Voices in the Dark

[Stoirmcriostal]

Set outside earth-relative time approximately on Monday, the 11th of November, 2075

"We have failed, utterly and completely." A male voice, deep and resonant once, now heavy with time and age and despair. It was resigned, but not surprised.

"We were damned from the start." A woman this time. She too, had a voice that had seen the slow grind of eons, but it was possessed of a flighty girlishness that even a century of misery could not completely kill.

"We should have more." The third voice was female as well, low and sultry, but if the other two were old, the third was positively ancient.

"There was nothing we could do. I was there, remember?" The fourth voice was male as well, but younger. It was strong and grave, but not possessed of the pain of the others.

"Perhaps." The first man again. "Be that as it may, she still holds her throne." A pause. "And yours, now."

"Don't remind me, husband mine." The girlish voice turned sharp. "We did our work too well with that one." A sigh. "It doesn't matter. We are out of options now. She is as powerful as I ever was, and there are none like us to oppose her anymore."

The second female voice sounded surprised. "What of the children?" she asked a trifle quickly.

The second male spoke. "I ferried Ariel to her final yesterday," he said sadly.

There was a soft noise of pain from the second woman. "Her too?" Another sigh. "It was only a matter of time after my host." She exhaled softly though her nose. "How did she die?"

"Violently."

There was a scoff. "She is Brannagh's child, truly enough," said the first woman. There was a creak of leathers, the tap of a boot. "At what point do we admit that all is lost?"

The first man responded. "That is what this is about, isn't it?" he snarled softly. "We're fucked, that's all there is to it. We've lost!" The turn of a head, the rustling click of shifting armor. "Kid, you are the only one of us who might have a line on the problem. What about your boss?"

The second cut in again. "No. It is not his charge to govern the lives of mortals." He spat a soft curse in Spanish. "We're on our own. I can help, but that is as far as it goes for him."

The second woman sighed softly again. "Color us all surprised, I am sure." There was a rustling, cloth on something smooth and soft. "It takes the last fledgling remnants of our power to sustain this conclave. I assume there is a reason?"

"Yes." The first man again. "I propose something that is as illegal as it is dangerous, and it may not work. Even if it does, it'll be a crapshoot."

"Madre de Dios, papá!" the second man spat. "That's insane!"

"What?" asked the first woman. "What is it?"

"He wants to violate the laws," replied the second woman. The rustle came again, feathers on silk. "He wants to perform the function of his old station."

"He wants to walk against the flow of time."

Silence. Shocked, total, and long. Then a whisper, a hushed sound more like a plea than anything else. "Will it work? Can it work?"

"I don't know." The man replied. "No one's ever gone back that far to change something that big. And no matter what happens, it would violate causality."

"In English, please?" the second woman asked archly.

The younger, Hispanic voice replied. "Changing time like that would kill us. Papa would never have been exposed to the darkness that makes him what he is. The Queen would never be killed by him to found her Dark Court. You would never be retrieved to be set free. I might never be born."

Silence again. It was heavier this time, the unnatural silence of a gallows rather than the hushed quiet of apprehension.

"But there is a chance?" the second woman asked.

"Yes." Just that one word, heavier than a stone coffin lid slamming down.

The silence again. One minute.

Two.

"Do it." The declaration was voiced by the first woman, but there was no opposition.

Finally, at a terrible cost, it would end.