Heraclix And Pomp: A Novel Of The Fabricated And The Fey - Plot & Excerpts
He slid over slick roots and muddy patches, unable to see as well as he would have liked in the moisture-saturated darkness. Every bump to his leg became more and more painful as the night wore on. “Ironic, now, that I wish the lightning was flashing more often,” he said. “What is ‘ironic?’” Pomp asked, appearing right in front of Heraclix’s face as a flash of lightning illuminated the night. Heraclix jumped back, slipping in the mud. “Glad to see me?” she asked. “Yes, but not so suddenly!” “Don’t you want me here?” she said with a pout. “Yes, of course,” Heraclix said, picking himself up from the sodden ground. “I thought that I had lost you back in Vienna, in the fires.” “Pomp went . . . home for a while.” “You sound sad,” Heraclix said. “What’s wrong?” “Home is not the same!” she said. “Pomp is not the same!” “Are you well?” “I am well now. But . . . different. Pomp has . . . purpose.” “Good,” Heraclix said, “and I have a direction: up, into the hills.”
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