A/N: The quote near the end of this story comes from Calderon's "Life is a Dream". Also, I do have chapter 3 partly done, sooo, once my finals are over, that will hopefully be attended to!

In Which Our Second And Third Heroes Meet The Seer

“You get extra points for stabbing a saint in the face! How many fucking times must I tell you! Most of ‘em are probably dead by now, but who the fuck cares!” said Pima.

Ankou, the oft-unacknowledged grandson of Death, slammed his forehead down upon the bar. Repeatedly. “Just shut up you foul demon!” he growled. “Why? Why do I let you drink? Fucking Pain. In. My. Ass.” Ankou’s head once more found the bar surface, his hand clutched tightly on the hilt of his sword.

The sword was his by right. As a Watcher, he was one of those who kept tight control over the not-light spaces and the doors to other worlds. Runes were carved upon its length, two side-by-side rows of sigils that always changed and never were quite the same as they had been moments before. It was horrific to look at, the metal born painfully from Death, the way no light glimmered from it, and the way the sword was always in shadow. The sword was long and sharp with respect for none but its wielder.

Surprisingly, this scene went quite unnoticed by the other patrons of the bar in the Meat Sack Realm. The setting was intimate. Dark woods comprised the furniture and soft candlelight wafted about each table. Ample alcohol was to be found, the bar stools were cushy, and the bar itself was large enough to allow for an unnoticed cloaking spell. Ankou loved it.

Pima suddenly stopped his rant on the point system in the demon game of killing. His gold eyes widened before landing on his companion.

“Hey. Ankou.” Pima, who in reality was about the size of Ankou’s foot, proceeded to yank harshly on the man’s green-tipped black hair.

Catching the stupid demon in his fist, Ankou brought Pima close up to his face. “What?” he snarled. “I’m drinking.”

The dark green colored demon squeezed through Ankou’s hold. “There is a Seer outside, shithead. And she doesn’t sound like a fake either.”

Giving a short nod, Ankou stood, sword a hefty weight next to his leg. “Which one?” Ankou brandished his keys, a twisted jangle of dull and flashing metal that strangely made no sound.

Flying up to the Watcher’s shoulder on wings stolen from a fairy during the long ago, Pima grimaced. “The World of Rainbows.”

“Indeed.” Taking the cloaking spell with him, for the human world wasn’t ready for this abnormally tall man and a demon, they walked up to the bathroom door. Ankou searched for the key to that particular realm, a key that used to shift and swirl with colors and light. Now, it throbbed a deep purple. Putting the key in the lock, it clicked into place with a sharp twist. Sharing one last look, Ankou and Pima stepped within the Darkening Realm and shut close the door.

I I I

The Rainbow Realm smelt of ozone. The gods were birthed here and it was from this place that rainbows and magick began. The height of the Realm was during the Red years, when the High King with many faces ruled the land. His face was that of Zeus, of Odin, of Ra, of many. It was the dwelling land of the old gods, where magick kept to the true forms of Fire, Air, Earth, and Water.

Darkness, one sparked with embers of panic and disbelief, began to spread over the realm. Belief in the old ways was fading. The doubt was such that on midnight of the day that marks the end of the long ago, the High King burned.

Some say the magick creatures of the land literally burned him, firelights of red and yellow streaming along his face and hair. Others believe that he fell to ash from those embers that burned in the darkness.

The High King was he who held all the magical ties together. With his death, gods began to fade away. Magicks mixed in their dwindling weakness. The children of these gods still contained some magick within their veins, but not enough. ‘Twas only enough to slow the dying of this Rainbow World.

The Orange and Yellow years that followed were ones of demented passions and a twisted type of cleansing. During the Green years, an evil began to manifest once more within the forest of Han ‘ath dale. Many years before, when the old gods were young, and the High King had only one face, a man who had no face at all appeared on the horizon. In his hands he carried the knowledge of pain and lies. These seeds were flung upon an empty field.

The field seemed to expand, soft tendrils of weeds and bone like branches trespassing into farms and homes. Trees grew quickly, casting large shadows that hid glittering eyes within, eyes that never held any color.

It was said that this evil man also had no heart, but that was proven wrong in the battle that took place within the forest. The No-Faced Man was felled in a bloody battle by a branch through the heart, one shoved there by the High King. Such a thing was messy, allowing the man’s blood to flow within the soil of Han ‘ath dale. This blood ran within the forest, into the very trees that had been born of the Man with no Face. He was tangible within the wood, and in the scrambling of the rare animal was his harsh scream.

During those years of Green, enough of the High King’s magick had dissipated to allow the gathering of these almost forgotten evil energies. Whispers of recruitment spread, and during the Blue years, many ran away to the forest to join the No- Faced Man.

It was in the Purple Years that he fully gained his powers. Not only did he carry pain and lies, but he now held fistfuls of corrupted souls within his grip.

This world was now loved by few, and was Watched closely by those who kept wads of keys attached to their belts. It was here that even the Watchers would tread lightly.

I I I

A Seer is one who speaks the truth across many worlds. Things are seen that cannot be kept alone, things that are much too alive to leave to keep to oneself. They must be echoed, these ‘oft soft spoken words that turn to furious shouts within their meaning. They fall from the tree of knowledge like scattered leaves that haphazardly form strange runes and sigils upon the ground.

Those who can See are also almost never silent, at least in the Rainbow Realm. It was those of this race who were first to lose their sanity under the breaking bonds of the magic and belief that kept the world tied so very tightly together.

It was one of this very ancient race that stood before the Metal Tree, a place that marked the beginning of the Mori Forest. She was covered in garlands, colorless in the waning moon that made the trees all too eerily resemble the forest of Han ‘ath dale. Her hair shined silver as she slowly danced in twisting swirls that mimicked the flow of wind. Flowers, long ago dead and then forgotten, were braided tightly into the frizzy coils of her hair. The strangeness of her long face was beautiful.

A door appeared out of nowhere upon the dry patch of grass that extended before the Metal Tree. The substance that formed this door was one that shifted in time to some unseen music in shades of dark and light, seeming to contain the shadow it should have reflected. The women noticed not this disturbance, but danced a bit faster as a man dressed in a black trench coat exited along with a small green demon. A strange light indeed did the stars throw down, one bright with the slight of black.

Ankou, for of course the women knew the name of this not-man who would likely shut close the door to this realm forever at the final end-time, locked the door before reclaiming the keys into the folds of his coat. Her eyes were blind as she smiled and turned towards them.

“What you seek lies not within the Metal Tree, Old One. The Underworld is not the beginning of the right path.” Her hands twisted in her dress, the cloth so worn the garlands snagged tightly to it.

Pima made to move forward, but Ankou put up his hand that was not tightly grasped upon the hilt of his sword. There were crickets all around them in the wood.

Her speech continued into a mumble as she turned away from them. A flower twisted free from her braids and caught upon the piles of woven ribbons and flowers that lay draped about her. “They must be made alive through word of mouth, through echoes born, hard pushed breath sweeping, harshly slipping through carved white bone.” Pivoting easily on her calloused heel, the Seer turned once more to face Pima and Ankou, only this time with her hands spread out in acknowledgement of her spoken words.

Ankou dipped his head in reference, causing the blind Seer to smile. She did not need working eyes to See. “We have things to ask of you, My Lady.”

Pima left Ankou’s shoulder, flying closer to the Metal Tree, close enough to catch a glimpse of the Underworld that lay hidden within the forest. It was not easy traveling from world to world, seeing glimpses of that which you once called home. Pima grimaced at the smell of fire and ice that spilled in almost tangible swirls across the air.

Her steps glided upon the dust of the ground as she approached the Watcher. There was no nail on the finger she used to poke him harshly on the chest. “You. You are the one set to so easily destroy this world with your lock and keys.”

“I wish to stop it, My Lady.” Ankou watched the woman take a step back and lift her face to the moon.

“Magick of humans, The Realm of the Lord, Rainbow Realm, Tied are three. Together they all drown with wings,” she whispered.

Pima had masked his face of all previous emotion as he once more rested upon Ankou’s shoulder. The wind chose that moment to pick up, moving around a few wayward leaves and displacing them further.

“I thank you, Seer. Might I ask of whom shall this task befall?” Pima raised an eyebrow in confusion of the prophecy just given. Still stoic to a fault, Ankou’s grey eyes never left the figure of the ever-moving Seer.

“But who shall watch over the Watcher? It has been given to three as well you see. The fairy fool was birthed here; through him will you find the others.” Her mirth was contained within a grin.

Her dress trailed upon the ground, the not-color of the moonlight mixing it with the dry grass. Ankou turned to leave, before the Seer’s hand on his shoulder blade stopped him. “Pima.” The demon alighted from the man’s shoulder and landed gently into the woman’s hand. He was small against her strangely long fingers, the green of his body in sharp contrast to the milk white of her skin. She tugged slightly at one of his wings, a small frown on her face. “Listen well demon. ‘This he’d do wisely to believe/ Because, Clotaldo, in this world/ All think they live who only dream’.”

Not understanding, but memorizing all the same (for when were the two ever connected?), Pima tucked the words close to his heart as the two departed through the gaping threshold left by a break of trees. To the north is where they would head, to where the last gods lived as naught but a dream.

The Seer was left, as she always was, on the threshold of Above and Below, humming softly as she snagged and twirled ‘round wind and moonbeams.