You are reading a novella in four parts.
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To read Part Two, click here.
To read Part Three, click here.
Prelude to Part 4: Your Decision
2030
I open my eyes. A lingering image of the fires of Hell, fanned by the wings of The First Dragon, is seared into my vision. Slow to fade.
“This is not the way,” I say.
The Oracle offers nothing in exchange. In her eyes, there is only a reflection of fractals, composed of many, endless roads. It remains my decision which path to walk.
“Do you have no guidance to offer me?” I ask.
“You did not come seeking my guidance,” she replies.
Indeed… I did not. I came for her power.
Will I choose to leave with it?
Part 4: This is Paradise
Chapter 29: Calydonian Hunt
2029
The forest floor is blanketed by a lattice of dead leaves—layering, and interlocking, spreading like a living thing as pieces flutter down from the canopy in slow-motion spirals to an earthy, autumnal grave.
Pockets of this lattice are washed out by harsh sunlight pouring through breaks in the canopy, as though the sun is puking through a strainer onto the ground. The four seasons are a thing as dead as the leaves. Clouds are fleeting and offer no respite—only asphyxiation by humidity and a breeding ground for yellow jacket wasps.
This is the Age of Helios. Leaves fall all the time now.
But where are the boars? Not ‘Bulls.’ Boar. As in pig.
Swine.
When the eternal summer began in the wake of my father’s death, a Great Plague was unleashed. A new pestilence, unleashed across the European landmass. An apocalypse of vermin.
They swarmed ever closer to the cities—drawn to humankind’s eons-long rot. Our self-absorbed quarantine of the soul had been pig feed. While we spiritually slumbered and excreted waste, oblivious to the harm of our ways on the planet, the pigs bred at the edges of our settlements. Now the land is awash with a sea of swine, and the only course of action left is to prune them in a Great Hunt, and feed them to the Dragons.
Boar in Bull.
We’re standing beneath a clearing. I feel the exposed bits of my skin burning.
I stare up and I’m blinded by visions bright and white. They pull the trigger on a pent-up stream of sensations bulging in the deepest parts of my brain, unleashing memories of salt, of wind, of a hovering blue sphere, of a blue whale, then of falling into white sands, praying they drag me home into the sweet release of—
Craack!
There. Off in the shadowy folds of the denser woods. A crackle as the cloven hoof of a lumbering beast snaps a fallen branch in half.
The smooth ivory sheen of tusk catches a splash of sun puke, and I spot it—my lance flees my fingers without hesitation.
The beast is speared. A squeal, as its hide is pierced—the barbed end of my weapon cutting through hide and fat to sap the droplet of sentience that spurs the pig onwards to breed, feed, fuck and fight.
I’ve impaled it into the ground. A bloody addition to the lattice.
Holdfast struts towards the carcass with a leisurely air. He glances down at it with pitiless eyes. “That’s 87.”
I join Holdfast at his side. “Size?”
Holdfast tsks. He takes in the sight of the carcass. Grunts: “It’s practically a piglet.”
Useless. “We can’t feed that to The Devouring Dragon,” I say.
Holdfast chuckles, slaps his own belly. “That’ll barely feed a Hound.”
I wrangle my lance out of the dead thing. “Alright, let’s not waste time. Still plenty of daylight before nightfall.”
“You don’t say.” Holdfast wrinkles his nose, shielding his eyes from the sun with the palm of his hand.
I shake my head and laugh softly. This hunt is torturous. I would much rather be spending my time plotting to escape my father’s twin legacies as a failure: by being home with my son, and by training diligently, and with humility, so as not to be killed. My upcoming bout with The Pendragon, the Bull many believe to be the first true contender to The Devouring Dragon’s throne as Champion, fast approaches. Yet, here I am instead, roaming foreign lands at the Council of Bullfighters’ request, to rid it of a pestilence of their own making.
A transaction. Such is the nature of everything. Transactions grease the gears that revolve the world on its axis. The same transactions, ironically, that were stubbornly made even as they spun us into our current catastrophe.
Amid these revolutions, it is not The Pendragon that occupies my thoughts, but The Devouring Dragon. I want it well fed. I want it fat. I want the depth of meaning of my victory over it to match the scale of its power.
We roam for hours more, spearing and killing and maiming, until the lattice is washed red. My favourite colour. My only solace in this bore fest.
News reaches me from Holdfast an hour before sundown that the boar king has been slain. The boar king, the big-balled stud keeping the gears of the piglet-making machine relentlessly going. Well, not anymore. The orgy has been broken up. The Devouring Dragon will indeed be fed well, and I can go back to Paradise.
…I only wish I had gutted the great son of a bitch myself instead of 187 of its little bastards.
Chapter Thirty: As it is Above, Cetus below
3022
Last night I dreamt I met what resides in the deepest hole in the ocean floor.
In that dream, I recall a crumbling castle carved into a cliff’s side. Its rocks were off white, a poor contrast to the fortress’s grey stones.
White on grey.
It was sunset or sunrise, which I do not know. The sea stirred, as though troubled—although there was no wind ruffling my hair.
It was so cold. Where was this place? It was neither the Homeland nor Paradise.
North. Somewhere north.
I trudged through a winding muddy trail, through reeds and haunting memories of blood and fear that stained these lands. There were no dragons here. This violence was wrought by man’s hand.
Did they fight for glory? Riches? Power and Prestige?
For nought. It all crumbled into the sea, a fading memory that amounted to nothing.
I walked through a broken archway into the forgotten castle. Where there was once a courtyard was now a tide pool. A gateway to below.
I removed my clothes and sank down into the icy waters in search of the heart of the unknown. A place I long searched for in the waking world. A destination that consumes me, so much so it seems, that my search continues forever on in my dreams. I’m reminded of one of the few anecdotes of wisdom my father shared with me: if on the other side of closed doors are more closed doors, never open more than three.
This search of mine… I know there is nothing for me. Yet I keep peeling, and peeling…
I was deep in the water, in my dream (or was it a dream?) so deep that light barely touched me.
Then I felt its presence, something large, and something false. A whale, of enormous size, cutting off the remaining light as it swam by.
It told me it was the ruler of the whole world. Could it be true? Before I had the chance to ask, it disappeared into the blue, leaving me floating aimlessly with more questions and no answers to its clues.
I swam deeper in search of it. The water grew darker and darker as I continued my descent to the ocean floor.
It turned out the cliff above the surface extended down, down, down. The deeper I drifted, the more its face cracked, taunting me with caves that begged to be mapped. Can there be a darker place in the universe than a cave in the depths of these waters?
I drifted towards an intriguing cavern in the submerged cliff side. A stream of bubbles, jetting out, had caught my eye.
I approached the opening and peered inside to see—
Suction! Of immense force. I was sucked in. Into a… tube of some sort, only to be jettisoned…
Into the abyss.
And so, I floated, adrift in the darkest heart of this world. The deepest point of the ocean where no light reached. Had I found the place I sought at last?
Was the surface above, or below? Was I even floating anymore?
Then something rumbled into my awareness. A Mass that put the whale to shame. l felt It hovering ‘above’ me. So vast It demanded to be felt, so much so it was as though I could see It.
A Mass so large it was all around, and I the smallest speck within It.
It spoke to me, though not with words, but with meaning. It revealed the whale had lied when it masqueraded as king of all things.
The Being told me It bore the weight of the world as ruler of all. Yet deeper still in the core, it said, was something… more.
And deeper still, beyond its understanding… even more.
Doors behind doors behind doors.
And above the surface, beyond the atmosphere, past the edges of the expanding cosmos, everything was cradled by Its counterpart. And shouldering Its counterpart, something even more…
Doors behind doors behind doors. In every direction.
Whether It was asking me to open or close them was beyond my comprehension.
I awoke in the Homeland, in sunny downtown, in an apartment on main street. I was supposed to be at the hospital. Hera was giving birth. I was late.
But that’s not right. Hera and Heracles have long since passed away.
I was too late.
I awake for real, adrift in space, where I float in the dim glow of dying stars, contemplating the meaning of the castle crumbling into the sea, and whether to open the next set of doors, pondering if this time I’ll understand what is meant for me.
Chapter Thirty-One: The Makers Made It So
2056
Hera is gone.
father is long gone. I have replaced him.
Every dream he chased to his ruin, every bitter moment left in his wake, I have replicated tenfold.
Harems of concubines.
Gauntlets dyed red by the blood of Bulls and Matadors alike. So many died by my hands, my claws have rusted.
I left a son to starve, so that the reptile inside could gorge itself.
Mother was the last to go. Like Hera, she died by her own hand. When Mother learned I unleashed Excalibur with the aid of The First Dragon, her remaining will to endure this life evaporated the way Paradise did.
Oh, how Mother wept when I wielded Excalibur. Her tears were so voluminous they themselves would have swept Paradise away.
Swept away. My entire family was swept away. They are gone now, and I was never really ever there.
Our species exists on a single continuum. It passes through Father to Son, carrying us along its wake. It’s coded in our DNA by, our Makers:
father, like son, like father, like—
Chapter Thirty-Two: Excalibur
2051
I breathe in mango-tinged air as deeply as my lungs can bear. I’m standing at the window of the jalsa, through which my subjects are afforded a beautiful view of my mango trees. I designed a deliberate clearing in the thicket. As such, an unencumbered view of the city they call Paradise can be clearly seen staining the Earth miles away.
“Your Greatness… Your Mother has arrived.”
“See her in.”
Fading footsteps tell me the guard has gone to escort Mother in.
Turning my back to the open window, I breathe in again. This time, clouds of hookah smoke, saturated with nicotine, seep into my chest. My subjects lay sprawled across the cushions on the floor, gorging themselves on fruit and smoke.
Nicotine flows through my body, always. I no longer suffer from the physiological damage induced by smoking, and so I continue to chase the high without inhibition. In all my years, nothing dethroned nicotine as life’s greatest pleasure.
And also, its most elusive.
One quickly reaches a point of diminishing returns with nicotine. The tobacco is burned through at double, triple, quadruple what you once consumed in exchange for… nothing. Yet despite this, there are unexpected occasions—perhaps an unremarkable Sunday morning—when it hits again. The routine is repeated the morning after, but nothing happens. It can’t be replicated. It can’t be explained.
Mother walks into the room, her head downturned. How gracefully she has aged!
“Mother, thank you for coming.” Her eyes remained fixed on the floor.
It occurs to me the guards flanking her on each side might be causing her distress, so I dismiss them. They take their places at the door. She relaxes.
“Mother, may I offer you hookah?”
She snorts. “You’re just saying that to agitate me, boy.”
“Then perhaps a mango from my trees?”
“I think,” she says, “I would like to sit. It’s been a long journey.”
“Of course!” I snap my fingers at my subjects. They rise to their feet and exit the jalsa.
Mother takes a seat. It’s just us now, and the guards at the door.
Something stirs in my throat.
No, it is not just us. There is one other. Unseen, but listening on all the same. How I grow tired of this parasite.
“What do you think of my farm, Mother?” I ask.
“It’s beautiful,” she says. “Ah, I can’t believe how much has changed!”
“What do you mean?”
She smiles at me. “I still remember when you were just a boy, playing pretend back in the Homeland.” She laughs. “Remember the lizard at the truck stop? You wouldn’t let us leave until you caught it! As I recall, you were pretending to be a Hound that day.”
I smile. “Truck stop? Was that not at the white sands?”
Her smile withers into a grimace. “I might not be his ‘Greatness’ the ḏū’l-Qarnayn, but it seems I remember the past more clearly than you do!”
The veneer of friendliness between us melts away. I see how this is going to be.
“Darling, put a stop to this,” she implores. “Renounce your title. This has to end, it isn’t natural.”
“I earned my position as Champion, Mother. My hold over this title ends only when a worthy Matador takes it from me.”
“Was it not enough to lose your child and his mother? There has never been a Champion who’s reigned as long as you, the Council won’t allow this to continue!” Her eyes plead with me to hear reason.
She doesn’t understand. The world marches on, and I dictate the pace.
“Have the Oracle and Councilmen been moved to Paradise?” I ask the guard at the door.
“Yes, your Greatness. We have them confined in the city centre.”
“…And Excalibur?”
“Primed and ready for deployment.”
“Come, Mother,” I say, gesturing towards the window. “Let me show you something.”
She follows me, reluctantly, to the open window where the two of us gaze upon the skyline of the city father called Paradise.
“Is this Paradise, Mother?”
She refuses to look at me. There are tears in her eyes. Perhaps, like the Oracle, she possesses a touch of prescience.
“It is a lie father fed us.” I scrutinise her. Still, she refuses to meet my gaze.
Very well. Perhaps to see it with her own eyes is the only pathway to acceptance. Now she will understand why they call me the Great.
‘He sits in his state, as a thing made for
Alexander. What he bids be done is finished with
his bidding. He wants nothing of a god but eternity
and a heaven to throne in.’
I smile, recalling Shakespeare’s play. I miss my friend Holdfast. I miss Heracles, my dear little boy. I regret what I did to Hera.
I wish they all could have seen me win today.
Martius! It suddenly comes to me: the hero of Shakespeare’s play… that was his name. Phonetically so very much like my own name, Mauricius. But Martius is grander. Imbued with greater purpose.
…But what does it matter? Words have no meaning when there’s no one left to speak them.
“Don’t do this,” Mother says.
“It’s already done.”
Together, we watch as a purifying, iridescent beam blooms from within the city—folding every tower into the incendiary light made known to me by The First Dragon.
Iam Dragon now, and with draconian breath, I scorch the beige sands of Paradise white.
Chapter 33: Father Time
2013
I’m alone at a jazz lounge. Something I tell myself I enjoy. Another lie in a sea of them.
Ah, the sea. I have a great glimpse of it from my seat in the back corner beside the window.
Outside, it’s overcast, and the waves rage. What could have provoked them so?
The music is maddening. The angular formlessness of the melody leaves me no mental space to burrow into to ignore the pangs of my grief.
I exit the lounge, and lean against the railing guarding those who step onto this balcony from plunging into the water’s depths. The sharp rocks directly below are covered in barnacles. Shells, just like…
The ice in the wind stings my face and I—
I’m taken to another place, another time. A memory of Father. I remember his name.
Cronus held my little hand in his and guided me along the shores of the lake. The rough callouses on his palm are both a source of comfort, and a hint of the harsh world beyond the bubble of my sheltered childhood. His smile, barely visible amongst the brush of his large beard, was a bulb of warmth cutting through the sleet of ice in the air around us.
“Can you really sail in this cold?” I asked him.
“Of course you can,” he laughed.
I pointed at the lake, nearly frozen over. “Even through the ice?”
“Well,” he said. “Maybe not through ice like that.”
I looked up at him, fear in my heart at the thought of icy waters tearing his ship apart the next time he set sail. “What will you do if there is ice?”
Father knelt to bring himself to my eye level. “Why, I will melt it!”
I scowled at him with great suspicion. “How?”
“With Dragon’s breath!”
Despite my childlike fear, I giggled. “You’re not a Dragon, Baba.”
“Not yet,” he said, nodding. His smile softened, so that it no longer reached his eyes nor parted his lips. “That hasn’t stopped me from practising my Dragon fire.”
“How are you able to do it?” I truly couldn’t fathom it.
“It’s in our DNA,” he said. “With effort and determination, we can awaken the fire in us before the Transfiguration. The Makers made it so.” He touched my chest, where my heart was. “You will need every advantage when you’re a Matador fighting for Paradise.”
I didn’t understand then. I only partially understand now.
With the retreat of the icy wind from my face the memory rescinds, but not entirely.
I close my eyes and attempt to recapture the image of my Father from that day. So full of warmth. Where had we been? How old was I? How had I forgotten?
Had it even happened?
I open my eyes. The waves crash endlessly into each other, as they always had, and always will, just as the Makers made it.
Chapter Thirty-Four: Thunderbird
4001
The wooden house is swollen with water rot.
It bulges from its very foundations.
When it bursts will it spill over with necrotic memories of the life I could have had if things had been different?
Memories or dreams?
“There is no difference.” A faint whisper; coiled around my Adam’s Apple. It barely tickles my awareness.
The grass is crisp beneath my feet. Fresh turf. It’s still taking root.
I look around. The great hill at whose feet the wooden house once rested is no more. The world is wide open around the rotting house and freshly mowed square lawn.
I smell a hint of the ocean that used to lap at the cliffs down the road.
I shake my head. The cliffs, like the hill, crumbled into the ocean a long time ago when there were five oceans, not two.
The Homeland is the only land left, cleaving this water world in two.
Long ago, I had burned, then sunk, the continents. An acceleration of the sequence humanity had committed itself to anyway.
When my work was finished, the ocean crept up on the world without mercy, rescinded, then returned once more. All was reshaped.
It took me many years to find this place again. My journey to the stars and back. I thought I had scrubbed away all life; yet I returned to find I had failed in my mission.
For here, in this one remaining patch of land, miraculously, a husk of a house still stands.
Will this be the Homeland I’ve been searching for all my life? It has all the makings of the Holy Place I seek.
I turn my gaze upward to a single cumulus cloud above.
White on blue.
In the background, little voices zip around with a whine akin to mosquitos clamouring for droplets of blood.
My cult, desperately swarming for just a glimpse of ḏū’l-Qarnayn. Their God, who returned to save them from the Earth their ancestors neglected to tell them I destroyed in the first place.
The prickly sensation rescinds from my soles as I rise from the ground towards the cloud.
“Please don’t do this,” the spectral voice nestled in my throat begs. “I just want to go home.”
I deign to answer though I’ve grown accustomed to ignoring it. “Your homeland is gone. Mine might still be found.”
“You’ll find nothing here but oblivion… stretched thin into a thread you’ll never stop pulling at,” it whimpers.
Its words are inconsequential and pathetic. I rise until I settle in the cloud. It lathers me and fills my lungs with its moisture.
Within this dew; a presence. Vaguely familiar. It envelopes my skull and applies enormous pressure unlike anything I felt in generations.
“At last we meet again.” A voice, all-consuming. The presumptuousness of its words borders on arrogance.
“I could not have possibly met you before,” I say.
Its response, inflected with amusement: “Why is that?”
This further irritates me. “You are alive,” I respond. No further explanation is needed.
“You have forgotten,” it says. “It is all a matter of scale. You were not designed to live this long, and therefore your memories have been compromised. My wingspan stretches from a universe outside of this one, across the entirety of its vastness, and into another. It has been only three flaps of my wings since we last met. To you, an eternity.”
Its words are but another form of trickery to contend with. In my conquests, I have faced every weapon conceivable. Some, like this trickster, employed their words against me. For these mongrels, I cut off their tongues before I eradicate them.
“This one is not like the others,” my own parasitic tongue whines at me. “You must listen to it.”
“I must do nothing,” I say aloud.
“You have one thing left to do,” says the presence. “To die.”
The being has now transcended arrogance. I prepare my flames, ready to lay waste to its hateful presence and the rest of this forsaken land and its simpering remnants I failed to destroy long ago.
“You will fail again,” it says. “I tried to warn you, as did my counterpart when you met It at the great depths of your reality. Death is a door that should not be shut. To refuse to walk through it in your right time is self-condemnation. Do you hear them?”
The meaning of its question is clear to me despite its theatrics. Its illusory nature, designed to entice me into some manner of surrender, is as pathetically thin as its cloud-like appearance.
Despite this, I yield to its request. It is, of course, referring to the ants below, which are calling to me in an almost ritualistic chant. Tears roll down their eyes. Tears!
“Not only did you fail, life’s best nature prevailed despite your deeds. These beings celebrate you, because on a long enough scale your actions brought transcendence, and it was you that was left behind.”
Transcendence? Nonsense, they are but insects, the same specks I swept away, I simply missed a few crumbs the last time…
“As I keep telling you it is a matter of scale. They are small relative to you, but spiritually orders of magnitude greater. You are the sole remainder of an old order. Life thrives across the universe despite your efforts and you are but a decaying remnant lucky to be remembered at all.”
“I will kill them as I did before,” I say, the sensation around my head tightening and growing increasingly uncomfortable the longer I remain in this detestable cloud. I cannot allow any of them to live, I cannot…
“Stop. You embarrass yourself,” the presence says as though… with pity!
“I will kill you too,” I spit into the cloud.
“Goodbye Mauricius,” it says, “I hope the next time we meet you will have died and joined your family.”
Family.
Ghostly images form as little wisps inside my head. Faces of men and women I suspect once meant very much to me. The images swell with growing clarity the longer I give attention to them, and with the currently reduced capacity of my head, it is quickly becoming too much.
One image comes to the fore.
Heracles.
I remember you, my son. Not as the beings on the surface remember me, but as you really were, and in remembering you I remember myself as I was when I last saw you:
As the Bullfighter of Bisterne.
Chapter 35: Tree of Ages
2031
The marble coliseum is a glowing jewel in the fields of green near Burley Beacon, on the outskirts of New Forest. I’d demanded all my fights take place here, near Bisterne, where I felt most at home.
As the greatest Matador in the history of Bullfighting, the Council yielded.
My cult cheers my name. They call me The Bullfighter of Bisterne.
I face my final enemy—the uncontested Champion of many years, and the beast who killed my father: the Bull they call The Devouring Dragon.
I’d made short work of him. It was quite the dramatic twist for the bloodthirsty crowd. I’d anticipated every move, and whittled away at the beast’s joints until I dyed the sand red.
I once tied neat red ribbons. Now, I weave tapestries.
My cult watches with restraint. There’s a chill in the air.
I face the broken Bull. He looks into my eyes, tears rolling down his face. He prepares for a final futile charge we both know will end in his death.
He pukes blood. A fresh coat for the sand. The crowd explodes with orgasmic bloodlust.
I wave my scarlet cloak in a final summons. It flutters in the wind.
He lowers his head and prepares to die.
I look to the clouds. I remember my childhood.
I remember a moment of compassion from my father. And—
…I remember the Oracle.
I see two futures
A future where my son witnesses my Transfiguration and dies of neglect soon after. A future where everyone I love is left behind to die while I scale marble monuments as the Great. Where there will be no one left to fear, or love me. Where I will be Singular.
All-Encompassing.
I will cross bridges built to take me to the cosmos to eradicate all life and face the Universe Itself, only to discover I failed everyone, and failed at everything.
…And a different future: one where Heracles returns to this place as a Valiant Knight who might heal the world. The coliseum will be demolished. A Yew Tree will grow in its place, reaching for the sky, dreaming Eternal dreams of white sands. Heracles will embrace the tree. He will say: “I love you, Father.”
Tears stream down my face beneath my mask. I’ve seen the future. It is a beautiful parting gift.
The Devouring Dragon staggers across the colosseum in his final charge.
I thank the Oracle and cast aside my sword, breaking the cycle at last.
Epilogue: The Bullfighter of Bisterne
“Let me tell you, my dear Son, of the legend of The Bullfighter of Bisterne:
There was once a small hamlet, tucked away in a corner of England, shaded by Yew trees, called Bisterne. The sands of time and the fire of dragons refashioned the land until one day, there were no trees left.
From the ashes, a knight from outside the bounds of time marked this place as his home. A fortress of solitude where he could be alone. Where in his grief he might find the quiet to hear what his loss sounded like. They say it sounded like leaves rustling in the wind.
Men do not weep. Tears rust the metal that protects us from flames and shame. So our forefathers claim, anyway.
This knight, accompanied by his noble hound, moulded Bisterne’s ashes like a sandcastle into a paradox of quaintness and grandiosity beyond imagination. A sanctuary from the surrounding urban wastelands borne of our Makers’ mistakes. A jewel in-between, neither of the Homeland, nor of Paradise.
The Makers named it purgatory out of spite. They called on the Council of Bullfighters to purge it from history.
And so, The Devouring Dragon who presided over the nearby coliseum of Burley Beacon descended on the little hamlet of Bisterne to bring a permanent end to the third way of Mauricius.
With his Hound by his side, Mauricius fought viciously to determine this junction in history. At the end of his blade lay the ultimate triumph of the Bullfighter of Bisterne, an ascension foretold by the Oracle of Siwa in which the Great Dragon Mauricius ḏū’l-Qarnayn would usher in an apocalyptic ‘End of History,’ his flames incinerating reality at the atomic level.
…And at the end of The Devouring Dragon’s fang lay Mauricius’ demise; and with it, a failed life in the mould of his father, to be witnessed by his son to shape him in turn.
Like father, like son, like father, like—
Yet somewhere in the clash of sword and tooth was a thread of possibility unforeseen by the Oracle. A place where blade and fang would meet in their mutual demise, by the Bullfighter of Bisterne’s deliberate design…
A death of self-sacrifice, in the arms of friends and family. One that ends the Dragons’ reign at last, severing the cycle. It is not enough to save the world from its long-tainted turns, but it is a start.
And from the Bullfighter’s ashes—my Father’s ashes—he would be born again as a Yew tree, to give life and shade to this place once more, his tears manifested as the rustling of leaves in the wind, finding peace at last in the solitude of a new beautiful homeland called the future.”
Faisal G. Binzagr
June 2026
THE END
Featured Image by Sarah Baslaim
Website: https://sarahbaslaim.wordpress.com/
