned the future doesn't work like that, do you have any idea why that is? or do you think it's just a quirk of the time branches and so on?

"Well, the theory that we came up with as my powers were developing is that the past is rooted more in.. The emotions that surrounded an event, it's kind of like how when you remember something each time you retell the story from memory you kind of alter it?

You're retelling the story based off of your perspective and your memory of the event and your memory of how that event mad you feel. When I am viewing the past I am viewing it through peoples memories, and it skews the perspective a little bit. If I'm not careful, I'll find myself no longer an objective observer and more like the person I am viewing through.

If you and your friend have an argument and I view the argument from your perspective and their perspective, I will have two different versions of the argument to document. Because you are both feeling different things, noticing different things, etcetera."

"The future should be the same if it were logical, but I am not looking at memories. It didn't happen, there's a chance it might not happen! The visions that I have of the future are rooted in the objectivity of the event itself.

No memories, no feelings, no experiences to cloud the judgement. The problem there is, there is always a chance that the future see doesn't happen or shifts in some way. That's a headache.

I've heard that some of my descendants have found ways to circumvent the issue with the past visions, but I've not met them myself. So I cannot document them properly!"

[sasster]

Memento Mori (Enter: Lazarus)

[Google doc for your eyes]

--

It has been quite some time since the last time you visited a church, even factoring the lifetime worth of sweeps that you'd been dead. Isn't that such a weird thing to know? You'd been dead, ushered to the other side and everything, and now you are not.

The ultimate end that all living things work toward, and like a cancerous cell defying apoptosis you continue living. You've found the end to life but like a run-on sentence that ignores the rules of punctuation you didn’t stop.

What exactly does that mean for you?

The church you stand before hangs over you like a monolith, the stained glass that makes up its windows shine dully in the light of the moons. Is this supposed to be inviting? Guilt pools in the pit of your stomach, screaming at you that you are making a terrible decision by being here.

Perhaps survival instinct? Historically, and in your experience, a clown-run church was not typically a place that low bloods came to willingly – Did you ever visit Harlan’s church while he was building it up? No, the thought of his dominion always made your heart hurt.

Well, there's no turning back now, you're already here. Why waste energy thinking too hard about it?

You take a deep breath and…

Nope. You do not move. As much as you steel your nerves, your legs stay cemented to the ground. The massive wooden doors do not move any closer to you.

This is scary, why did you come alone?

Well, it isn't as though you'll walk in and immediately be sent back to the grave. If you can even be killed. Oh god, are you immortal now?

Is life worth living if there is no end to it? There are too many questions you don't have the answers to. You hate not having the answers.

You bring a hand up and pinch the bridge of your nose as a migraine begins to settle along the top of your head. God, you hate not having the answers.

Why isn't this easier?

You sigh. You are far too old for this sort of drama.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you alright?”

The voice that calls out to you comes from behind, it is a very sweet one. It sort of chimes in an unnatural way, too, as though it does not belong to the body that is using it. You turn around to face the source. Your company seems pleasant, dressed in a yellow dress decorated with sunflowers, and a great big bow tied up in the back. She is holding  a crate of what appears to be squashes that she balances against her hip. Must’ve been retrieved from the garden that stretches across the length of the church. Her smile is delightful.

There’s just one more thing about her though. She’s made of wood. You return her smile, wrapping your arms up across your chest and squeezing them tightly.

“No, uhm. I’m fine.” Are you?

She breathes out a relieved sigh. She breathes?

“Oh good, you seemed unwell for a moment there!”

“Ah,” You squeeze your arms one more time before gesturing uselessly to the church behind you. “My – Uhm. It’s my first time. I’m a little intimidated.”

“Oh!” Her exclamation is infectious, she is clearly excited about this. “Well! What if you didn’t go alone?”

That would’ve been the smart thing to do, wooden stranger.

You tilt your head when she doesn’t continue speaking, she watches politely as the realization begins to dawn.

“Oh, you mean – You! I – Well, I couldn’t impose. You’re busy!”

It’s her turn to tilt her head this time, it looks like she is assessing not just your reaction to her offer but to her as a concept.

In your defense, she is a full articulated, living, and breathing marionette. After a brief moment, she speaks again.

“Well, then you can just do me a favor too.”

“What could I possibly – ”

Before the full question gets out, she presses the crate into you. You instinctively wrap an arm around it.

“See look! Now I owe you one.”

That gets a sort of breathless laugh out of you, taking the nerves along with it. Wow, she’s good.

“I guess so! Does that one always work?”

“Hasn’t failed me yet!”

You adjust the crate so that it sits more comfortably.

“I’m Marrie!” She bounces on the balls of her heels as she speaks, watching you with kind eyes. There’s so much life in her. “You got a name…”

She stops and lets her gaze sweep over you, taking in your wrinkles, greys, and other signifiers of age no doubt.

“Or, uhm, title I guess?” Marrie giggles. “Not that I think you’re old or anything!”

“Oh, please. I am– I am very old, Marrie.” No longer sick and dying, but still terribly terribly old.

“Yeah… I can tell.” She stops again and throws her hands up. “Not like to be mean or anything!”

You laugh. “It’s fine, no problem. And no title necessary. You can just call me Orfuse.”

“What a lovely name! Orfuse! I like it a lot!”

“Thank you!”

“Dad’ll like you. He doesn’t mind whatever you call him, so you don’t have to worry about all of that.” As she speaks, she starts to walk past you toward the church. You are familiar with the Restorer, how easy it is to have a conversation with him. You remember that interview quite well, actually.

Though.

Dad, not Father? He made her. Did he animate her too? Or did he just put her together. Your mind starts to race again, you’d love nothing more than to be able to write all of these questions down in your journal. What would you even do with the answers to them?

It would be rude to ask him about the logistics behind his daughter, and you are much more interested in his mastery over life and death anyway. Where does his influence end?

Your thoughts are interrupted.

“You coming?”

“Yes – Sorry!” You tighten your grip on the crate of vegetables. “Just uhm. I got distracted.”

“If it makes you feel any better, Orfuse, you’re handling the whole marionette thing better than most people I meet.”

You start walking after her, suddenly a little embarrassed over your conduct.

“That obvious, huh? Sorry about that.”

“No worries!” She says as she bumps the door open with her hip, then uses her foot to hold it in place. “After you!”

Marrie beams as you enter home.

[sasster]

Stories yet to Unfold

[Google Doc!]

--

He's surprised, you think, to see you standing before him. In his church. Or at least he would be if he had the capacity to express as much. You always wondered how the Father was able to navigate his emotions on an internal basis. Even when you watched the world through his eyes, past or future, the emotions felt muted. As though Father Roatus operated independently of them, on logic alone. Forget that, now is not the time to be analyzing him, didn't you come here to get help?

Ailzea watches you with steady eyes, obviously studying you just the same. It's easy for him to understand life restored at his hands, with rules he has known since he was a child, harder to consider acts of necromancy performed by outside forces. Is he fascinated with your predicament?

Maybe he doesn't have the answers you are looking for.

What answers are you looking for?

   "Do you feel any different?" He finally asks, his disturbance of the silence a welcome distraction from the pool of agony your thoughts had become. The gentleness of his voice grounds you almost instantly, but it also invites a dull ache to radiate from your heart.

You miss Thanat.

Ailzea does not rush you for an answer, he watches quietly as you adjust to the new weight of a heavy heart.

   "No, uhm." You pipe up with a voice smaller than it's ever been. "Well. At first I couldn't… My powers felt like they were gone. I thought I couldn't use them anymore…"

   "And now?" 

   "Just in my dreams…" You feel broken. “My dreams are visions.”

He nods his understanding.

   "I imagine you were not doing much speaking in the beginning, either."

   "No."

   "Higher functions often take a longer time to be returned, Orfuse. This is normal." He reassures you. There is such a kindness in his eyes, it's almost jarring that the expression does not reach beyond them.

It's a little uncanny.

The Father must sense your relief, he straightens up and folds his hands behind his back. It is only in that moment that you realize he'd adopted more relaxed body language when you appeared to be in distress. 

   "While I do not possess all of the information regarding your revival," His gaze sweeps over you like a blanket, you just about wish you could wrap yourself up in it. "It appears to me that you have been returned to us intact."

   "Father Roatus," You start slowly, gripping at the edge of your jacket to keep yourself grounded as you search for the words that will articulate your fears. "What if I am unable to die now?"

   "My child," says the man that is nearly one hundred sweeps your junior. "You are worried over your mortality?"

Again you nod. It is one of the many worries that make your shoulders feel heavy. You'd come to terms with mortality, your death, by the time you were seven sweeps old.

Eternity is much scarier.

   "Is it my help that you seek in that regard?"

   "I think so? If you don't mind. I'm not trying to take advantage of you. I know your powers are…I just. I'm just."

Ailzea raises a hand, perhaps sensing that you would not stop your apologetic rambling without outside intervention. 

   "You need not explain yourself. I ask only to clarify."

   "Will you help me? Is that okay?"

He does not answer right away, letting another comfortable silence settle between the two of you as he considers. At least you hope he is considering it.

   "Are you not worried that it is too soon?"

   "Too soon?" You ask helplessly, deflating a little.

Obviously he is not obligated to use his powers for you, but a flat out no will have been more satisfactory than what was offered.

   "Orfuse, how long has it been since your return?"

   "Uhm. Just a few weeks." Your voice cracks. Has so much time passed already?

   "I see. May I be honest with you, my friend?" He is leaning toward you again, the pity hiding behind his eyes betrays the neutrality he expresses.

Oh, poor pitiable Orfuse! He is always finding himself in situations. Poor stupid Orfuse! Doesn't even know if he is immortal now. Poor self important Orfuse, beating himself up because he isn't getting his way.

Grow up, Orfuse.

At least he called you friend. 

   "Go ahead." Defeat weaves itself into your voice.

He almost frowns.

   "I think that you have spent enough time and energy focusing on what is out of your control."

You sigh, he does not relent. 

   "How much of your life did you enjoy? What of it were you present for?"

How gentle a chiding, he even rests a hand on your shoulder. It isn't until he gives it a firm squeeze that you find yourself wrapping your arms around him.

Ailzea hugs you back.

   "You will not find peace worrying after the past, nor will it come with fretting the future to come." He pauses, you are so focused on the steadiness of his voice it catches you off guard.

   "It is enough to just simply be."

   "I – I know."

This is not what you expected when you made the decision to visit the House of Restoration.

Do you know what you expected?

You let out a shaky sigh.

   "I know."