Thyme Will Tell
lest we forget the struggle amplified
through the fire
we stalked, by name, by blood, by duty.
Magnified.


(no particular character) - "Thyme Will Tell" - (c)2006 Amanda Lee Harig
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Thyme. Small on the aristocratic scale, the Thyme family was regarded as a "mercenary family" -- not truly aristocrats -- but a blood line that was as pure as they could hope after the reclamation of the monarchies. There were basically two forms of power then: the noble-born and the militia-minded. For years after the detrimental attack on the Americas, these two warred silently against each other. Though different families paid different militias, all relationships were tender and easily destroyed by the slightest offense. It was chaotic back then, and many of the aristocracies didn't make it.

But of the few that did ended up "purchasing" factions of the militias and hired them on as a Home Guard. Eventually, there would be no difference between Militia and Aristocracy and a lot of things became muddled. Such as: who was responsible for the vast quantities of labratories that developed biological weapons and who viciously violated the age-old Geneva Convention. This of course, being after the change of interpretations of the convention. Regardless, it was through the fire that the Thyme family became noble-born and bested their failures.

Thane James Thyme was the heiress of her father's proud name and her mother's prestige as an Artegael -- an aristocracy that had been around since before the fall out of society. Her arrogance was inherent, then, and was not a surprise at all when she was declared a Lady. What was a surprise, however, was when she was introduced as "Lady Thyme" at the age sixteen. Surnames didn't always follow the father, but rather, the power. And here, the brat child of a Thyme and Artegael marriage, shunned her mother's heritage and took pride in the Thyme name.

Ultimately, she was a legacy -- long in the making.

After the militias are put to rest, after my father's generation is long gone and having lost its hold on the people, it'll take over a century to impliment the following:

A democracy that would be segregated by generation and generation alone. Each person born in a span of ten years would meet the peak of their generation and at that time, each person had the most power. I believe the 30s would be an ideal decade to give a generation the ultimate control of whom their leaders would be. For three decades these citizens would study their predecessor's tactics in the political arena and for three decades these people have to make their decisions on. Those former voters and the future voters would also have the choice of being able to vote, though they are only given a certain percentage in the race and the decision still belongs to the 'peak generation'. The candidates would be kept pure, as well, each growing regime would be cut off after ten years of power and therefore their ties are severed and change would always be possible for the citizens.

Of course, not all power is to be handed to a people deprived for so long.
The Thyme family's respect for the people will persuade their long-time followers to do right by them.

I am an aristocrat, afterall.
- Thane James Thyme

            At a very early age, Nathaniel began coaching his daughter in the ways of politics and religion.  While it was standard aristocracy to uphold the Christian belief of monotheism, her father made sure she understood that this was a path of order and there were other consequences than a ‘just’ God.  For all of his stereotypical insight – Evolution and survival of the fittest made him unique.

           

            Thane was but seven – still dodging mirrors and tap-dancing – when she was crouched over a cobblestone studying the ground with an intensity her father couldn’t help but admire.  He had been debating quite feverishly over a rather asinine dispute and stepped out on the veranda to collect his thoughts only to be confronted by his spitting image of a girl-child ignoring all that was around her but that single stone.  Seeming to ignore his approach, Nathaniel Thyme found himself smiling.  Yes, she looked exactly as he did at that age, all but her prided long black tresses that fell mid-back.  A couple foot-falls away he stopped, her timid voice quite clear in the quiet afternoon.

            “Ants are so busy all the time, Father.”  Her statement held a tone of question.

            “They have to,” he’d respond, taking the moment to light his cigar, “otherwise they couldn’t survive as a colony.”  A moment passed and his input seemed to suffice, he took a step closer and crouched down beside his daughter.  Tiny black specks furiously tore at what seemed to be a crust of white bread.  Thane said nothing as she reached out a slender finger and poked at her query, a small smile creeping over her face as the white bread swarmed black.  Delighted, she glanced up at Nathaniel’s worn face for approval, her smile tugging into a grin of mischievousness.  “That is also how communism works.”

            “A utopian world?”

            “Yes.  Every ant in a colony performs a job to survive.  If that job goes undone, the colony suffers – possibly even fails.  So they work constantly, every ant equal in their charge and determined to complete it.  They do it for the same reward and the same goal: survival.”

            “It works well.”  That inquisitive child would respond.

            “Well, to a point.  Ants, over millions of years, remain the same.  Every ant in every place in every hill performs the same task their ancestors did.  While this does indeed work, it fails as well.  They fail to evolve as individuals and therefore they fail to climb the food chain.”

            “Is that why the aristocracies won’t allow communism?”

            “Partially.”  Planning carefully as to how he would explain this, the cigar smoke curled in his mouth deliciously  “It places people in a pigeon hole they can’t get out of no matter how they might try.  The same mundane task day after day for food and shelter and they become comfortable with it.  There’s no struggle, there’s no aspiration to do better.  Why should they?  Everything they need is there.  Where as capitalism grooms an individual to improve for better things, better food, a better lifestyle.  In turn, the society grows through survival of the fittest.  Now those who are not the fittest, Thane, I still believe there is a place for the ants of the world.”

            “And where is that, Father?”

            “Our society still needs workers for the wagon trains.”  Nathaniel rose with a stiff groan, took another puff off of his cigar and patted his work-in-progress fondly.  As he walked back to a war that raged within the library, he couldn’t help but smile.  She would be a masterpiece.

Byron "Chrome" Salazar - "Portrait" - (c)2006 Amanda Lee Harig
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'The Land of the Blow & Honey'
--shall never be had.

            “…you’re fuckin’ Butterfly?”

            “If you had a dick, Thane, you would too.”  He looked up to her unapologetically, pale eyes rivaled by just how bloodshot they were.  Her lack of surprise just disgusted her more.

            “Fuck you.”  She should’ve said something more, and would have – but the fact she’d been drinking since she heard the news which was roughly two o’clock in the afternoon yesterday – the black-haired woman wouldn’t be made a hypocrite of by him.  As she turned to leave, Byron set down his stone-hewn pipe on the coffee table and tossed the marijuana aside, patting his knee in degradation.

            “Give me a minute and I’d be happy to.”

            She paused mid-stride and turned to face the proposition, sneering.  As suitable as her expression was, it was difficult to maintain.  He was stoned, he didn’t care what he said – it’s like beating a blind guy at chess.  Thane felt rooted, glaring into icy eyes.

            “How the fuck can you say that to me?”

            “Easily,” he replied with a taunting smile, “when one is being honest.”

            “And when exactly would that be, Byron?  When your promising her the world?”  Her voice dropped an octave in mockery.  “Oh, Butterfly, fuck Thane, we’ll blow this cheap hotel and go live big in Europe, the land of blow and honey.”  Chrome’s light laughter was his only response, the lanky fiend rising from the couch and stumbling over the coffee table.  He’d stop just a few inches short of Thane, swearing he could smell her sweat more so than the light lavender musk she preferred.  He wiped at his dry eyes, buying a moment as he thought of how to lightly word his response.

            “Yeah, just b’fore I shoot my load.  Kind ‘a like how I say I love ya.”

            He barely felt her fist stop in his face.  Chrome grabbed her then, first by the wrist, and then by her hair that knotted wonderfully in his hand, only to drag a fitful Thane to the couch.  Her struggles doubled when she landed on a stained cushion, a kick here, a scrape there.  He never retaliated, however, restraining his black-haired consort beneath his wiry build by pinning her wrists on the arm rest.  It was when Thane tasted his blood on her lips that she recoiled and ceased to fight.  Hands crept down her arm and further down her side.  A gasp when fingertips changed direction, now working on the solid leather belt that kept her pants over her hips.  Chrome broke the kiss with a chuckle.

            “Ya’know you’re the only bitch I’d fuck without a condom on.”  When he looked at her, woefully compliant, all he could see was her disdain.  Thane glowered.  Halted, it was the man that slid off of the woman.  He then reached for his pipe and left.

            Thane is staring the paint off the wall.  She’s intense, this principle image of severity, doubled over and trembling in shock.  She’s damaged, but beautiful, bleeding and aching yet woefully alive.  Every nerve is on fire, the mechanics of her body pumping adrenaline-laced blood through constricted veins.  She’s racing, her brain is streaking, leapfrogging.  What a buzz, but oh, what a low.  
            Carpenter’s memory was failing him.  Desperately he tried to recall what she’d been wearing some eleven years ago.  He also tried to remember what sort of cologne she bathed in to disguise the smell of blood in shock.  Whatever she wore, past and present, Carpenter decided was too sweet and spicy for her.  Perhaps it was her intension to bathe in something else than her terror.  Now that was sweet, tangible and delightful to long-deprived taste buds.  He’s savoring this moment and wallowing in the incredible high.  He’s smiling now, never minding an encroaching possibility of failure.  It’s just paranoia, Carpenter tells himself.  Paranoia is a part of any drug, any addiction.
            
            “I will put you away Thane,” he uttered so plainly, “I will destroy you.”
            “You better hope to God you succeed, m’friend.”
            “Succeed?  I won’t have to.  I know what you’ve got, I know your stamina and I will leech off of you.  I will latch on, Thane, and ride you out as long as it takes to get what I need.  I will disfigure you, turn you onto yourself and make you see the error of your pride.  By the time I’m done with you, Miss Thyme, I will cut you off and make you face yourself.”  He paused, smiled, and handed her a pack of generic cigarettes and a cheap lighter.  “And I don’t think you’ll be able to survive.”
 
            She’s haunted him.  She’s engaged him in combat.  She’s made him fight her for the right to live.  She’s fucked him up.  There was once a period of time that Carpenter wished to fight her and kill Thane James Thyme -- to take her life so he might live out his.
            He’s sitting across from her now, arms tucked protectively about his chest.  All is quiet.  Behind the two-way mirror three investigators are suspended in baited breath, out in the hall two bailiffs listen in for disruption.  But in the room, there is only predator and prey.  Slowly and without introduction, Carpenter dips his hand into his coat pocket and withdraws an unopened pack of cheap cigarettes. 
            “Hello Thane.”
            He slides the cancer sticks across the table.
            “Hello Ron."

(C)2005 Amanda Lee Harig
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This is more along the lines of story-notes than an actual excerpt, though it would work as either

Thane James Thyme - "A Walking Advertisement" - (c)2005 Amanda Lee Harig
[full view to be found here]

'Hotaru' stitched her name in tiny, perfect characters into the tag of her latest piece. The corset was nothing short of breath-taking, festish-orientated, complete with impossible bead-work woven into cured leather and lined by the silkiest of satin to prevent chaffing. This composition, coupled by the solitary cuffs and knitted sleeves would be a fantastic addition to the notorious Miss Thyme's wardrobe. And with such a fantastic model to work off of, Hotaru immensely enjoyed her work. Miss Thyme's taste paralleled her own and with the broad definition of artistic license, yes, despite the conditions the japanese fashion designer had to work under, she loved it.

But today was the last day of her trip to Arkhangel'sk -- for another three months -- and after tidying up her workspace and hanging up the new/mended outfits in the guest room closet, Hotaru took a deep breath and had confidence that her aristocratic client would love the corset. It was a shame what happened to the red one, the combination of bullet holes and blood making it impossible to repair; but the designer knew Miss Thyme would adore this new one just as much, if not more. Running her fingers down the beadwork, she smiled.

Word-of-mouth advertising was the best.
----
Thane loathes shopping, she always had, she always will. And while for years Miss Thyme had to resort to the internet for her expensive tastes, a job came up that involved the 'hit' of a fetish-clothing designer named Hotaru. To make a long story short, Thane no longer had to buy mass-produced suits and taylor them herself and she could quit tossing out leathers that'd been damaged in her line of work. The arrangement between Assassin and Victim became quite symbiotic.

A Dictionary of Angels by Gustav Davidson reads as follows:
Belphegor or Belfagor or Baal-Poer ("lord of opening" or "lord Baal of Mt. Phegor") -- a Moabite god of licentiousness who was once, according to the Cabalists, an angel of the order of principalities. In Hell, Belphegor is the demon of discoveries and ingenious inventions. When invoked, he appears in the form of a young woman.

Belphegor Fem - "Belphegor Invoked" - (c)2005 Amanda Lee Harig
[Larger Version to be found Here]

Demoness. The Creature of Carnage. Lady Ibdol of the (cursed) House of Evriel.

Yet despite her morbid reputations even as an elven kinswoman, somewhere in the twisted, hopeless depths of her impending lunacy she found respite in a futureless, broken child. How ironic it was! An entity's life nearly lived only to adopt a protege who could very well be considered expendable.

But she lived lifetimes before that crude bit of repentance. A lifetime of war and worship and blood so sweet upon her tongue. With the passion of other's lives spent, she found a future worth enduring. For a time, at least.

"Demon?" She mocked with other-worldly eyes alit. "No, miscreant, ...I am no Demon. I am God."