The Package
By: Lostwolfe
[title:the package:vore version]
it is bought to me by farmer ted. farmer ted is totally
he hands me the letter. it is not a letter.
it is made of wood, which has been tempered with varnish so
i unclip the clasp which is fashioned in the shape of a
i pour the effects out onto the table.
i don't want to go for the letter immediately, so instead i
next, i lift the pendant.
i slip the pendant around my neck, at first it seems like
this done, i reach for the ornate pen holder. i know how
the last resonating pulse is of him writing his final will
i did not want to use the one of your heart's pen
he loved you - he never stopped loving you while
maybe one day you will write back. maybe one day
i am the ferrier of souls. that is what i do. he
i must dispence with formalities, before i finally
the following morning i made him as much at ease
he gave me the stone. had me reach for the place
i cannot describe how i felt. how i wished for
i would write pages and pages more, but i cannot.
and the world descends into blackness.
the one of my heart is kneeling before the man who is like
"it is time," his voice rumbles in reply.
behind him, the behemoth rises. he is tall - much taller
slowly, almost reverantly, he puts his big hands on the
lifting, he picks up the small, fragile body and brings it
the one of my heart begins to kick - part of him realizes
the hands are caressing his flanks now, gently stroking
there isn't much left of him now - only his two legs,
the portal opens wide - shimmers brightly - and the
something passes between the gate and the man. some
my eyes full of tears, i manage to take in the last few
the one of your heart is of my heart as well.
there is no signature. there need not be.
folding the letter up, i struggle to my feet, picking up
"no." he tells me. "no. you worked the land with me."
and with that i go. the silver carriage is waiting at the
i can never go where he has gone.
commentry and criticism can be left at -->
if you would like to publish this work of fiction, feel
thankyou for reading this text file.
The End
[version:1.00, unbastardized]
[author:lostwolfe]
[mailto:greywolfe@new.co.za]
[date:twenty eight october, two thousand and four
twenty nine october, two thousand and four]
-----------------------------------------------------------
[contents:]
[minimalist commentary on the origins of this story]
[one:comfort is a mystery/crawling out of my own skin]
[two:give this to me]
-----------------------------------------------------------
[minimalist commentary on the origins of this story]
-----------------------------------------------------------
--> while this is a "new" story, the greater bulk of it
originally comes from a non-vore story i wrote with
the same concept the day before.
--> yes. it really is another of those rare "branching"
stories i do from time to time.
-----------------------------------------------------------
[one:comfort is a mystery/crawling out of my own skin]
-----------------------------------------------------------
i don't know how the letters find me.
they're not addressed. they just have my name on them.
all of the letters feature his gentle script. the flowing,
calm, peaceful script that i've read for the last year now.
this will be the last letter.
illiterate. the only thing farmer ted knows how to do with
any conviction is farm his land. he is a huge, but gentle
behemoth of a man, mostly belly and furry arms and silver
beard. he has let me stay with him until this letter
comes. after tonight i will no longer stay with him.
i will take the silver carriage. i will ride into the
starlight.
it is a box. it is the box.
carefully, hands shaking, i slide the string that is tied
in a knot from around the box and remove it and peel the
brown paper away.
it is, indeed, the box.
that it emits a dull glow of it's own as other light
sources hit it. apart from the sheen and the clasp which
holds the box shut, it is totally unremarkable.
but it contains my memories of him.
not he of the letters.
but he of my heart.
howling howling wolf's head. inside, the unremarkable box
is furnished with red satin and there are the personal
effects of the life that he of the writing now holds.
i had waited a year, maybe more, for this moment. and the
moment passes and i think i'm going to be fine, until the
deep voice of farmer ted enters my ears from miles away.
i am not fine. i realize that i am not fine when farmer
ted offers me a hankerchief for my eyes.
it is all there. his bronze pendant, one side wolf, one
side bear. his writer's pen in it's own box. this box
far more ornate than the other. the stone the physicians
at the court of ages gave him for the pain. seeing the
stone overwhelms me.
and of course, the letter.
reach for the stone, picking it up to see if i can still
feel him in it's countours.
the traces of him still in the stone are too numerous to
bear. here he is, doubled up in pain, his hair in his
eyes. his beard is a matted mess of spit and blood and...
vomit. i smell this feral smell and i have to hold back
my own desire to retch.
here he is on his back as a physician from the court of
ages sends a rod of burning fire down his mouth. they
tell him it is purgative. they tell him it will burn out
the sickness. they don't mention that it is going to be
painful.
here he is in the early stages of the disease, holding
the stone to his stomach, letting the pain burn into the
stone.
he looks most composed in this last image. most himself.
i can see the light playing on his beard in this image.
the gold and red and silver and brown all twining together
as his hair falls down across his shoulders. it is evident
that he is in some discomfort - the sensation from the
stone and his closed eyes attest to this, but his hands
holding the stone aren't white at the knuckles, nor is his
mouth turned down in a grimace. he is simply in a slight
amount of pain.
i remeber this image.
he pulls the stone away from himself as i put my hands on
his shoulders and the image fades in the stone.
it is still warm - it still feels like it has just come
from his neck. this will not show me his memories, but it
will remain warm from his touch - his skin - for several
years, still. it is all i have left of his warmth and i
hold it in both my hands, letting them wrap around the
bronze surface, as the leather strap coasts down onto the
table between my palms.
the leather will not comfortably around me, but then it
shifts and becomes larger and encompasses me. gruffly, i
stuff the bronze face of the small disk under my shirt.
only then - with the disk near my heart can i feel his
heart. it thuds gently against my chest, slowly. as if
he's there against me, breathing in and breathing out.
he writes - how he lets the silver blade of the pen draw
some of his own blood, so that he can spill it across the
page as written work, so i am somewhat shocked to find that
his is the last resonating pulse from the pen. not the one
who writes the gently flowing handwriting. somehow - deep
inside - i'd imagined that it would be he who would use the
pen last. not he of my heart.
and testament. i do not want to see this, so i lay the pen
back in it's ornate box and return it to the table.
-----------------------------------------------------------
[two:give this to me]
-----------------------------------------------------------
finally, i reach for the letter. the neat, gentle script
washes over me, much like his deep, reasonant voice. he
reminds me of faremr ted in a way, but more literate. more
a man of words. his gateway to the afterlife locked away
in the lower recesses of the tower that he guards.
to write this. it seemed to me that you need his
memories and that as the stone would show you his
pain, so his pen would show you his heart. the
many worlds he created and populated with people
who he loved.
he was in my care. he talked about you
constantly, wondering where you were and how you
were doing. i never wanted to hurt him, but i
understood that this would be hard for you. i
always told him where you were - where the letters
found you, but i could never tell him how you
were, so he invented his own errands for you to
run. it broke my heart, but i understood.
we will get to talking about how he changed our
lives.
came to me seeking the gate and i showed it to
him. i wanted to show you, but i knew, even then,
that it would tear you in two. that, despite his
pain, you would deny him his peace.
allow you to see. you know this is the part i
detest. the physicians from the court of ages
gave me final power to decide his case. i felt...
much pain consenting to his pleas. truthfully, i
felt as you must feel. the last night he came to
me i cried true tears. tears as i have not shed
in hundreds of years.
as i could and i told him i would not refuse him,
but that i was giving into his desires against my
better judgement.
where they had slid the tongue of fire down into
him. after --
his pain to end. he knew it was an unfair thing
to do, and he apologized.
the tears falling from my eyes will not allow
more. all i can do at this juncture is show you.
farmer ted, but is not farmer ted. "father?" he whispers,
as a large paw gently strokes his hair. somehow,
unbelievably, he has been cleaned up and is not coughing.
he has his arms around the wide waist and cannot encompass
it. the gentle behemoth with the flowing beard is
breathing against him, this is only noticable because his
small body is slowly rising up and down as it is held
agains the larger one.
he seems so composed. it is difficult to tell where his
duty begins and his pain ends.
slowly, he lifts the one of my heart from his knees to his
feet. "you know the one of your heart is out there. he is
thinking of you," the deep voice says, gently.
an imperceptible nod.
"you don't...have to."
"i must, father. the pain won't let me do anything else."
this is stronger than the first whisper.
he doesn't bring up the court of the ages. the court can
do no more for him.
-----------------------------------------------------------
[twenty nine october, two thousand and four]
-----------------------------------------------------------
a pause - then a final affirmation:
"i'm ready."
than i remember - and his girth is ample, barlely held in
check by the flowing ermine and black robes that cascade
down his body. the silver of his beard flows down his
front, obscuring the runes that run along the edges of the
gown.
small shoulders. very suddenly, the one of my heart seems
so small - not insignificant - just...not the size i always
see him as. the behemoth looks down - that...feeling of
tripping over the edge of the world that is so pervasive
when he's near creeps over me.
to his bearded lips, opening wide. without preamble, the
one of my heart is slid into his jaws. big hands undo
clips and buttons until the one of my heart has no shirt,
and then no trousers. and still the bearded lips are
sliding him into the depths of the behemoth.
what's happening. part of him doesn't want it to happen,
but this is just the way of things. the ferrier of souls
is used to this and his strong, thick fingers gently
massage his shoulders and back. this seems to go on for
what seems like forever. the behemoth is trying to pacify
the skittering, frightened man he is consuming. he is in
up to his chest now. the one of my heart kicks and
flounders for a few more seconds and then - beyond
comprehension - there is a calm, a sudden peace. the same
peace that flows from his script. meekly, the one of my
heart allows the behemoth to do what he is here to do.
meekly, he offers himself up to the void.
them, massaging them and keeping the one in his mouth
sane and balanced. as he vanishes, he appears again, a
bulge in the rotundra of the robe. the gate washes them
both in waves of endless colour as the behemoth takes the
one of my heart down, onto the road that begins the endless
journey.
dangling from the bearded lips. and then, as the final
few inches of flesh slide in, the behemoth begins massaging
his vastly distended gut. part of this must be how replete
he is. part of it must be the fear that is being evidenced
by the one of my heart. i cannot make head or tail of it
from here.
behemoth is forced back into his chair, his eyes brimming
with tears and his hands cradling the bulk that once was a
man.
semblance of the one of my heart's face. and then he
is on his way, through the gate. it takes him to the
place i cannot go.
-----------------------------------------------------------
[/twenty nine october, two thousand and four]
-----------------------------------------------------------
and the vision fades to dark.
words on the page. farmer ted is behind me, one strong
hand on my shoulder.
his effects, without thinking, i slide them all into the
unremarkable box - somehow finding coins in my pocket for
farmer ted. i fish them out - put them on the table, but
he is shaking his head.
i do not argue. i cannot argue. no words would come out
my mouth if i tried to speak. roughly, he picks up the
coins, big hand holding mine open, as if i've forgotten how
to use my fingers. he presses the coins into my palm.
closes my fingers around them.
gate to the farm. i step up into it, letting the magical
force that draws it forward pull me towards the starlight.
-----------------------------------------------------------
[copyright notice]
-----------------------------------------------------------
this text copyright (c) 2004 julian comley, nicodemus caine,
greywolfe and lostwolfe]
greywolfe@new.co.za.
free to send me email. chances are i won't refuse, as
long as you ask.
-----------------------------------------------------------