But of course.
New chapter.
CHAPTER NINE:
Spirits of Anger
The RAFians continued onward, passing by the river Lethe. Passing by the minor incandescence of the pearly, milky white river. Cloak couldn't quite understand why forgetting who you are would be a good thing.
He supposed for spirits who went for reincarnation who were required to drink from the river would be a good thing. But they were not spirits awaiting reincarnation. They needed their memories . . . they needed to remember their identities . . . they mustn't forget themselves just like that. . . .
Cloak slowly realized that the very idea of the Lethe scared him. He did not want to lose himself like that, because he already came very close to losing himself . . . back when he was in his mother's house . . .
No. He wasn't going to allow his mind to go back there. Not now. Now wasn't the time.
Suddenly, the gray mist started to coil around them, and Cloak found himself getting annoyed. This would be the denial thing all over again, he decided, as the mist began to solidify into images, into scenes, which would show the RAFians past experiences with anger.
But not wrathful anger, like that upon which Ira, the Boxed Evil of Wrath, thrived on and sought out. No, but anger formed and congealed from frustration. Frustration often propagates anger.
Before Cloak, the mist coiled and writhed and undulated in a most disconcerting, almost blasphemous way, as the images rose up from it.
He saw himself, struggling to do "chores" for his mother. Clean the foyer. Do the dishes. Take out the garbage. Clean out the refridgerator. Mow the lawn. Do the laundry. And more. And more on top of that. Always finding a flaw, no matter how minute, and treating it like nuclear winter had happened on his watch. Never being satisfied with anything.
Yes, it was maddening. Frustratingly so. But he had come to accept . . . but did he? Did he really accept that that had happened to him? If he did, why did he constantlh think back to these things? He knew the mere memories of these events caused him pain. Why did he feel this ludicrous need to dwell upon them? Why did he obsess with overanalyzing every gesture made, every word spoken, every facet of it? Did he really, truly accept it?
He knew the answer.
If there were more images beyond the first few, Cloak missed them entirely. But he had enough these images. He had had enough of being toyed with. He would not be baited like this. He was a tiger! He was the one that did the toying, he shouldn't have been a victim of it!
"Enough of this," he said, far calmer than he felt. The mist dissipated as the others used his voice to break their trances.
Without another word, the moved on.
***
"These mortals are quite resilient," Melinoë commented, voice rather wispy, like a fleeting spirit. "Quite resilient indeed."
"Don't underestimate them, O Insanity Invoker," Malice said, far more skillfully than it would appear to the casual observer. "They cannot withstand your, as the mortals put it, 'A game', dear Matron of Madness."
"You do not tell me what to do, Stranger," Melinoë threatened, indifferently idle.
"Of course, of course," Malice said, being cunningly pliant, "it was only my intent to warn you. I have had crossed paths with these particular mortals before, Ms. Melinoë. I believe I know them, their motivations and driving forces."
"They are nothing," Melinoë said, dismissively. "Insects which I can crush beneath my heel at any time of my choosing. I just have not chose to do such as of yet."
"Of course, of course," Malice said, placatingly. "I did not mean to insinuate otherwise, O Queen of the Shadow Stalkers."
Melinoë said nothing. But she did not object from Malice's company, seeing her as a simple toady. Which is precisely what Malice wanted to her to see the Realm Walker octogenarian as.
