VIII. Only This, and Nothing More.'[1]
Just Before Dawn, London

There was something strangely inviting about a world that was made of rust and half burnt out lights. Like twinkling stars through the dense surroundings, the Circus looked as though it was an unworldly place where novels were written of other planets. Jumping ships from universe to universe often mirrored the life nomadic souls that haunted the big top. Cirque de la Lune was a world within it’s own, an inner working of intricate gears well oiled despite the rust, and ever shining with their sins. Laughter fell like rain because this was not a place for tears. Eyes dried at the gates, and the blood that was shed was often done with an ever-painted smile. It was easy to forget who you were when mirrors distorted reality and anyone could be something they were not. Yet, behind the smoke, behind the glass, the endless peeling paint, and ceiling wax there was a sense of family that was unlike any other.

Friendships were forged over the forgotten, children discarded from wars fought on more intimate levels than just between Muggle and Man; Internal battles of never being good enough, or curses so unspeakable that only beneath the large fabric of the sheltering big top could they be safe. Some sought sanctuary here as if they were running from Catholic kings, Bishops corrupted and of a religion that had never had room for the likes of which were best left unspoken. Here, you were home, here you belonged despite your age, your sex, or to whom you shared your bed. Of mice and men, glorious waves of a new world, and of immortal ideas. On days that the sun set the fastest there was an excitement in the air that took the place of the golden rays of dawn, and under the pale light of the moon a world made of glitter and glass gave life again to shadows that stretched out over the forest floor.

Throughout the night voices stretched in phantom pleasures and unyielding laughter that pulled the old back to when times were much easier, music played strings on their hearts, and from the moment they stepped through the grinning gates they were welcomed home. They didn’t want it to end, and spoke of protests when the morning came. The sun still yet to crest the horizon, painted the sky an eerie deep sinister green as if to promise a storm, a dark and dreary day that would wash the sins away. One by one his children fell, in beds that kept them off the ground—high ground in case the rains did come, and left him to wander through the vacant fair grounds in search of solitude.

The Good Shepherd did tend to his sheep, one by one he counted them, carving their names in the back of his mind while he drifted with the music that still played in the distance from a stand alone pipe-organ. The old gears and glass that powered the organ now served a better purpose in keeping the children in time with the events of the night. Songs one by one gave the time when all else was forgotten, and as the melody shifted to signal the end of the night the crowd would leave with little whimsical ideas of what was to come. Subliminal spells that worked like drugs said their good-byes in sweet melodies played softly to see them through the exit, and keep their desire to return. He heard it even in his sleep.

The once great heir of St. Laurence, whose blood was made of the finest vintage was just the same as any other King with his kingdom made of falsehood and lies, walked through the valley between the attractions as if he were searching for something he simply would never find. The cold air made his bad leg ache and he leaned heavily upon his cane for support, his sinister spider like hands gave away his weakness in the whites of his knuckles as he clenched tightly to the ruby head, and he no longer had the means to hide his limp—nor his age, as he felt older and older every day.

“That is all, Mr. Jenkins,” Jean-Luc smiled at the old light keeper who kept the lamps burning and one by one every attraction started on their way to darkness with every caress of switches. The intricate workings of the electrical reminded him of a childhood spent on his father’s estate reenacting Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. He burnt the tips of his fingers often, felt the wave of the faulty electrical system until he worried his heart would give, but when the current broke so too did his sanity and Jean-Luc parted his lips to laugh.

“One of these days, Henry, we’ll get this fixed,” He smiled at the man who by now was akin to his madness, and he turned to face the gate one last time as if settling a sadness that would never leave—a longing that he’d long since given up on. But no matter how he tried to turn away, the bitter winds pushed as if trying to tell him that someone has yet to come, the gates could not be closed yet. One of his children had yet to wander home.

1.	Rated 'M' for mature content including violence and gore.