There and Back Again. - 3. Chapter 3: The Wormwood

Purpose is beautiful. A euphoria of some far-off place, the way the clouds move and the people elect. Purpose is lovely. When you have purpose you feel complete. Your purpose may change throughout your career as man, but you will always have something…

He had traveled north to the city of angels, through creeping midnight fog and bored high way patrol. It was at a home he did sin, atop a small rise overlooking an intrepid coast. With mother superior and friends abound, the music pulsed and clothing was scarce… He sinned. Oh, how he sinned. But it was his opinion of sin. Not yours, or hers, or his, or theirs, or divine or mundane. And as the sun tossed a glowing rag in the horizon, he stood shirtless on the balcony, oh-so-dazed and confused.

Some blonde creature sat without a shirt boxers clinging to slender thighs. It leaned over the railing, a cigarette so limp upon supple lips that had most recently journeyed around the boy at the door. The one at the door was at question, not the smoker. He was an accessory, as if a cell-phone, ring or belt. Discarded so easily, yet when you wished to find them, you never could.

Retreating into the home for a brief moment, a bedroom was littered with clothing and empty handles of alcohol. A girl leaned against the wall, deep in a drunken slumber. To the left, a sleep bag was shared by some couple he did not even know. Such was the life of pathetic royalty. The dark haired child fetched a glass and found something that burned and drank it so deep he tried to force the flames out of his throat. Filling it again, a dapper alcoholic, he moved to the door and sighed, sauntering onto the balcony.

Next to the blonde, it turned with cold blues eyes and regarded him, smoke leaking from precious lips.

"What?" it questions, and the other takes a drink. It burns so, so, so good that he considers ravaging the slender blonde fairy.

"Nothing. Do not fret," he does reply. The cigarette swings outward, dashing the ash across the horizon.

"Whatever you say." The sound of the smoke inhaling was surreal and echoed, through drunken hazel eyes and the slowly rising sun.

"I pray to the gods that I forget last night,." the drinker muses.

A laugh, a hand slowly finds it way to another hip, fingers hooked into boxer lining, "You shall not and will not, just as you never forgot last December." The blonde flicks his cigarette and, with some ounce of grace, turns, leaning elbows against the wood railing. He looks at his companion. The other downs the alcohol and throws the glass into the ravine below. "Hey…" the cold blue eyes follow the arc of the glass as it catches the dim rising light.

"I cheated, it slays that of mein very soul," he sighs, burying a sad visage into strong arms. "I preach to not do so, but do I follow my own advice? Of course not."

"What he does not know, won't hurt him… this was overdo, oh Chase." The blonde is interested, but the other merely sighs, annoyed. He had already toyed and toiled, with magic and enchantment, a silver-tongued boy and draconian devil, the kind of thing with dark wings and fiery eyes.

He claims constant victory over those below him, he is better than you in any way. His coffers never empty and the lovers never more, even if he resigns himself to one specific set of lips he may only touch. And yet, he strays….STRAYS away from those lips to taste that of temptation and stupidity.

"I will blame it on my youth!" he revels.

"Cliché,." the other says, lighting another cigarette; fingers, velvety, toying deeper through the boxer mesh. The other squirms and moves away, unphased. Vigil, an ultimate defense. With a shrug, the cigarette is rid of virginity and smolders lazily.

"It is true - I am far too young to be so… egotistically exalted."

"A what?" questioned forth.

"To be so large of head, grand of pride! Frothing with ego!" a growl beneath flesh.

"Some would say it is sexy."

"And the vast majority would cry it to be faulty and lewd, misplaced. They would cast me even further into the Misbegotten," a sigh, "Oh woe is me. Oh woe. Perhaps I shall start anew?"

"No never," he savored the cigarette, suckling breaths. "It is your.. mark.... the way you want it to be, the way it ought to be. You were molded and fashioned, cast of iron pride and submerged in intellectual liquid. It works, you know; simply so. And it beguiles me so, how you can attain such admiration from your fellows. You speak with fine grammar and smile so handsome and your friendly, kind eyes welcome all. You're the life of the party, the baron of the ball, the marquis of men, the lord of the ladies! Yes, yes.....we know you have a temper and your moods swing as wildly as a true swinger swings. Your ideas are offbeat, borderline insanity but we love it! Your family lineage is deep and rooted. When I met the ones whom had slept to create you, I said, you retained your father’s ambition and wit and your mother’s kind eyes and deep soul. But what do I say now, I fluff your feathers my educated friend, my escape from the greater escape...and besides... I wouldn't have had sex with you, otherwise."

"I've wronged a good bit of people."

"How many?"

"A good bit."

"Who are they?"

"They can be anybody, I don't know them but I do, and when I do then it all just doesn't work… my plan usually crumbles, dusty and full of sickly soot you see.." The blonde nudges closer as the wind pulls up a sticking breeze. A mocking cuddle.

The dark haired creature glances off over the glowing horizon, sleep was withering at his wills and pulling at his eyes.

"They don't mean much, it seems. You don't care, we can all tell. Even me, you did not speak to me til later in the year and look now, you have me in your bed and toying with my hair. You have a charm about you that is horrifying, you know. It scares me. Sometimes I think ‘is it his charm or him?’ I hope you'll let me keep my head, my lord sir," the mousy blonde fingers at the skin upon strong arm, "it won't do you any good hanging on a thread…" blonde locks lightly touch the forearm as a head rests there.

Rough fingers slowly toil through the blonde locks, it purrs in return. However, contemplation is in the eyes of that of the petting hand.

"I don't think that is a worthy trait. Making a good joke or giving good advice, those are traits one so desires. Not to toy with emotions that are not yours. That is wicked." The same wicked his lover had once said.

"But that suits you so," the words were dimly echoed in another realm, in another dimension elsewhere the same. "It is hard-pressed to command a room and even that of a bedroom. It is hard-pressed to command those you've never even touched, regardless of their will or their mettle." And the blonde thing spoke the truth.

No matter what, it was true. Even if they loathed the dark-haired king, hated his existence, they would always admire and enjoy. A sense of interest would remain, no matter how unattractive his motives were or how devious his mind moved, and they would still return at the end of the night in stark wonderment. It was all an illusion, a trick of the mind. His words laced with threads of gold that no one could see but only a few.

He had dealt with those, the ones that could see through in a timely manner. The solution was to retreat, and remove himself. The fun was over and it was time to return to a life that needed tending… as if a garden of sorts. It was not a sick game, nor was he sick of thought or mind. He was beyond sane, insane in youth but that was accepted by family, vassal and friend alike. He did not mean to harm, but his interests in how far he could push the limit was that which made his contemporaries sick of throat.

"This shamefulness is hard to face." He woes.

"What is that?"

"I slept with another while devoted to another."

"Such is life, button up and hold out your cup, beg for cliché I say." The blonde nods.

"I want to be the best I can; for me, for you… for every man," humanity, "But I can slip, I always lose my place, the shamefulness is hard to face."

"Then face it!"

"But I cannot, I don't let myself. My ego says nay and I will move on and I will ignore it, push it aside while those I left in the wake of it all will wonder, 'why is he deranged?!'"

"Pssahwa they will not think that," the cigarette is launched into the air, finished.

"They admire and languish in your life, you know this. They love a good tale told from a toasty fire and even ….a toastier soul.." Fingers traveled below the belt and forced the dark haired youth to cringe.

"But I kept the magic alight you know, at least portions. But what now?” .

"What do you mean what now? You have had your fun, move along. It will be one of those things you shall look upon those days and proclaim aloud atop your throne 'What was I thinking!?' and then nothing more for never more…ever more. You know you will move on. It is your nomadic nature, your nomadic personality, when something wears down, it is time for a replacement, such… as myself…" he stretches.

The dark haired child scowls, "You are not replacing him. You're a door stop, now be silent."

"As you say."

Silence does follow, but then a low growl of sultry voice, "Ugh, so many muted cares. I know, I say this and that, but I will stomp the ground and push them around then be on my way… I want to be the best I can, for me, for you, for every man -- don't tell me of what I've done, I'll ignore and shut the door…before they can have their fun.."

"But you say it with such grace and wit!"

"No hush! I've lost my head, I need my bed…"

"Wait!"

"You understand?"

"I do, stick it to the man!"

"What now?"

"Simply move along. Pray tell, whatever shall you do while I am absent from the country in the next month?" the blonde leans lavishly over the balcony railing.

"I will wait for term to begin and return to him, you were a foot note," the words were harsh but the blonde laughed.

"That is not what I saw back in your chamber room…" the imp winked ever-so-handsomely.

"Speaking of, let us retire, with haste." A arm slides around the blonde’s waist and is spirited away into the bedroom. Collapsing upon the bed, they trip into slumber.

And dreams did wreck havoc upon the mind; a twirling mass of doubts and woes, hatred and love, uncertainty and even worse.

The dark-haired boy sat atop a throne of gold, a tower in the sky surrounded by clouds. Lounging within the throne, he had a spire of silver and to his right stood a beautiful creature, only to be noted as his current lover. A delicate hand from the lover rested upon the shoulder of the one in the throne. Sadly, another sat down marble steps, a light smirk trailing across mouse-like features, and cold blue eyes as they stared, as if to wait for a snapshot to show--this is his current life. As much as it is coveted by some, it is horrifying and dilapidated.

Scene fades, he is a snake. A serpentine creature of devilish qualities, black magic and plague. He nips at the ankles of country boys, missing some but striking one. The poison of dishonesty and lie seeps in, but is removed and he is saved.

He is the fog that strangles those city boys, sticking to your coats and preventing solid clear vision. It is simply so, he is one who blurs and changes. His movements are wispy, elegant, smooth. Deadly.

He stands among his peers, great and small. Each revering, hating, loving in his direction. Some smile, some scowl, others reach forward, begging for his touch but one stumbles forward. This was unforeseen, uncalculated and reaches forward to rip off his very face and proclaims, "I know! I know!" and points with fingering flesh towards he and covering that face he retreats away from his peers, those peers he never did touch, ever.

A great tree flourishes and he sits below with a book and the sea upon the air. A female sits to his right and two males to his left, another is leaning on the far side of the great tree smoking a cigarette, they talk and laugh as if not a care, but one looks up to the horizon, "A storm is coming soon. It rolls in from the sea." Thunder.

A lavish house with lavish furniture. A lavish dining room with lavish plates and lavish people, he eats among friends and they break bread. Wine is poured and stories are told but as he surveys his friends a sense of foreboding enters, one will ruin everything.

He goes to a home and knocks upon the door - a startled creature answers, unsure what to do in his countryside manner and the stranger at the door (that who is he) begs for forgiveness and then departs.

A park, stark and naked saved for two. Both sitting at a chess board, both stare equally however one had exposed the other to a wicked deed, the other the culprit, the one who is wrong. Their pieces are moved and it is a stalemate. He looks up and nods, accepting his inevitable defeat, impressed and soundly astonished.

He shares coffee with a wise man atop a sandy dune, telling tales of young and old. Laughing and enjoying. The man was immune to charm, magic and enchantment, but he did not care. It was something to last a good while and it would.

He is within a room frothing with education, a professor speaks and the boy leans over to another and whispers something. The boy is interested and whispers back. The charm of the dark-haired boy is at work, but the other can sense it and retreats. He is angered.

He travels north to a city and commits sin. The angels shun him, yet when he returns he confesses his sin to his lover with as much emotion as he had given him in all of eternity. The lover forgives him with a kiss upon the forehead and pleads for it never to be true again. He accepts and they lay together that night and make love.

He is sitting in a dark room with a laptop before him. Staring blankly, wondering, waiting, hoping and hating. And finally, the sun arises and explodes into the room and he slowly shuts the laptop, "I am finished." And it is done.

Finally he awakes, partially cleansed. The blonde sleeps soundly next to him. Rustling, lips moved slowly forward to lightly connect with those of the mousy blonde. "See you in a few months, friend." it is a mere whisper as he slides from bed and collects his belongings.

The morning is still ripe and he fetches a carriage to whisk him home. Looking out the window he sighs, wondering, yet it fades slowly as he cares little and less.

"I guess we are all a bit insane."