Blurb: Written in response to a prompt ("The Jabberwock", prompt #7) in the forum thread "Wonderland War". The prompt basically involves getting transported to another place and running into a monster.

*****

Jyvern 18, 236 KE IV (in the world of Zar)

The Greenhouse, in the Arakei; then an unknown place

Death is a dance, its music heard only by those who wear broken smiles. Or perhaps it's fishhooks that they wear, digging into smiles to pull them up into grins... is it? Fascinating. It's a fascinating conundrum. If the fishhooks are pulling up the smile, is it really a smile at all? If it isn't, how can they hear the music?

Then again, perhaps it's the music that makes them grin...

Death is such a lovely, lovely dance, dealt out by maidens made of snow flurries and ebony. Ivory claws, ruby fingers, eyes wide and glimmering... Colin almost gets turned on just thinking about it. Even better is the poison spilling from the wraiths' mouths, their lips so soft and venomously sweet... ah, the visions that fill his head when he's working with his plants.

The Greenhouse smells of Belladonna and Brugmansia today, a mix Colin finds to be utterly intoxicating. He stirs the blossoms together, humming to himself--certainly, his tune is nowhere close to the beatific melody drifting through the world alongside the ladies of death, but Colin finds it soothing nonetheless.

Images flit at random through his mind, spinning around and atop each other like a layered confection of something decadent. Ivory hair, soft lips, body parts, fields and fields of Foxglove in which beautiful women dance to their deaths. Occasionally an image or thought will crop up that takes Colin by surprise and leads him down an entirely new path--what did the Sheelthe say about firefly season yesterday, and how was it that Blacksmith Vene got himself stuck in such an interesting position with the Ladye of Fine Blonde Hair? Perhaps Colin should ask... perhaps he should pay a visit to town... perhaps he should see about the chalky roots of the yew trees in the north of the Arakei, because they were looking quite ill... perhaps Colin should do a great many things, not the least of which is finish this batch of poison. He might turn it into candlewax and sell it in the market come Sansday. The smell is truly gorgeous... and poison candles would come in handy for anyone, Colin is sure. He might not even inform them that they're poison, now wouldn't that be funny...

Colin is still considering the merits of poison candles and the worth of information when a very strange thing happens, something that even he was not expecting.

The air in the Greenhouse grows cold, and the world darkens as if the sunlight has been blocked off outside. Black smoke rises from the wooden floorboards, seeping around Colin's boots, up his trousers, toward his pianist's fingers and the boiling pot of poison. A surprised, fascinated sound escapes his mouth.

Black smoke? Stranger still, it has no scent and it feels cool against his skin as it envelops him. Colin doesn't get the sense that he's being attacked--indeed, the guardians of the Greenhouse haven't reacted at all.

Curious. Oh yes, it's very curious. Or is it only his perception that makes it so? Perhaps it's normal, and he's simply been living abnormally this whole time, so in fact it is Colin himself who is the curiosity.

An amused grin curls the corners of his mouth upward as the black smoke covers his face and the Greenhouse fades from view. The world lurches--oh, is he going somewhere? Colin hopes it's a party. He could go for a party.

Dancing and women and fire and mouths and--

Hmm. The smoke clears, and Colin finds himself standing in a dark forest--the trees twisted and bent, only very dim light shining through darkened leaves above. There are no dancing females. How disappointing.

Colin dusts off his hands, freeing himself of pollen from the Brugmansia, and glances around. If someone has brought him here, it might very well be for a good reason, and that could indeed be interesting. So few people wander into the Arakei--Colin gets so few visitors. He could use some company.

Preferably female company. Perhaps this forest is inhabited by lamia, wouldn't that be fun? Colin wouldn't even mind if they tried to eat him--in fact, that could prove quite fruitful, it even sounds quite entertaining--

But alas. He sees no full-breasted women with the tails of snakes slithering through the underbrush, nor does he hear the telltale sound of scales on wood or breath on leaves. It almost seems that he's alone.

Colin spins on his heels, arms spread wide to the crisp night air, and inhales deeply. Ah, the smells of a forest--rot and wood and mold and life. Nowhere sings like forests do. He smirks, thinking on that--instead, it may be that only nowhere forests sing. Or that singing forests exist nowhere...

Ah, ah, ah. Colin's attention is captured by a sight that was previously behind him--something quite interesting indeed. Red eyes, glinting from the trees, attached to... hmm. It's very sleek, very dark, very spiky. It does not appear to have breasts, which is rather disappointing. It also doesn't seem to have emotions.

"Why, hello," Colin purrs, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He tilts his head, strands of slate black hair falling across his vision--an annoyance, though he doesn't bother to remove them. "Who might you be, gorgeous thing?"

The eyes move, lowering closer to the ground as if the thing--a creature, a beast, a monster? Colin merely wonders if it is beautiful--has crouched down. A low growl ripples through the woods. Only in the aftermath does Colin note the fact that this forest lacks something necessary--the hum of insects, the chitter of birds, the rustle of night animals.

This forest does not sing. Did it before? He can't recall.

"No song tonight?" He queries, tilting his head in the other direction curiously. "Would you sing for me, then? You brought me here, after all--didn't you?" Colin makes a thoughtful sound, considering that. "Perhaps not. Was it the night wind? Or the whispers in the corners?" He can never keep up with the whispers. They move too quickly--sometimes in one part, sometimes in another, and he never gets the chance to ask them where they came from. Ah, the maze of his mind. Sometimes even Colin gets entirely, beautifully lost. He finds himself smiling into the shadows. "No song from you, beastie dear? Such a pity..."

The creature in the trees doesn't react. Colin pouts in its direction, jutting out his bottom lip. "Well, if you're going to be boring, I'm going to find another game." He brightens. "Is that what it is? Echoes on parchment, then... who's keeping score?" Colin glances around again, but sees no one else. There doesn't seem to be a gamekeeper. Nor is there anyone acting as dealer.

Colin looks back at the creature, only to find that it's no longer there. A second later he feels breath on the nape of his neck and turns his head curiously. His eyes clash with crimson depths, a face mere inches from his own--black scales, high cheekbones, a knotted mouth.

"Why, hello," Colin says cheerfully. "Are you going to sing for me after all?"

The creature smiles, baring rows upon rows of sharp teeth. "You are quite interesting, mortal," it says, in a voice that seems to hiss like hotcakes in a heated pan. Hotcakes, now those would be tasty. Colin is actually a bit hungry.

"Do you have any food?" He asks, tilting his head.

"Yessss," it purrs, and the world seems to slow in the next breath as the wide head snaps forward. Colin steps to the left and back, slipping away from the snapping jaws. But then, he finds himself dodging long, serrated talons. How rude.

"I didn't mean me," he says, feeling quite put out. "My bones aren't done ruminating yet."

The creature pauses, head tilting to the side. "Ruminating?"

Colin's smile is wide and full of too many teeth. "Mhm. I'm working on it. Sunshine and Narcissus bulbs, poured over a bleeding heart, have quite the affect on one's bones." He nods to himself. "I should think dancing helps."

The creature blinks slowly, twisted hands twitching as if it wants to reach out and snatch Colin from where he stands and turn him into pieces. Pieces of Colin, served with shadows and mustard... he almost cackles. That might taste alright, but he has things to finish...

"Your words do not make sense," the creature says slowly.

"Or perhaps they make all the sense of words," Colin counters. "In which case, it's your ears that don't make sense. You hear things backwards, like mirrors."

The creature stands there for a moment more, and then seems to decide that Colin is too intelligent for its mind to comprehend. It lunges, hissing a breath through its teeth in a manner that really ought to be frightening.

Colin makes a thoughtful sound, hands still in his pockets as he easily swings out of the creature's way. It lunges again, and again Colin slips out of its reach. "You're a terrible dancer," he observes, eyes running over the black plated scales, the hunched body, the long legs and reaching arms. "Did you bring me here for dinner? How rude not to invite any other guests. And I was just starting to hope for a party." He tsks. "You're no fun at all. Might as well be mincemeat. I wanted pear apples." Or strawberries. Strawberries would have been good too. Strawberries, crimson like blood...

The creature lunges again, and this time Colin holds his ground, drawing his hands out of his pockets. A quick touch to his belt brings three darts to his fingers as he weaves to the right, avoiding the slashing talons. The beastie hisses its rage and hunger. Colin is hungry too. He might make pasta when he gets home...

He flicks his fingers, sending the darts into the creature's eyes and open mouth one after another. It screams and staggers back, black blood pooling in its tear ducts, seeping down its face. The dance of death should not cause tears. It isn't beautiful at all. No crimson. No sensual mouth.

Colin's lips thin in displeasure. This music isn't pretty at all.

The poison on the darts does its work, sinking into the beastie, making it writhe and stagger around. Colin yawns, eyes lifting to the canopy of trees overhead.

How to get out of here, that is the question--the sentiment, the idea, the necessity...

Up or down? Left or right?

Perhaps all four. Perhaps he should swim. Colin smirks at himself and glances back at the beastie. It lies on a bed of rotting leaves, taloned hands lifted to its face as if trying to claw away the pain. The black limbs twitch in death throes. How boring. How graceless.

Colin leans down to gather his darts, disliking the idea of being wasteful.

As he touches the wood, the beastie disappears, fizzing away into mist. At the same moment, Colin feels a sharp fire rend into his spine. He turns his head, blinking at the creature behind him--very much alive, black tears still streaming from its eyes.

"Oh," Colin murmurs. His vision is dimming. Those must be talons in his flesh, rending, tearing, cracking up into his ribcage as if the beastie is filleting him.

So that's why they say it hurts to be stabbed in the back.

The world sounds very far away. Why is there no music? There ought to be music, in this world of cold and distance and pain...

Colin sits up with a gasp and promptly yelps at the pain in his head--the table is hard and he smacked his skull quite firmly upon its underside. He blinks at the familiar light drifting through the high windows in the Greenhouse. Belladonna and Brugmansia...

He stands, one hand rubbing his skull and the other rubbing his fire-free spine.

How strange. No black smoke. No forest. No beastie. No talons piercing the front of his chest as they push through his ribcage.

Colin tilts his head at the pot of boiling leaves and the Brugmansia he was cutting up, its soft orange petals splayed across the counter and the blade of his knife.

He purses his lips. Did he imagine it?

But perhaps this is the imagined world, and that was the true one? Perhaps this is his afterlife and he's been here for so long that only snippets of his past life echo within?

Colin rubs his head for a moment more, then shrugs his lean shoulders.

Strange, beautiful, graceless, cold... ah, the visions that fill his head when he's working with his plants. Sometimes the ladies of death do like to have their jokes. Sometimes the visions they send are not so melodious at all.

Sometimes he must remember that the dance of death can be as ugly as it is beautiful.

Colin begins to hum as he takes the wooden ladle and stirs up the brew.

Candles, scents, mouths and flushed cheeks... how the days fill up with wonderful weeks. A contented smile stretches Colin's mouth.

Death is a dance, its melody so wonderfully familiar...