Ivan absently rubbed his thumb against the pommel of the sword hanging at his left hip as he strode down the hall. The events in the throne room had shaken him more then had cared to admit to his younger brother. Despite a well known belief in his own invincibility, he knew that any quest outside of Phel’s borders would be perilous, and then there was his brother to consider. If there was any way at all, he would make sure Davin stayed.
As the knight rounded the corner, he suddenly stopped, moments from crashing into another soldier who had been walking at a much greater speed, unfortunately the other man’s reflexes were not as swift as his own, and the pair crashed into each other and then onto the floor.
“Oww,” remarked Ivan laconically as he brushed himself off and got up. Offering the fallen knight a hand, he blinked twice when he realized who had just crashed into him.
“Revis, where were you off to in such a hurry?”
Revis smiled ruefully before grasping Ivan’s offered arm. Heaving upright, he also dusted himself off before answering. “To get you actually, the men want to see you.”
Ivan sighed, he had been afraid of this. “I was just on me way.”
The journey to the Raven’s barracks was uneventful and silent as Ivan was too lost in his own thoughts of what the new few weeks and months would bring. They crossed the courtyard without incident, however at the entrance Ivan grimaced slightly, put on his helmet and drew the sword at his right hip. Weapon at the ready, he surveyed the terrain. His preparations complete, he sank into a battle stance and waited.
Revis just grinned, happy that his Captain hadn’t lost his wits yet. With a wide sweep, he smashed his mailed fist into the front door.
All around then, men dressed in mail armor with the insignia of the Raven began to appear, from the inside of the barracks, around the courtyard and even dropping down from the roof. It was a rather noisy assembly.
“I hear you guys wanted to see me,” stated Ivan as he eyed his men. “I guess it’s that time of the year again.”
“Indeed.”
From the center of the barracks another Guard stepped out, this one an older grizzled veteran with a silver hilted katana at his right side and a badge on his left shoulder indicating his rank: Vice Captain.
“Good morning to you too Sephis” said Ivan as he nodded to his second in command. “Shall we begin?”
For a brief moment in time there was no movement nor sound save the whisper of the wind. Then suddenly, with no pre arranged signal, the Guards attacked.
From all around they came, charging straight at Ivan, who stood his ground firmly. Like a shining silver wave, they drew their swords and crashed directly into their commander. The ring of steel on steel echoed.
For a moment, the fate of Ivan Swiftblade was unknown, yet after several moments, a small but ever widening circle began to appear, with the Captain in the middle.
His blade moved faster then the eye could see; a true reflection of the name which he had been given on his 18th birthday, 3 years before. It barely had time to catch the light as he skillfully held back ten other Guards who had surrounded him. Spinning and whirling, his blade merely an extension of his body, he parried every stroke and attack. Any that ventured too close were immediately dispatched, but just as quickly two more would appear.
Then Sephis was there, his silver katana drawn and weaving like a serpent. His style of fighting was different then the other guards, trained as they were to fight as a unit, and they backed away, leaving a cleared space for the pair to battle.
“Every year it’s the same thing isn’t it?” remarked Ivan, eyes following the movements of his opponent’s blade. “It ends up just being you and me.”
Sephis grinned. “Maybe this year you shall survive young Captain.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Ivan attacked first, without warning, his blade sweeping low and then high in a series of complicated side cuts. Sephis simply dodged back, then swept in with his katana over his head to protect him against the attacks, but also in preparation for his own offense.
Ivan had seen his Vice Captain use this move many times, and waited for the inevitable thrust at the end. When it came, he side stepped and spun with blinding speed, trying to cut at Sephis’ now unprotected side. His blade met only air.
“Ahh crud.” He managed to say before the blade of the katana caught him squarely in the back. It hurt, a lot.
Seconds later, he could dimly hear Revis reading out the conclusion of the ceremony.
“According to the rules of the Raven, the Guards win! The score is Captain 0, Guards 3.” The Guards burst into cheers, large grins on all their faces.
Sephis walked around to face Ivan, his silver practice katana already back in its scabbard, before offering a hand. “Better luck next year kid, if you survive that is.”
Ivan grasped the hand offered and pulled himself up, feeling perhaps his collision with Revis has been a sign of things to come. “I know I know, you’re going to tell me that I was too fancy right? That this spinning stuff they teach in fencing doesn’t really work?”
Sephis laughed, a deep booming sound, as he clapped an arm around his Captain’s shoulders. “Actually I was going to tell you not to use the same move as you always do. It’s getting to easy to predict.”
The Guards gathered around their officers and headed inside where Ivan’s birthday lunch was laid out. Tankards of beer and cups of cider sat on a table, and each of the 100 elite warriors grasped one as they went by.
Revis handed one to Ivan before calling out to the gathered men.
“Brothers! Today, thanks to Sephis, we have won yet another victory over our Captain!”
The crowd cheered in good natured fun, and Ivan grinned.
“But as you may know,” the standard bearer continued ” Ivan Swiftblade sets off on a quest with his brother, to bring about the salvation of Phel”
The cheering was different, quieter yet more heartfelt.
“I know that we wish to go with him. Yet he has made it very clear, our duty is to protect the King and to protect the city. Therefore, since we can not be with him in body, may we all be with him in Spirit! To Ivan!”
“To IVAN!”
The Guards toasted their captain, but after drinking began to stamp their feet as Ivan raised his eyebrow to look at Revis. A mischievous grin was playing around his childhood friend’s face as he turned to look behind the young Captain. Ivan spun around, ducking even as he did so, just in case.
Sephis grinned, but bowed once Ivan stood back up. “May your spirit never grow weary,” he intoned, “may your arm never grow weak. May you always have friends to guard your back. May you always have the means to defend those closest to you.”
With those words, he pulled a cloth wrapped bundle from behind his back.
“We will always be at your command Ivan, whenever you need us.”
Ivan took the gift, already knowing what it must contain. Pulling the string, he let the cloth fall. Inside lay a sword. The hilt was wide and silver, a spotless matt finish which led to a grip of dark brown leather. The pommel was a deep blue sapphire, one that matched the color of the scabbard.
With one smooth motion Ivan drew the blade, marveling at its balance and feel. The edge gleamed with the light caught from the windows. He thrust it into the air and the Guards erupted into cheers and applause. He stood there for a moment, for a touch of dramatic effect, before slipping the blade back into its sheath. After several moments the noise dropped.
“My gratitude to you all.” Ivan said, nodding as he caught the eyes of many that he knew personally. “This is a mighty gift. I shall wield it with strength and honor.” Ivan paused, looking for perhaps the last time at the gathering of his men.
“But for now, let us not think of departures and farewells, drink, eat! I have but precious hours until the tedium of a formal dinner with King!”
The Guards laughed, and began to disperse.
Ivan sighed but once, before joining in with the party.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
New inspiration
Note: I think I can go somewhere with this one.
*********************************************
The court was abuzz with the latest palace gossip, a light hearted counterpart to the dark murmurs which carried the latest news from the front. The war was going badly and everyone knew it. Even so, some confidence, fueled by the brilliant sunlight shining through the massive crystal windows, burned on, for the King was in good spirits, albeit bad health, and his heirs were both popular and gifted. Of course all that pressure didn’t sit so well with the younger of those two boys as he tended to worry a lot.
“I’m telling you Ivan, charging out recklessly into the front lines will not help us at all. I know you think you’re invincible, but I’ve run the calculations, and you have just under a 2% chance of survival, let alone victory.”
Davin Truesight strode along side his older brother, his impassioned speech falling on mute ears, or so it seemed. It was a common misconception that Ivan, dressed in a gleaming mail shirt and dashing purple cloak, was the impulsive and reckless one of the two, although he was older. Davin knew better. Even so, Ivan Swiftblade had been given his name for a very specific reason. He loved to fight for perceived justice.
The older of the two siblings sighed as he continued walking. “I’ve told you before little brother, I know that between us; you maybe the wiser and more calculative of the two, but morale is falling on the front! That’s why we’re losing. You can’t say that my appearance will not aid the effort. If my life will boost the spirits of our army even a fraction, it may mean the difference between victory and defeat.”
Davin shook his head in frustration and let out a vexed groan. Covering his eyes he muttered in a very audible voice. “I can’t believe I survived without parents for 12 years with you as my older brother.”
Well used to the jest, Ivan just shrugged and smiled. “It helped that my brother was the brightest student in school.” He said nonchalantly.
“You’re damn right!” agreed Davin, adjusting his dark blue cloak around his shoulders with a slight huff in an effort to hide his smile.
Soon the pair approached their destination, the throne room, with its surprisingly full galleries of nobles and VIPs who were sitting in their usual factions. To the brothers, it seemed quieter then usual, although there were less empty seats then expected on a beautiful day like this day. It seemed that the noised dropped even more as the herald called out their names with well practiced bellow.
“Ivan Swiftblade, Duke of Rhoar, Heir to the throne, Commander of the Raven Guard and his brother, Davin Truesight, Nephew to the King, Chief Magi of Phel, request audience with his Majesty, King Davidos!
“Hail King Davidos!” declared all the people in the room.
At the end of the room, sitting on his polished wooden throne, King Davidos looked over from his conversation and smiled at the two young men, whose presence always brought light to his eyes. “Come!” He called, beckoning with one hand.
In unison the brothers marched down the hall, resplendent in their respective uniforms. As a young magi, Davin had forgone the traditional pointed hat, more for fashion reasons then any other, and left his hair short, using one of his special potions to keep it nice and spiky. His brother, even ready for battle, walked with his winged helmet under an arm, double edged sword firmly belted at his left side.
As Davidos watched the pair approached, he smiled sadly, seeing his own brother in every step that they took. It had been the greatest of tragedies that had taken his younger brother Kelvin along with his young wife Dana almost 12 years ago. However God’s hand had been at work and the heirless king now had two sons to call his own. Even so, it was a bittersweet bond for them all.
Ivan and Davin knelt into identical bows as the approached the dais
“Your Majesty” they said in unison.
“Rise my sons, and be at ease,” replied the King before continuing, a saddened look spreading on his face. “Or perhaps not at ease rather. I have brought you here to give you dire news, and to speak of a plan that has been decided upon.”
The brothers exchanged glances; they had heard the latest reports from the war. However word of any decision TO be reached had not been noted. Surely they, with their respective positions, would have been the first to know of a potential plan.
The King cleared his throat, and continued.
“You may have heard that we fight a retreating battle against the forces rallied against us. I fear that morale is weak, but also we face a force of greater numbers, and indeed capability. Indeed, as we are now, we had no hope of attacking and a slim chance of standing our ground.”
A gasp rippled through the court, albeit a quiet one, for many had known the gravity of their situation. The brothers exchanged another glance. The King had never spoken so openly at their helplessness.
“We need help my sons, or else all of Phel is doomed.”
Conversation begin to bubble around the court, and soon everyone was talking for the king was considering an alliance.
Davin stepped forward. “Your Majesty, as one of your chief advisors, I recommend strongly against this action. Phel has never had to make an alliance with any other kingdom. For all know that many untrustworthy nations live around us, constantly engaged in violence and war amongst themselves. They turn sides at the drop of a hat; that is why we have always been as we are.”
Ivan also stepped forward, “I agree with my brother, surely the situation is not so dire. There are many strategies that had not tried. Let me lead the Ravens to the war front, and lift the spirits of our army!”
Davin hissed softly and elbowed his brother in the side. Forgetting that his brother’s mail shirt was quite stiff, he succeeded only in bruising his arm and making a light sound. With a stronger hiss, he swore under his breath. Ivan just smiled.
The court had grown quiet again at Ivan’s words and the King could see several young nobles nodding in agreement with the young warrior’s counsel.
The King shook his head with a rueful thought, wondering if he had truly been that proud and confident when he had just reached adulthood. Indeed, he had expected better from both his sons, but nevertheless, with or without their initial consent, there was only one path to take.
“I’m afraid, there will be no discussion nor disagreement with this plan. We decided.”
For the third time in a minute, the brothers exchanged a glance at the King’s use of the royal plural. Davin cocked his head, and Ivan raised an eyebrow. However when his brother’s eyes narrowed, the older of the two sighed in defeat.
“If that is the case your Majesty, do you perhaps have an ally in mind?” He asked, hoping for more information to satisfy his brother’s ever calculative mind.
“Indeed my sons,” replied the King, looking meaningfully at Davin, “however, there is time for that later. For the moment let us make preparations for your departure.”
Both brothers were politically minded enough to know that the King wished to continue the conversation in private, and indeed both recognized a dismissal when they saw it. In perfect harmony, they turned and began to walk towards the door, accompanied by the flood of conversation being stirred in the galleries.
Suddenly, Ivan turned and bowed before the throne.
“My King!” he began, walking quickly back to the foot of the dais, “I have a boon to ask!”
Davidos smiled slightly at the confused look on Davin’s face, even as he nodded his consent to his heir.
“Let me take this quest alone, leaving Davin behind. Should I fall, or even should I not, he is by far the more suited of us to take the throne. During this trying time, you will need his advice more then ever before.”
The King’s laugh echoed throughout the Hall, surprising a good many of the younger and more serious nobles. After all, this was a serious matter, one that could decide the succession of this Kingdom.
“Dear Davin,” chuckled the King as eyes turned to the younger of the brothers, “you should see the look on your face. It reminds me of the time when I too asked that my younger brother be left behind while I went out questing. “
With a great deal of effort and will, Davin drew his features into a semblance of decorum, hiding the dozens of emotions which floated around his face, even as embarrassment was added to the mix.
Facing Ivan, the King continued. “Your request is noted, and well meant at heart. However this will be a most trying ordeal, one that will require every ounce of your courage and even bit of your brother’s guile. Without each other, you will surely fail; as corny as that sounds.” The King chuckled once more. “No Ivan, you were both born to do this together.”
As the two walked down the hallway Davin glanced at his brother “That was awfully condescending and pompous of you.” He whispered spitefully.
Ivan’s response measured. “You know as well as I do that you would make a much better King then I would little brother, so it makes sense to leave you behind. We can’t have you dying now can we?”
“Bite me.”
***
*********************************************
The court was abuzz with the latest palace gossip, a light hearted counterpart to the dark murmurs which carried the latest news from the front. The war was going badly and everyone knew it. Even so, some confidence, fueled by the brilliant sunlight shining through the massive crystal windows, burned on, for the King was in good spirits, albeit bad health, and his heirs were both popular and gifted. Of course all that pressure didn’t sit so well with the younger of those two boys as he tended to worry a lot.
“I’m telling you Ivan, charging out recklessly into the front lines will not help us at all. I know you think you’re invincible, but I’ve run the calculations, and you have just under a 2% chance of survival, let alone victory.”
Davin Truesight strode along side his older brother, his impassioned speech falling on mute ears, or so it seemed. It was a common misconception that Ivan, dressed in a gleaming mail shirt and dashing purple cloak, was the impulsive and reckless one of the two, although he was older. Davin knew better. Even so, Ivan Swiftblade had been given his name for a very specific reason. He loved to fight for perceived justice.
The older of the two siblings sighed as he continued walking. “I’ve told you before little brother, I know that between us; you maybe the wiser and more calculative of the two, but morale is falling on the front! That’s why we’re losing. You can’t say that my appearance will not aid the effort. If my life will boost the spirits of our army even a fraction, it may mean the difference between victory and defeat.”
Davin shook his head in frustration and let out a vexed groan. Covering his eyes he muttered in a very audible voice. “I can’t believe I survived without parents for 12 years with you as my older brother.”
Well used to the jest, Ivan just shrugged and smiled. “It helped that my brother was the brightest student in school.” He said nonchalantly.
“You’re damn right!” agreed Davin, adjusting his dark blue cloak around his shoulders with a slight huff in an effort to hide his smile.
Soon the pair approached their destination, the throne room, with its surprisingly full galleries of nobles and VIPs who were sitting in their usual factions. To the brothers, it seemed quieter then usual, although there were less empty seats then expected on a beautiful day like this day. It seemed that the noised dropped even more as the herald called out their names with well practiced bellow.
“Ivan Swiftblade, Duke of Rhoar, Heir to the throne, Commander of the Raven Guard and his brother, Davin Truesight, Nephew to the King, Chief Magi of Phel, request audience with his Majesty, King Davidos!
“Hail King Davidos!” declared all the people in the room.
At the end of the room, sitting on his polished wooden throne, King Davidos looked over from his conversation and smiled at the two young men, whose presence always brought light to his eyes. “Come!” He called, beckoning with one hand.
In unison the brothers marched down the hall, resplendent in their respective uniforms. As a young magi, Davin had forgone the traditional pointed hat, more for fashion reasons then any other, and left his hair short, using one of his special potions to keep it nice and spiky. His brother, even ready for battle, walked with his winged helmet under an arm, double edged sword firmly belted at his left side.
As Davidos watched the pair approached, he smiled sadly, seeing his own brother in every step that they took. It had been the greatest of tragedies that had taken his younger brother Kelvin along with his young wife Dana almost 12 years ago. However God’s hand had been at work and the heirless king now had two sons to call his own. Even so, it was a bittersweet bond for them all.
Ivan and Davin knelt into identical bows as the approached the dais
“Your Majesty” they said in unison.
“Rise my sons, and be at ease,” replied the King before continuing, a saddened look spreading on his face. “Or perhaps not at ease rather. I have brought you here to give you dire news, and to speak of a plan that has been decided upon.”
The brothers exchanged glances; they had heard the latest reports from the war. However word of any decision TO be reached had not been noted. Surely they, with their respective positions, would have been the first to know of a potential plan.
The King cleared his throat, and continued.
“You may have heard that we fight a retreating battle against the forces rallied against us. I fear that morale is weak, but also we face a force of greater numbers, and indeed capability. Indeed, as we are now, we had no hope of attacking and a slim chance of standing our ground.”
A gasp rippled through the court, albeit a quiet one, for many had known the gravity of their situation. The brothers exchanged another glance. The King had never spoken so openly at their helplessness.
“We need help my sons, or else all of Phel is doomed.”
Conversation begin to bubble around the court, and soon everyone was talking for the king was considering an alliance.
Davin stepped forward. “Your Majesty, as one of your chief advisors, I recommend strongly against this action. Phel has never had to make an alliance with any other kingdom. For all know that many untrustworthy nations live around us, constantly engaged in violence and war amongst themselves. They turn sides at the drop of a hat; that is why we have always been as we are.”
Ivan also stepped forward, “I agree with my brother, surely the situation is not so dire. There are many strategies that had not tried. Let me lead the Ravens to the war front, and lift the spirits of our army!”
Davin hissed softly and elbowed his brother in the side. Forgetting that his brother’s mail shirt was quite stiff, he succeeded only in bruising his arm and making a light sound. With a stronger hiss, he swore under his breath. Ivan just smiled.
The court had grown quiet again at Ivan’s words and the King could see several young nobles nodding in agreement with the young warrior’s counsel.
The King shook his head with a rueful thought, wondering if he had truly been that proud and confident when he had just reached adulthood. Indeed, he had expected better from both his sons, but nevertheless, with or without their initial consent, there was only one path to take.
“I’m afraid, there will be no discussion nor disagreement with this plan. We decided.”
For the third time in a minute, the brothers exchanged a glance at the King’s use of the royal plural. Davin cocked his head, and Ivan raised an eyebrow. However when his brother’s eyes narrowed, the older of the two sighed in defeat.
“If that is the case your Majesty, do you perhaps have an ally in mind?” He asked, hoping for more information to satisfy his brother’s ever calculative mind.
“Indeed my sons,” replied the King, looking meaningfully at Davin, “however, there is time for that later. For the moment let us make preparations for your departure.”
Both brothers were politically minded enough to know that the King wished to continue the conversation in private, and indeed both recognized a dismissal when they saw it. In perfect harmony, they turned and began to walk towards the door, accompanied by the flood of conversation being stirred in the galleries.
Suddenly, Ivan turned and bowed before the throne.
“My King!” he began, walking quickly back to the foot of the dais, “I have a boon to ask!”
Davidos smiled slightly at the confused look on Davin’s face, even as he nodded his consent to his heir.
“Let me take this quest alone, leaving Davin behind. Should I fall, or even should I not, he is by far the more suited of us to take the throne. During this trying time, you will need his advice more then ever before.”
The King’s laugh echoed throughout the Hall, surprising a good many of the younger and more serious nobles. After all, this was a serious matter, one that could decide the succession of this Kingdom.
“Dear Davin,” chuckled the King as eyes turned to the younger of the brothers, “you should see the look on your face. It reminds me of the time when I too asked that my younger brother be left behind while I went out questing. “
With a great deal of effort and will, Davin drew his features into a semblance of decorum, hiding the dozens of emotions which floated around his face, even as embarrassment was added to the mix.
Facing Ivan, the King continued. “Your request is noted, and well meant at heart. However this will be a most trying ordeal, one that will require every ounce of your courage and even bit of your brother’s guile. Without each other, you will surely fail; as corny as that sounds.” The King chuckled once more. “No Ivan, you were both born to do this together.”
As the two walked down the hallway Davin glanced at his brother “That was awfully condescending and pompous of you.” He whispered spitefully.
Ivan’s response measured. “You know as well as I do that you would make a much better King then I would little brother, so it makes sense to leave you behind. We can’t have you dying now can we?”
“Bite me.”
***
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Thalassa 1/?
The floor pitched and rolled under her feet. In the darkness something with damp, matted fur scampered over her feet; she kicked it away with a stifled intake of breath before it could decide if it wanted to carry on with its journey or stay and sink its teeth into her flesh. She wouldn't make much of a meal for it, anyway; it had been two days since her meagre rations of food had run out and she would have to break into one of the boxes of provisions stored in the hold soon. In an hour, perhaps. The ship's crew had mostly gone to bed some time ago.
Footsteps sounded directly above. She drew herself further back into the shadows, in her living space in a corner behind a stack of boxes. In her week out at sea, she had had many false alarms, but she never ceased to be vigilant. She had no illusions about what they would do to her if they discovered her there.
The door to the cargo hold opened, and booted feet tramped down the wooden stairs. Rats skittered away to their own corners. She heard a low, masculine voice muttering absently, and raised her head slightly to inhale the fresh sea air. She longed to feel the breeze full on her face, instead of the cloying, stinking air of the hold.
"Where has that rum got to - ah! Already!"
Peeping between the boxes she caught a glimpse of part of a lion's mane of hair and intent eyes examining a box of empty bottles with dismay. She ducked when the eyes swung around the gloom of the hold in search of more rum, lifting a little lamp in his hand. She knew who he must be, the hoity-toity passenger the rough seamen muttered about, the young royal ambassador they'd been forced to accommodate on their voyage. She wondered if he knew half the things the men said about him, none of which were complimentary, and all of which were rather graphic. When she replaced her eye at the peephole she used, she saw he was now commencing a search of the boxes lashed down in the hold, and a trill of fear ran down her spine at his systematic thoroughness.
"Perhaps," he muttered - and staggered as the ship listed and rolled. The box of potatoes he'd opened tilted, sending tubers rolling across the floor, mostly in her direction. She flung herself low, and the sound of her pounding heart nearly drowned out his exclamation of, "Cap'n'll have my hide!"
Her world was dark. She had closed her lids to hide the whites of her eyes, the gleam of her irises. Potatoes rolled against her feet and knees. She thought again of the methodical way he had searched the boxes earlier and felt dread. The scraping footsteps came closer, closer.
Let it be done with quickly, she thought, and as if in answer light flared in front of her eyelids - a dim flame by most standards, but after her time in the dark, it blinded her.
When she could see again, she saw the young ambassador standing above her, the golden-red mane framing an impassive face.
"You don't look to me," he said matter-of-factly, "very much like a potato."
---
A/N: For Josh: a casually written, lighthearted bit of fantasy (with perhaps a dash of romance), instead of my normal doom and gloom - writing is meant to be fun! ;)
Also perhaps for Claire, as an apology for the last eye-burning sea story she read from me, and for Shan's delayed resurrection, and for not getting around to bringing Anya to life yet. Claire is a demanding wench and I can't keep up! :P
Footsteps sounded directly above. She drew herself further back into the shadows, in her living space in a corner behind a stack of boxes. In her week out at sea, she had had many false alarms, but she never ceased to be vigilant. She had no illusions about what they would do to her if they discovered her there.
The door to the cargo hold opened, and booted feet tramped down the wooden stairs. Rats skittered away to their own corners. She heard a low, masculine voice muttering absently, and raised her head slightly to inhale the fresh sea air. She longed to feel the breeze full on her face, instead of the cloying, stinking air of the hold.
"Where has that rum got to - ah! Already!"
Peeping between the boxes she caught a glimpse of part of a lion's mane of hair and intent eyes examining a box of empty bottles with dismay. She ducked when the eyes swung around the gloom of the hold in search of more rum, lifting a little lamp in his hand. She knew who he must be, the hoity-toity passenger the rough seamen muttered about, the young royal ambassador they'd been forced to accommodate on their voyage. She wondered if he knew half the things the men said about him, none of which were complimentary, and all of which were rather graphic. When she replaced her eye at the peephole she used, she saw he was now commencing a search of the boxes lashed down in the hold, and a trill of fear ran down her spine at his systematic thoroughness.
"Perhaps," he muttered - and staggered as the ship listed and rolled. The box of potatoes he'd opened tilted, sending tubers rolling across the floor, mostly in her direction. She flung herself low, and the sound of her pounding heart nearly drowned out his exclamation of, "Cap'n'll have my hide!"
Her world was dark. She had closed her lids to hide the whites of her eyes, the gleam of her irises. Potatoes rolled against her feet and knees. She thought again of the methodical way he had searched the boxes earlier and felt dread. The scraping footsteps came closer, closer.
Let it be done with quickly, she thought, and as if in answer light flared in front of her eyelids - a dim flame by most standards, but after her time in the dark, it blinded her.
When she could see again, she saw the young ambassador standing above her, the golden-red mane framing an impassive face.
"You don't look to me," he said matter-of-factly, "very much like a potato."
---
A/N: For Josh: a casually written, lighthearted bit of fantasy (with perhaps a dash of romance), instead of my normal doom and gloom - writing is meant to be fun! ;)
Also perhaps for Claire, as an apology for the last eye-burning sea story she read from me, and for Shan's delayed resurrection, and for not getting around to bringing Anya to life yet. Claire is a demanding wench and I can't keep up! :P
Monday, September 3, 2007
Decisions.
Jenny was feeling antsy. Or did a word even exist that described the emotions roiling inside of her guts? It was impossible for her to express, and luckily, there was no need to at the present moment, not verbally anyway. Before her lay two paths, of the non literal variety, and she was unsure which to pick.
On her plain wooden table lay two letters each that led too very different decisions.
Once more her eyes scanned the first paragraphs of each. The first, on her left, was lettered in eloquent and beautifully styled cursive, yet the very uniformity and perfection of each letter told him that it had been printed and not written.
“Dear Mrs. Archer,
We, Her Majesties’ Royal Academy of Performing Arts, would like to congratulate you on your successful application to join our prestigious school. With only 1000 of the world’s top young musicians, dancers and actors, this is truly an accomplishment of which you should be proud of.
Even as she read the words again, a cascade of self fulfillment, achievement and a strong sense of pride filled her heart. She had worked hard for this, and it was her right to go!
Yet the other letter contained words which were not will formed, whose paper was dirty and yellowed.
To Jenny,
Hey beautiful, it’s me, I don’t know if you’ll get this, or if I’ll see you again. I just want you to know that I love you, and will forever, in this world or the next. If you’re reading this letter, it means that I have been missing for at least a month. Attached should be my last known location. I don’t want you to come after me, it’s too dangerous… but I don’t want you to get angry with me, even if I’m not around anymore.
Slowly something began to rise up the deep within her gut. The lump moved to her throat, then, with increasing speed, out of her eyes and down her face. Tears had begun to flow, tears of frustration, anger and grief. Why her? Why now? How could that irresponsible jerk gotten himself lost, or worse even killed, at this precise moment? At exactly when he should be around to share this victory and accomplishment with! Why had these letters arrived on the same day?
Looking up at the ceiling, she cried out to the one person with all the answers. Her voice was broken, and in one of the rare times, she didn’t know what to do. “God, I know you’re out there, you’ve watched over me from the time I was a baby. You have guided my steps since I was young, shown me the path which I should take. Now God, please, light my way once more.”
Silence echoed through the house… broken only by the quiet sounds of her sobbing. Suddenly a light began to glow outside the window, a soft yellow glow that began to build in magnitude and intensity with each passing moment. At first she didn’t notice, but when she did Jenny stared in wonder at the phenomenon, knowing that it was dark outside, and there were no streetlights on that side of the house. Then, without warning, a bright flash, almost like an explosion, went off inside the room, yet there was no force or no heat.
When all had faded, the young woman opened her eyes, blinking away the spots. It was then that she noticed the table. One of the letters had been burnt to a crisp.
She had an answer.
On her plain wooden table lay two letters each that led too very different decisions.
Once more her eyes scanned the first paragraphs of each. The first, on her left, was lettered in eloquent and beautifully styled cursive, yet the very uniformity and perfection of each letter told him that it had been printed and not written.
“Dear Mrs. Archer,
We, Her Majesties’ Royal Academy of Performing Arts, would like to congratulate you on your successful application to join our prestigious school. With only 1000 of the world’s top young musicians, dancers and actors, this is truly an accomplishment of which you should be proud of.
Even as she read the words again, a cascade of self fulfillment, achievement and a strong sense of pride filled her heart. She had worked hard for this, and it was her right to go!
Yet the other letter contained words which were not will formed, whose paper was dirty and yellowed.
To Jenny,
Hey beautiful, it’s me, I don’t know if you’ll get this, or if I’ll see you again. I just want you to know that I love you, and will forever, in this world or the next. If you’re reading this letter, it means that I have been missing for at least a month. Attached should be my last known location. I don’t want you to come after me, it’s too dangerous… but I don’t want you to get angry with me, even if I’m not around anymore.
Slowly something began to rise up the deep within her gut. The lump moved to her throat, then, with increasing speed, out of her eyes and down her face. Tears had begun to flow, tears of frustration, anger and grief. Why her? Why now? How could that irresponsible jerk gotten himself lost, or worse even killed, at this precise moment? At exactly when he should be around to share this victory and accomplishment with! Why had these letters arrived on the same day?
Looking up at the ceiling, she cried out to the one person with all the answers. Her voice was broken, and in one of the rare times, she didn’t know what to do. “God, I know you’re out there, you’ve watched over me from the time I was a baby. You have guided my steps since I was young, shown me the path which I should take. Now God, please, light my way once more.”
Silence echoed through the house… broken only by the quiet sounds of her sobbing. Suddenly a light began to glow outside the window, a soft yellow glow that began to build in magnitude and intensity with each passing moment. At first she didn’t notice, but when she did Jenny stared in wonder at the phenomenon, knowing that it was dark outside, and there were no streetlights on that side of the house. Then, without warning, a bright flash, almost like an explosion, went off inside the room, yet there was no force or no heat.
When all had faded, the young woman opened her eyes, blinking away the spots. It was then that she noticed the table. One of the letters had been burnt to a crisp.
She had an answer.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Redemption
Prologue
The wind whistled and moaned over the red rocked dunes, mounds of rust colored earth which constantly encroached on the small dirt road that ran like a scar through the sand. Along this path, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding desert, walked a cloaked man, the edges of his gray robe fluttering wildly with the sandstorms whims. The incessant noise drowned out all thought and it was impossible for him to see beyond a foot in front of his face. These conditions would be fatal for any normal human, yet still Darial walked on, the few footsteps behind him dead straight, heading unerringly towards Jerusalem. To him, the elements were like children, noisy but harmless, infants in a cradle.
Slowly the sand began to settle, and in the hot afternoon sun, the hazy image of a large city began to form, shimmering in the distance. Pace unchanging, Darial continued to press on, right hand clasped around the sheathed sword at his right hip.
Even as he approached the gate, the cloaked figure began to make out a blanket of darkness which stained the sky above the fabled city. With that realization, his steps began to quicken, for though he had come because of a rumor, he hadn’t truly believed such a tragedy could truly take place. Soon he was racing through the streets, the city flying past in a blur of brown. His cloak flowed out behind him revealing the ragged white robe that he had on beneath his grey cloak, the remnants of a former glory.
Above him the darkness began to thicken and, in a strange way, pulse with a strange sort of malicious anticipation. Even in his speed, Darial was aware of his surroundings, and what he sensed only filled his being with more horror. It was all about to take place as he had been told… and really there was nothing he could do about it. Finally he reached the end of the city, and came to a stop, his sandals sliding on the gravelly ground. Almost instinctively his left hand half drew his mighty double edged sword, but just in time he stopped.
Before him stood hundreds of figures who could only be described as demons. Faces twisted with pride, greed and rage, each was more grotesque then the last. They were monstrosities of dark blue, purple and black, some huge and some the size of small children, lounging in a ring. In the air were thousands upon thousands more, the flapping of their wings creating a sound like the moaning of a thousand lost souls as they formed a dome of sheer darkness.
The mass seemed to be in very good spirits, cackling with hideous laughter even as they watched the events taking place on a small hill a bit outside the city. There, three cross were erected, and three men hung, dying.
Darial felt the world around him spin sharply, even as he slumped down against the side of the gate on which he lent. To go into that cesspool of evil was suicide, especially for him… but to leave things as they were, how could he live with that shame on top of all the things he already regretted. Would his immortal life be one of endless pain and torment? Was that to be his punishment?
He sat there for hours, looking for all the world like a normal man, resting against the gate. All the while he watched in agony, indecision and inner turmoil. Even through the darkness and the earthquake, he didn’t move. Only when the body had pronounced dead as water and blood flowed from the side of that man in the center did he quietly depart. The mocking sounds of triumphant laughter from a hundred thousand throats followed him. It would not leave him for a long time.
It was finished.
***
The wind whistled and moaned over the red rocked dunes, mounds of rust colored earth which constantly encroached on the small dirt road that ran like a scar through the sand. Along this path, almost indistinguishable from the surrounding desert, walked a cloaked man, the edges of his gray robe fluttering wildly with the sandstorms whims. The incessant noise drowned out all thought and it was impossible for him to see beyond a foot in front of his face. These conditions would be fatal for any normal human, yet still Darial walked on, the few footsteps behind him dead straight, heading unerringly towards Jerusalem. To him, the elements were like children, noisy but harmless, infants in a cradle.
Slowly the sand began to settle, and in the hot afternoon sun, the hazy image of a large city began to form, shimmering in the distance. Pace unchanging, Darial continued to press on, right hand clasped around the sheathed sword at his right hip.
Even as he approached the gate, the cloaked figure began to make out a blanket of darkness which stained the sky above the fabled city. With that realization, his steps began to quicken, for though he had come because of a rumor, he hadn’t truly believed such a tragedy could truly take place. Soon he was racing through the streets, the city flying past in a blur of brown. His cloak flowed out behind him revealing the ragged white robe that he had on beneath his grey cloak, the remnants of a former glory.
Above him the darkness began to thicken and, in a strange way, pulse with a strange sort of malicious anticipation. Even in his speed, Darial was aware of his surroundings, and what he sensed only filled his being with more horror. It was all about to take place as he had been told… and really there was nothing he could do about it. Finally he reached the end of the city, and came to a stop, his sandals sliding on the gravelly ground. Almost instinctively his left hand half drew his mighty double edged sword, but just in time he stopped.
Before him stood hundreds of figures who could only be described as demons. Faces twisted with pride, greed and rage, each was more grotesque then the last. They were monstrosities of dark blue, purple and black, some huge and some the size of small children, lounging in a ring. In the air were thousands upon thousands more, the flapping of their wings creating a sound like the moaning of a thousand lost souls as they formed a dome of sheer darkness.
The mass seemed to be in very good spirits, cackling with hideous laughter even as they watched the events taking place on a small hill a bit outside the city. There, three cross were erected, and three men hung, dying.
Darial felt the world around him spin sharply, even as he slumped down against the side of the gate on which he lent. To go into that cesspool of evil was suicide, especially for him… but to leave things as they were, how could he live with that shame on top of all the things he already regretted. Would his immortal life be one of endless pain and torment? Was that to be his punishment?
He sat there for hours, looking for all the world like a normal man, resting against the gate. All the while he watched in agony, indecision and inner turmoil. Even through the darkness and the earthquake, he didn’t move. Only when the body had pronounced dead as water and blood flowed from the side of that man in the center did he quietly depart. The mocking sounds of triumphant laughter from a hundred thousand throats followed him. It would not leave him for a long time.
It was finished.
***
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Inspiration
It didn’t happen that often, at least that’s what he liked to think, but Jason could do nothing but stare at the blank screen, helpless to continue. Writing might be his passion, and his main livelihood, but even for one such as himself; sometimes the words just stopped flowing. It was known to the world by such an innocent phrase, “Writer’s block.” However, ask an author or a writer of any description and they would say that “Writer’s block” is but a mild euphemism for a horrible and painful scourge which must have originated in a place far from any light.
Yet, for every problem, a solution is but one thought away, however long and convoluted it may be, and for this re-occurring issue, one which plagued the young man almost daily, there was but one simple answer. Inspiration.
With an audible sigh, the lanky and fair skinned writer initiated his computer’s shut down procedure. There had been nothing on the screen, and thus there was no use in saving. With a quick jaunt around his cramped study, he slipped the essentials of life into his pocket and was soon out of his small two bedroom apartment, staring out at the sidewalks of the city.
For the moment, Jason lived in Melbourne, a pleasant city in the south of Australia, known at one point for being the most livable metropolis in the world. It was said that the major factor that went AGAINST that decision was the weather, and on this cold and blustery winter’s day, it might have seemed obvious why, yet as with many things, there is often more then meets the eye.
Stepping into his car, parked as it was ungainly on the side of the street; he slammed the door shut and cranked the ignition. His present mode of transportation was an old red Ford Laser, still functional and actually a decent vehicle truth be told, however that didn’t stop him from yearning for a new ride, something to impress, but not scream for attention. However today, the seeker of enlightenment had more important things in mind, and without another thought, he punched the gas.
Weaving (the only true word to describe his driving) through the early afternoon city traffic, the author began to reflect on the events of the day… of the past week… and then on the past month. It had been a tumultuous time, one with a great many obstacles and upsets… but yet equally, one of great joy as well. It was an unusual paradox, a stage in life where people often never find themselves.
The sound of a horn shattered Jason’s musing as the green light before him shone steadily for all to see. As his car lurched forward, the young man ideally wondered how long the light had been green for… it was unlike him to be so distracted.
Just ahead the Botanical Gardens beckoned and he began to look for parking spots. At this time, the process should have been easy, and soon he was rewarded with a bay not meters from where he habitually came when he needed to clear his mind.
Stepping out, Jason headed for the nearest hill and as he reached the top, the clouds broke around him and the sun began to shine all around.
There he stood, on top of a great hill; before him, bathed in glorious yellow sunlight, lay a wide open plain that stretched in rolling hillocks for as far as the eye could see. The entire area was covered in yellowing grass swaying back and forth with the fluttering of the warm summer wind leaving ripples on their backs. Far in the distance sat some cows sat, calmly chewing their food, watching with docile eyes at this intruder into their world.
Then slowly the sound came, a dull roar that began to crescendo with each moment. At first it could have been mistaken for a single, drawn out note, but as the noise grew, Jason could begin to distinguish the individual rhythms that merged together in a chorus and harmony which was not of his world.
A movement from the west, as a herd of wild horses crested a nearby hill. At the front charged a single stallion, majestic in all his freedom and raw power. Even as he galloped before his companions, those who were under his command, the wind seemed to follow an invisible command, and the most elemental of forces parted without objection. The mighty stallion, pure white with a shining mane of golden silk, continued off past the horizon, and Jason could only watch in awe… his eyes wide and mouth opened…
Slowly he turned around; reluctant almost to take his eyes from the golden plain… and the dream, the vision… the Inspiration was gone.
Yet, for every problem, a solution is but one thought away, however long and convoluted it may be, and for this re-occurring issue, one which plagued the young man almost daily, there was but one simple answer. Inspiration.
With an audible sigh, the lanky and fair skinned writer initiated his computer’s shut down procedure. There had been nothing on the screen, and thus there was no use in saving. With a quick jaunt around his cramped study, he slipped the essentials of life into his pocket and was soon out of his small two bedroom apartment, staring out at the sidewalks of the city.
For the moment, Jason lived in Melbourne, a pleasant city in the south of Australia, known at one point for being the most livable metropolis in the world. It was said that the major factor that went AGAINST that decision was the weather, and on this cold and blustery winter’s day, it might have seemed obvious why, yet as with many things, there is often more then meets the eye.
Stepping into his car, parked as it was ungainly on the side of the street; he slammed the door shut and cranked the ignition. His present mode of transportation was an old red Ford Laser, still functional and actually a decent vehicle truth be told, however that didn’t stop him from yearning for a new ride, something to impress, but not scream for attention. However today, the seeker of enlightenment had more important things in mind, and without another thought, he punched the gas.
Weaving (the only true word to describe his driving) through the early afternoon city traffic, the author began to reflect on the events of the day… of the past week… and then on the past month. It had been a tumultuous time, one with a great many obstacles and upsets… but yet equally, one of great joy as well. It was an unusual paradox, a stage in life where people often never find themselves.
The sound of a horn shattered Jason’s musing as the green light before him shone steadily for all to see. As his car lurched forward, the young man ideally wondered how long the light had been green for… it was unlike him to be so distracted.
Just ahead the Botanical Gardens beckoned and he began to look for parking spots. At this time, the process should have been easy, and soon he was rewarded with a bay not meters from where he habitually came when he needed to clear his mind.
Stepping out, Jason headed for the nearest hill and as he reached the top, the clouds broke around him and the sun began to shine all around.
There he stood, on top of a great hill; before him, bathed in glorious yellow sunlight, lay a wide open plain that stretched in rolling hillocks for as far as the eye could see. The entire area was covered in yellowing grass swaying back and forth with the fluttering of the warm summer wind leaving ripples on their backs. Far in the distance sat some cows sat, calmly chewing their food, watching with docile eyes at this intruder into their world.
Then slowly the sound came, a dull roar that began to crescendo with each moment. At first it could have been mistaken for a single, drawn out note, but as the noise grew, Jason could begin to distinguish the individual rhythms that merged together in a chorus and harmony which was not of his world.
A movement from the west, as a herd of wild horses crested a nearby hill. At the front charged a single stallion, majestic in all his freedom and raw power. Even as he galloped before his companions, those who were under his command, the wind seemed to follow an invisible command, and the most elemental of forces parted without objection. The mighty stallion, pure white with a shining mane of golden silk, continued off past the horizon, and Jason could only watch in awe… his eyes wide and mouth opened…
Slowly he turned around; reluctant almost to take his eyes from the golden plain… and the dream, the vision… the Inspiration was gone.
Yet it was enough... more then enough.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Ohh no!
Talleth stood back to bask in the attention that was being lavished upon him. After all these years of hiding, it felt good to be the center of events, the person to whom ever eye was drawn. It was very different to his usual modus operandi of moving unseen and invisible.
“I see that you’ve figured it out Cerion.” He congratulated, “pity that it won’t help you.”
Elstridge had been frozen due to his startlement, but quickly he regained his wits. Casting a glance at Orion, he straightened. “Guards!” the Prince bellowed.
There was a sharp ring as the the Honor Guard drew their swords, united as one man and began to advance on the interrupting Photographer. The nobles began to pull back, but at the same time, morbid fascination with impending bloodshed kept their eyes riveted to the dais.
“No!” commanded, Cerion, the tone of authority clear in his voice. “Your swords can not hurt him, and your lives will be forfeit should you try. Stand down Captain!”
Hesitantly the Guard looked to their leader who in turn looked to his Prince.
Elstridge’s pride fought for a moment with his good sense, but a glance at Cerion’s face made him reconsider. A wave of his hand and the Prince also began to back away.
“Not so fast… brother” said Talleth.
Suddenly a circle of bright beams encircled the prince, bringing an abrupt end to his attempted escape.
To Orion’s eyes, those beams emitted a strong wave of heat. Even as Elstridge reached out to touch the beams, the Embermage knew that to do so was death. “Don’t!” he shouted. Elstridge gave him one startled look and stopped in mid reach.
Talleth looked mildly surprised. “You realize what they are boy?” He asked, eyes narrowing.
Suddenly directly in front of him, a source of heat began to form. To his strangely dual vision, it seemed that it came from highly concentrated light. In that moment he realized what power a Photographer had.
“Light is energy and intense light can generate intense heat.” He replied calmly.
Talleth laughed, “well done Orion! Now feel the pain which mere light can bring.”
The heat became overwhelming and bright beam of laser like intensity shot out towards Orion.
Light is faster then any other force on earth, even faster then the fastest brain speed.
However Cerion had already considered this possibility. As the beam entered an area not a foot from Orion’s body, it began to distort and lose its focus.
Talleth noticed and the beam faded. With a shrug, he dismissed the shield of incredibly moist air that Cerion had created.
“You can stop one beam Hydromancer… but you can’t stop a hundred. At my thought, everyone in this Ballroom will die.”
Cerion grit his teeth, but then Azrael stepped forward. “However one thought from me… and you will also perish, Photographer… or did you not notice the bonds of air which could rip your body to shreds.”
Talleth’s right eye twitched slightly as he attempted to move his arms. Locked as he was in a cocoon of air, he wasn’t having much luck.
“I’ll remember this Azrael; I still have time to complete my mission.”
Light erupted without warning between the four weather arts users, causing Azrael to lose her concentration for a split second. In that moment, Talleth vanished.
Cerion’s eye’s narrowed. “Orion, can you see him?” he asked his younger brother, aware of the heat sense.
“No,” replied Orion, looking slightly puzzled. “He simply vanished.”
“I was afraid of that.” Sighed the older brother.
“Hydromancer Cerion!” barked the Captain of the Guard. Cerion spun around. “The Prince, he’s gone!”
Orion also had turned and stared at the place where Elstridge had been but moments before. This was very bad.
***
“I see that you’ve figured it out Cerion.” He congratulated, “pity that it won’t help you.”
Elstridge had been frozen due to his startlement, but quickly he regained his wits. Casting a glance at Orion, he straightened. “Guards!” the Prince bellowed.
There was a sharp ring as the the Honor Guard drew their swords, united as one man and began to advance on the interrupting Photographer. The nobles began to pull back, but at the same time, morbid fascination with impending bloodshed kept their eyes riveted to the dais.
“No!” commanded, Cerion, the tone of authority clear in his voice. “Your swords can not hurt him, and your lives will be forfeit should you try. Stand down Captain!”
Hesitantly the Guard looked to their leader who in turn looked to his Prince.
Elstridge’s pride fought for a moment with his good sense, but a glance at Cerion’s face made him reconsider. A wave of his hand and the Prince also began to back away.
“Not so fast… brother” said Talleth.
Suddenly a circle of bright beams encircled the prince, bringing an abrupt end to his attempted escape.
To Orion’s eyes, those beams emitted a strong wave of heat. Even as Elstridge reached out to touch the beams, the Embermage knew that to do so was death. “Don’t!” he shouted. Elstridge gave him one startled look and stopped in mid reach.
Talleth looked mildly surprised. “You realize what they are boy?” He asked, eyes narrowing.
Suddenly directly in front of him, a source of heat began to form. To his strangely dual vision, it seemed that it came from highly concentrated light. In that moment he realized what power a Photographer had.
“Light is energy and intense light can generate intense heat.” He replied calmly.
Talleth laughed, “well done Orion! Now feel the pain which mere light can bring.”
The heat became overwhelming and bright beam of laser like intensity shot out towards Orion.
Light is faster then any other force on earth, even faster then the fastest brain speed.
However Cerion had already considered this possibility. As the beam entered an area not a foot from Orion’s body, it began to distort and lose its focus.
Talleth noticed and the beam faded. With a shrug, he dismissed the shield of incredibly moist air that Cerion had created.
“You can stop one beam Hydromancer… but you can’t stop a hundred. At my thought, everyone in this Ballroom will die.”
Cerion grit his teeth, but then Azrael stepped forward. “However one thought from me… and you will also perish, Photographer… or did you not notice the bonds of air which could rip your body to shreds.”
Talleth’s right eye twitched slightly as he attempted to move his arms. Locked as he was in a cocoon of air, he wasn’t having much luck.
“I’ll remember this Azrael; I still have time to complete my mission.”
Light erupted without warning between the four weather arts users, causing Azrael to lose her concentration for a split second. In that moment, Talleth vanished.
Cerion’s eye’s narrowed. “Orion, can you see him?” he asked his younger brother, aware of the heat sense.
“No,” replied Orion, looking slightly puzzled. “He simply vanished.”
“I was afraid of that.” Sighed the older brother.
“Hydromancer Cerion!” barked the Captain of the Guard. Cerion spun around. “The Prince, he’s gone!”
Orion also had turned and stared at the place where Elstridge had been but moments before. This was very bad.
***
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Secrets revealed!
His head hurt, that much was readily apparent before his eyes opened. Waves of alternating numbness and aching pulsed through his skull. He most certainly had a concussion.
However when it was when he tried to sit up that he really understood just how much pain he was in.
“ARGH!”
Talleth collapsed back into his make shift bed, and even that motion was enough to set his skull pounding once more and the room spinning more then it had before.
A room?
‘Where am I?’ he wondered, looking around at the strange implements and books that filled the round office. Looking around, his eyes landed on a plaque on the wall. It read.
“To Cerion WaveRunner, on his appointment to Council of the Keep.”
Talleth began to laugh, even as that action brought immense pain to his head. It was obvious now what had happened, and ironic in the extreme. He was almost certain that neither Cerion nor Orion knew who he was, nor what it meant… yet it was blind luck that had brought them together for that first time. Well, that and some slippery roof tiles.
Even as the pain began to reside ever so slowly, Talleth wondered how he survived the fall from such a high tower. Nevertheless, he wasn’t one to question good fortune, or the provision of God, and he attempted to stand.
That proved to be disastrous, however on the third go he managed to remain standing without crumpling to the floor. The clock on the wall said he was late. He didn’t have much time.
***
“Really your Highness?” questioned Tricolum, looking with bemused surprise at the young man. “This is most unusual, would now really be the best time?”
Elstridge took a deep breath, and nodded. “I’m afraid so old friend, I would speak to those gathered as is my right.”
Tricolum nodded slowly, “that it is. Speak on good Prince.”
Elstridge stood to address the people gathered in the Ballroom. Their faces were alive with curiosity as they wondered what this quiet young Prince had to share with them. Most thought it merely a reaction to his nerves, but some, including Queen Elmaria, had worried frowns on their faces.
“Fellow citizens of Wilderia, I am Elstridge Liam Royale, son of Elmaria and Elton, Nephew to the late King Elliam who died three years ago in a rock slide along with my father. He had not married, nor had he any children of his own, and so I was named heir apparent to ascend in my 18th year. Thus I was given the middle name Liam to trace my lineage through our King.”
Elstridge paused; so far what he had said was common knowledge. Now he had reached the point of no return. If he continued, it would forever alter his life, and indeed it may change the destiny of his country. Still, his Uncle had made his wishes clear, and he was the only one who could make it happen.
“What you may not know, is that my Uncle, your late King, had adopted a son to succeed him.”
Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd and soon after that cries of indignation and denial. Soon the Ballroom was abuzz like the sound of a thousand locusts as people discussed this new development.
Elstridge raised his hand, and silence slowly returned. He continued slowly, trying hard not to rush through this speech that he had rehearsed for months.
“The King had told me this several months before his accident, when I was but a 15 year old boy. It is no secret that I had not wanted to ascend the throne, and he told me that such would not be the case. His true heir would have been presented to the country on HIS 18th birthday, which is 1 year gone. His name was or is…”
Rather ironically and very suddenly a bright light began to pulsate behind the Prince. Startled, the Prince spun around. There in the center of that light stood a young man, barely a year older then Elstridge, aglow with white light.
The assembled nobles stared…
“My name is Talleth!”
***
Upon hearing Elstridge’s confession, Orion’s first response had been outrage and betrayal, followed rather quickly by guilt for such thoughts. He could only imagine the strain of hiding such a secret for the past years, especially in the arguments that his friend always seemed to have with his mother.
Even so, the quick witted young man had proceeded to move closer to his friend. Orion knew how people thought, and the flashpoint temper that a mob could have. If this flustered enough people, things could get ugly.
For once wishing that Azrael was around to give him a lift to the throne room, he still managed to nimbly squeeze through the press of people, all the while listening to Elstridge’s explanation. But then his friend stopped, even as Orion was hunched between two massive knights. However even he noticed the bright light and stood up straight to see what was happening. He was a mere 5 meters away, but already he knew that it was too late.
***
Cerion started from his seat in the balcony, staring at the glowing light.
“Photographer!” he hissed, mind going back to all the knowledge that he had learnt about these hated sorcerers.
“Azrael!” he called, no longer the bumbling and vain young man that he was when he could afford to be.
Azrael smiled. She loved it when her fiancé was like this. With skillful weaves she picked him up, and sent him catapulting towards the throne along with herself. Even as she caught them both in a net of air and dropped into a crouch at the foot of the throne, Orion wormed his way next to them.
“What’s going on Cer?” He asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Cerion’s voice was grim and determined. “It’ll be alright Orion, I know how to deal with a Photographer.”
***
However when it was when he tried to sit up that he really understood just how much pain he was in.
“ARGH!”
Talleth collapsed back into his make shift bed, and even that motion was enough to set his skull pounding once more and the room spinning more then it had before.
A room?
‘Where am I?’ he wondered, looking around at the strange implements and books that filled the round office. Looking around, his eyes landed on a plaque on the wall. It read.
“To Cerion WaveRunner, on his appointment to Council of the Keep.”
Talleth began to laugh, even as that action brought immense pain to his head. It was obvious now what had happened, and ironic in the extreme. He was almost certain that neither Cerion nor Orion knew who he was, nor what it meant… yet it was blind luck that had brought them together for that first time. Well, that and some slippery roof tiles.
Even as the pain began to reside ever so slowly, Talleth wondered how he survived the fall from such a high tower. Nevertheless, he wasn’t one to question good fortune, or the provision of God, and he attempted to stand.
That proved to be disastrous, however on the third go he managed to remain standing without crumpling to the floor. The clock on the wall said he was late. He didn’t have much time.
***
“Really your Highness?” questioned Tricolum, looking with bemused surprise at the young man. “This is most unusual, would now really be the best time?”
Elstridge took a deep breath, and nodded. “I’m afraid so old friend, I would speak to those gathered as is my right.”
Tricolum nodded slowly, “that it is. Speak on good Prince.”
Elstridge stood to address the people gathered in the Ballroom. Their faces were alive with curiosity as they wondered what this quiet young Prince had to share with them. Most thought it merely a reaction to his nerves, but some, including Queen Elmaria, had worried frowns on their faces.
“Fellow citizens of Wilderia, I am Elstridge Liam Royale, son of Elmaria and Elton, Nephew to the late King Elliam who died three years ago in a rock slide along with my father. He had not married, nor had he any children of his own, and so I was named heir apparent to ascend in my 18th year. Thus I was given the middle name Liam to trace my lineage through our King.”
Elstridge paused; so far what he had said was common knowledge. Now he had reached the point of no return. If he continued, it would forever alter his life, and indeed it may change the destiny of his country. Still, his Uncle had made his wishes clear, and he was the only one who could make it happen.
“What you may not know, is that my Uncle, your late King, had adopted a son to succeed him.”
Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd and soon after that cries of indignation and denial. Soon the Ballroom was abuzz like the sound of a thousand locusts as people discussed this new development.
Elstridge raised his hand, and silence slowly returned. He continued slowly, trying hard not to rush through this speech that he had rehearsed for months.
“The King had told me this several months before his accident, when I was but a 15 year old boy. It is no secret that I had not wanted to ascend the throne, and he told me that such would not be the case. His true heir would have been presented to the country on HIS 18th birthday, which is 1 year gone. His name was or is…”
Rather ironically and very suddenly a bright light began to pulsate behind the Prince. Startled, the Prince spun around. There in the center of that light stood a young man, barely a year older then Elstridge, aglow with white light.
The assembled nobles stared…
“My name is Talleth!”
***
Upon hearing Elstridge’s confession, Orion’s first response had been outrage and betrayal, followed rather quickly by guilt for such thoughts. He could only imagine the strain of hiding such a secret for the past years, especially in the arguments that his friend always seemed to have with his mother.
Even so, the quick witted young man had proceeded to move closer to his friend. Orion knew how people thought, and the flashpoint temper that a mob could have. If this flustered enough people, things could get ugly.
For once wishing that Azrael was around to give him a lift to the throne room, he still managed to nimbly squeeze through the press of people, all the while listening to Elstridge’s explanation. But then his friend stopped, even as Orion was hunched between two massive knights. However even he noticed the bright light and stood up straight to see what was happening. He was a mere 5 meters away, but already he knew that it was too late.
***
Cerion started from his seat in the balcony, staring at the glowing light.
“Photographer!” he hissed, mind going back to all the knowledge that he had learnt about these hated sorcerers.
“Azrael!” he called, no longer the bumbling and vain young man that he was when he could afford to be.
Azrael smiled. She loved it when her fiancé was like this. With skillful weaves she picked him up, and sent him catapulting towards the throne along with herself. Even as she caught them both in a net of air and dropped into a crouch at the foot of the throne, Orion wormed his way next to them.
“What’s going on Cer?” He asked, his voice cracking slightly.
Cerion’s voice was grim and determined. “It’ll be alright Orion, I know how to deal with a Photographer.”
***
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Life is going strangely.
The trumpets blared their fanfare, a song of triumph and celebration. As the nobles ceased their polite conversations and turned to look at the door, the heralds finished their piece with a flourish.
Elstridge wanted to kill them, or at the very least inflict some amount of pain so that they could suffer along with him. Instead he kept silence.
Slowly the doors began to ease open, swinging inwards to reveal the Palace’s Grand Ballroom where the coronations of the past had been held. Elstridge could only tremble as he witnessed the seeming thousands of people who had come out to watch his final judgment, the end of all that was good in his life… the ultimate loss of freedom.
Resignation began to set in, as he realized that despite his best efforts and months of planning, he would still have to walk down the length of that hall and face the music, quite literally even. It was a sad awakening, and his shoulders slumped forward miserably.
“Let’s get this over with.” He mumbled and began to walk through the doors.
The trumpeters took up their fanfare again as the Prince walked by, their horns aimed right at the ears of Elstridge and his Honor Guard. In other circumstances he might have complained about the noise, but at this point, deep in the depths of his despair, he barely noticed. The guard did though, and there were several faces with gritted teeth if he had bothered to look.
On the other end of the Ballroom, flowing down like a stone wave, a massive staircase rose, leading up to the second story, and the doorway through which the reigning King would normally enter to sit on the Thrones at the foot of the stairs. Behind that door were the royal family’s personal chambers. It was sometimes joked that the feature should be called the “stairway to heaven” but the general consent was that the name lacked the dignity normal expected of royalty.
All these random facts flew through Elstridge’s mind as he trudged down the red carpet, absently acknowledging the waves and nods that he received along the way. Looking up, he noted several Wind Weavers, each having decided that standing on the floor was for other people, seated on nothing but air and enjoy the great view that their elevation provided. Idly the Prince wondered if the ladies among the Weavers know that anyone who felt like it could look up their dresses. Perhaps that was why some of the younger nobles weren’t paying much attention to him. The thought brought a sad smile to his face
The Throne approached him, even as he drew near to the throne. Today it was all over. His dreams would be shattered. Inwardly he knew that with great power came equally great responsibilities and as such those in positions like his often had a lot less say on their choices then might be thought. However since the time he had understood the role he would play, the young man had spent all his resources in trying to avoid it. However in the end, it was all for naught… this was his destiny… this was his fate.
The trumpets fell silent as he stepped onto the dais and turned to face the crowd before him. The Honor Guard drew up in formation behind and before him, standing at strict attention.
The court waited.
And waited…
Even though his gloom and hopelessness, Elstridge realized that something was wrong. Looking around quickly he wondered if he was meant to say something.
Suddenly a voice piped up, cultured, urbane and slightly embarrassed. “Oh that’s right! It’s my turn!”
Out of the first few rows of on-lookers burst the familiar sight of Tricolum Cornelius. Elstridge had know Tricolum since birth as the man who had been Prime Minister under his grandfather and one of the senior advisors to Elliam, the recently departed King. As the oldest and most respected of all the City’s nobles, it was his right and duty to preside over the coronation ceremony, even if he was 92 and very very forgetful in the short term.
“Sorry there lad, forgot I was up!” Whispered Tricolum as he bustled up to Elstridge.
The young Prince could help but smile at his oldest friend’s words and nodded. “That’s alright, I’m not in a rush anyway.”
“Splendid!” declared Tricolum, totally missing the meaning behind Elstridge’s words, “I’ll begin the ceremony now.”
Tricolum turned to face the gathered peoples. He spoke in a booming voice that belied his frail exterior and dopey face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers, Hydromancers and anyone else who I’ve missed, welcome to the Palace on this wonderful and special evening.”
He paused to take a breath before continuing, the cadences and sounds of his voice masterfully played to make his words come alive.
“It is my pleasure to introduce Prince Elstridge Liam Royale, chosen successor and nephew to our former King, Elliam Newton Royalle. In the absence of a direct descendant from King Elliam, it had been decreed by both the Council of the Keep and Court of Nobles that Prince Elstridge will be next in line for the throne and would ascend during his 18th year. That year has come, and now I would like to present your Crown Prince, Elstridge Ton Royale!”
A wave of applause exploded from the gathered people as nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers and Hydromancers alike applauded their soon to be King.
Elstridge tried to look Crown Prince like, but in his mind he failed miserably. Even so, he stood straight, just like his mother had told him, and stared out at the crowd with neither smile nor frown.
The ceremony was still going however and Tricolum continued.
“Now, if there is anyone present, be they male or female, of power or of none, noble or citizen… or anyone else who I’ve missed but don’t want to offend who has a GOOD reason why this Crown Prince should NOT be made King, speak now, or forever, as in until you die, hold your peace.”
Now it was mandatory in the ceremony, having been written in big bold letters in the manual, that a silence of two minutes be enforced here. However in the three thousand years of Wilderia’s heritage, never once had anyone spoken up. As such, over the millennia the pause had become less a wait to see what people had to say, and more an opportunity for the, invariably old, Master of Ceremony’s to take a short breath. Normally that took 10 seconds, or at most 20.
“So if there…”
A quiet voice cut the air, carrying far. “Actually, I have something to say,” interjected Elstridge, committing to his final and desperate plan; he had hoped that this wouldn’t be necessary. “Something I think you should all know, something that my Uncle never told you.”
***
Elstridge wanted to kill them, or at the very least inflict some amount of pain so that they could suffer along with him. Instead he kept silence.
Slowly the doors began to ease open, swinging inwards to reveal the Palace’s Grand Ballroom where the coronations of the past had been held. Elstridge could only tremble as he witnessed the seeming thousands of people who had come out to watch his final judgment, the end of all that was good in his life… the ultimate loss of freedom.
Resignation began to set in, as he realized that despite his best efforts and months of planning, he would still have to walk down the length of that hall and face the music, quite literally even. It was a sad awakening, and his shoulders slumped forward miserably.
“Let’s get this over with.” He mumbled and began to walk through the doors.
The trumpeters took up their fanfare again as the Prince walked by, their horns aimed right at the ears of Elstridge and his Honor Guard. In other circumstances he might have complained about the noise, but at this point, deep in the depths of his despair, he barely noticed. The guard did though, and there were several faces with gritted teeth if he had bothered to look.
On the other end of the Ballroom, flowing down like a stone wave, a massive staircase rose, leading up to the second story, and the doorway through which the reigning King would normally enter to sit on the Thrones at the foot of the stairs. Behind that door were the royal family’s personal chambers. It was sometimes joked that the feature should be called the “stairway to heaven” but the general consent was that the name lacked the dignity normal expected of royalty.
All these random facts flew through Elstridge’s mind as he trudged down the red carpet, absently acknowledging the waves and nods that he received along the way. Looking up, he noted several Wind Weavers, each having decided that standing on the floor was for other people, seated on nothing but air and enjoy the great view that their elevation provided. Idly the Prince wondered if the ladies among the Weavers know that anyone who felt like it could look up their dresses. Perhaps that was why some of the younger nobles weren’t paying much attention to him. The thought brought a sad smile to his face
The Throne approached him, even as he drew near to the throne. Today it was all over. His dreams would be shattered. Inwardly he knew that with great power came equally great responsibilities and as such those in positions like his often had a lot less say on their choices then might be thought. However since the time he had understood the role he would play, the young man had spent all his resources in trying to avoid it. However in the end, it was all for naught… this was his destiny… this was his fate.
The trumpets fell silent as he stepped onto the dais and turned to face the crowd before him. The Honor Guard drew up in formation behind and before him, standing at strict attention.
The court waited.
And waited…
Even though his gloom and hopelessness, Elstridge realized that something was wrong. Looking around quickly he wondered if he was meant to say something.
Suddenly a voice piped up, cultured, urbane and slightly embarrassed. “Oh that’s right! It’s my turn!”
Out of the first few rows of on-lookers burst the familiar sight of Tricolum Cornelius. Elstridge had know Tricolum since birth as the man who had been Prime Minister under his grandfather and one of the senior advisors to Elliam, the recently departed King. As the oldest and most respected of all the City’s nobles, it was his right and duty to preside over the coronation ceremony, even if he was 92 and very very forgetful in the short term.
“Sorry there lad, forgot I was up!” Whispered Tricolum as he bustled up to Elstridge.
The young Prince could help but smile at his oldest friend’s words and nodded. “That’s alright, I’m not in a rush anyway.”
“Splendid!” declared Tricolum, totally missing the meaning behind Elstridge’s words, “I’ll begin the ceremony now.”
Tricolum turned to face the gathered peoples. He spoke in a booming voice that belied his frail exterior and dopey face.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers, Hydromancers and anyone else who I’ve missed, welcome to the Palace on this wonderful and special evening.”
He paused to take a breath before continuing, the cadences and sounds of his voice masterfully played to make his words come alive.
“It is my pleasure to introduce Prince Elstridge Liam Royale, chosen successor and nephew to our former King, Elliam Newton Royalle. In the absence of a direct descendant from King Elliam, it had been decreed by both the Council of the Keep and Court of Nobles that Prince Elstridge will be next in line for the throne and would ascend during his 18th year. That year has come, and now I would like to present your Crown Prince, Elstridge Ton Royale!”
A wave of applause exploded from the gathered people as nobles, citizens, Wind Weavers and Hydromancers alike applauded their soon to be King.
Elstridge tried to look Crown Prince like, but in his mind he failed miserably. Even so, he stood straight, just like his mother had told him, and stared out at the crowd with neither smile nor frown.
The ceremony was still going however and Tricolum continued.
“Now, if there is anyone present, be they male or female, of power or of none, noble or citizen… or anyone else who I’ve missed but don’t want to offend who has a GOOD reason why this Crown Prince should NOT be made King, speak now, or forever, as in until you die, hold your peace.”
Now it was mandatory in the ceremony, having been written in big bold letters in the manual, that a silence of two minutes be enforced here. However in the three thousand years of Wilderia’s heritage, never once had anyone spoken up. As such, over the millennia the pause had become less a wait to see what people had to say, and more an opportunity for the, invariably old, Master of Ceremony’s to take a short breath. Normally that took 10 seconds, or at most 20.
“So if there…”
A quiet voice cut the air, carrying far. “Actually, I have something to say,” interjected Elstridge, committing to his final and desperate plan; he had hoped that this wouldn’t be necessary. “Something I think you should all know, something that my Uncle never told you.”
***
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
The Gutter Queen
She's a bunch of tattered rags, shreds of cloth rustling menacingly with a life of their own if you step too close, greasy strips trapping a vile musty odor that's nearly a weapon. She's old; that much is apparent from the shock of coarse white hair, the curved, stooped posture that is less osteoporosis and more the result of a woman so ancient she's shrunk and caved into a shell of herself twice over. Something rattles in her throat when she breathes, and every now and again she coughs, a bone-shaking, lung-dislocating cough that sounds like terrible infections and slimy diseases and rotting death.
She holds court in a corner of Main Street between two colossal pillars which ornament as much as hold up the sides of a magnificent, phallic (and magnificently phallic) skyscraper, those gargantuan, polished, twin bones mocking her hunched but tough frame. She makes no attempt to stand out of the flow of human traffic like the other bums, this queen of the gutter; she holds her ground and the moving wave of people bends around her, as if to her will. This is familiar to her.
The peculiar thing about her is that instead of facing her people she faces the building; on a ledge running the length of the building she has propped up a piece of glass. Its edges are broken, and sharp, the surface is spotted with age and filmed with unspeakable grime, but she watches it intently and unceasingly. Anyone glancing at it, distantly curious, can only see feverishly bright eyes shot through with red veins, the only visible feature of her face, but through it she steadily watches her disloyal subjects, looking, searching.
Fake eyelashes, fake lips, fake breasts kisses her sugar daddy in a suit - "Have a good day baby, I'm gonna go shopping today". Too much time working at the weights, not enough time working on his social graces belches, scratches his balls, leers at her. Egyptian-looking by virtue of too much eye makeup, liar by nature hurries along clutching the lottery numbers that will save her from the drudgery of fortune telling. Green mohawk, eternally displeased mouth watches them with an eloquent scowl that highlights the multiple piercings in his lip, more metal than man.
Soundlessly, hopelessly, the grimy old lips move, fetid breath issuing from between in a sibilant hiss, and she asks the mirror now the same question she has asked it for centuries:
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?
The mirror remains dumb.
She holds court in a corner of Main Street between two colossal pillars which ornament as much as hold up the sides of a magnificent, phallic (and magnificently phallic) skyscraper, those gargantuan, polished, twin bones mocking her hunched but tough frame. She makes no attempt to stand out of the flow of human traffic like the other bums, this queen of the gutter; she holds her ground and the moving wave of people bends around her, as if to her will. This is familiar to her.
The peculiar thing about her is that instead of facing her people she faces the building; on a ledge running the length of the building she has propped up a piece of glass. Its edges are broken, and sharp, the surface is spotted with age and filmed with unspeakable grime, but she watches it intently and unceasingly. Anyone glancing at it, distantly curious, can only see feverishly bright eyes shot through with red veins, the only visible feature of her face, but through it she steadily watches her disloyal subjects, looking, searching.
Fake eyelashes, fake lips, fake breasts kisses her sugar daddy in a suit - "Have a good day baby, I'm gonna go shopping today". Too much time working at the weights, not enough time working on his social graces belches, scratches his balls, leers at her. Egyptian-looking by virtue of too much eye makeup, liar by nature hurries along clutching the lottery numbers that will save her from the drudgery of fortune telling. Green mohawk, eternally displeased mouth watches them with an eloquent scowl that highlights the multiple piercings in his lip, more metal than man.
Soundlessly, hopelessly, the grimy old lips move, fetid breath issuing from between in a sibilant hiss, and she asks the mirror now the same question she has asked it for centuries:
Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?
The mirror remains dumb.
Hydromancers make good doctors... I'm sure you realize why
“We’re going to be late for the ceremony you realize?”
Cerion barely acknowledged his brother’s remark, concentrating as he was at his examination. Instead Azrael answered in his place.
“I’m sure Elstridge will forgive you for being late Orion, but we DO have to take care of this person you know… cause he’s dying.”
“But we’ll be late!” moaned Orion.
“I see that I also have to teach you something about priorities,” Azrael, noted as she turned back to Cerion. “How is he darling?”
Cerion took a deep breath before replying. “There’s some internal bleeding, but nothing that I can’t fix. Several of his ribs have been cracked as well, but thankfully none of them punctured his lung. I think I can fix him up, but we’ll need to take him inside.” Orion nodded emphatically to that last statement.
“Will he be able to stand the lifting?” asked Azrael, peering at the limp body.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, the ribs aren’t poking anything vital.”
The Hydromancer turned to regard his younger brother and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Chill Orion, if you can these days, we still have plenty of time, the ceremony doesn’t start for another ten minutes!”
Orion was bursting with frustration. “Exactly, ten minutes isn’t that long you know.”
Even as they had been talking, Azrael carefully picked up the unconscious man and they hurried into the castle.
***
9.32 minutes later
***
“I think I’ve stopped the bleeding and set the ribs,” Cerion announced, tired as he was from the precise exertions and pressure he had just undergone.
Azrael handed her fiancé a soft cloth. “Good work honey. Do you think it’s safe to leave him here?”
Cerion looked around, “sure, the office of a Council member should be as secure as any other part of the castle. Now let’s get to that coronation… where’s Orion?”
Checking herself quickly in the many mirrors that hung in Cerion’s office, Azrael glanced at her beloved’s reflection. “Didn’t you notice? He left while you were operating, made some pretentious excuse about using the bathroom.” She paused to regard her own reflection and then turned around, satisfied with the result. “To be fair to the boy though, it’s not everyday one of your best friends becomes King.”
Cerion nodded sagely, also checking his hair in a different mirror. “How do I look dear?” he asked as he absently smoothed down some hair behind his ears.
“Fine darling, but we really should go, or we’ll be late.”
“Right right, in a mom…”
“Now Cerion.” The tone used left no room for disagreement.
“At once dear.” Cerion replied meekly.
***
The moment of truth had come, and Elstridge was still of the opinion that it was all a big mistake. A view that was not shared by his mother, or the troop of soldiers who were his “Honor Guard”. Try as he might, it seemed like fate had conspired to force him through this process. Even so, that didn’t stop him from persevering against all odds…
“I’m sure you can see my point Captain.” He concluded to the Knight in charge, even as they walked down the hallway to the Ballroom entrance.
“Of course, your Highness.”
“That’s good, glad to know we’re on the same page.”
“As am I, your Highness.”
“It would be most embarrassing.”
“I agree, your Highness.”
“So will you let me go to the bathroom then?” A touch of hope crept into Elstridge’s voice.
“Absolutely not, your Highness.” The answer was final and very deliberate.
The Prince sighed deeply, something he had taken to doing a lot more of recently. Commands, requests and even outright deceit had all failed to provide the necessary components for his escape, and now he could see the doors of the Palace’s grand Ballroom, where over 500 people waited for him to arrive.
“Ho Elstridge!” shouted a familiar voice, causing the dejected young Prince to lift his head. Catching sight of Orion, still with his strange new hair style, a smile touched the face of the Prince.
“Ho Orion! I would have thought that you’d be inside already with the rest of the nobles, waiting for me to clap that big crown on my head.”
Orion looked down at his friend from the second story. With a deft jump, slide and roll he vaulted over the banister and down one of the many marble columns that supported the Palace. He drew level to the Guard, all of whom knew him, and looked quizzically at the Prince. “Actually they put it on for you, you know, that’s why it’s called a coronation… a crowning ceremony.”
Elstridge rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his childhood friend. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Orion flashed a grin, “you still upset about it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Of course!” I don’t want to be King!” complained Elstridge, even as they were ten meters from the Ballroom. “Could you work some of that Wind Weaver magic to get me out of here?”
Orion raised his hands to show his good intentions as the attention of the Honor Guard shifted suddenly. “I’d love to help, but I haven’t had much luck with the Wind Weaving lately, and plus I wouldn’t want to upset your mother now. Azrael AND Cerion would kill me if I did.”
Elstridge sighed again. “Then all is lost, you were my last hope.”
Orion chuckled. “Don’t worry about it so much. One day we’ll look back at this and laugh about how stubborn and stupid you were.”
His friend’s reply was tinged with dark foreboding, “or we’ll all be homeless and starving, either one yea?”
Orion laughed again and then scampered up the stairs to enter the Ballroom’s balcony. “Good luck!” he called as he disappeared around the corner.
“It’s not me,” muttered the Prince with a mental sigh, “it’s the Kingdom that I have to run.”
***
“Phew I think we made it.” Huffed Cerion, hand placed on the lintel of the doorway leading onto the balcony. “I don’t hear any trumpets.”
At his words, the trumpeters that lined the red carpet leading to the throne began to sound their fanfare announcing the entrance of the King.
“I think you’re deaf dear,” said Azrael with a massive grin even as she breezed past her rather less fit fiancé.
“But…” spluttered Cerion even as he also walked in.
The coronation had begun.
***
Cerion barely acknowledged his brother’s remark, concentrating as he was at his examination. Instead Azrael answered in his place.
“I’m sure Elstridge will forgive you for being late Orion, but we DO have to take care of this person you know… cause he’s dying.”
“But we’ll be late!” moaned Orion.
“I see that I also have to teach you something about priorities,” Azrael, noted as she turned back to Cerion. “How is he darling?”
Cerion took a deep breath before replying. “There’s some internal bleeding, but nothing that I can’t fix. Several of his ribs have been cracked as well, but thankfully none of them punctured his lung. I think I can fix him up, but we’ll need to take him inside.” Orion nodded emphatically to that last statement.
“Will he be able to stand the lifting?” asked Azrael, peering at the limp body.
“Shouldn’t be a problem, the ribs aren’t poking anything vital.”
The Hydromancer turned to regard his younger brother and gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Chill Orion, if you can these days, we still have plenty of time, the ceremony doesn’t start for another ten minutes!”
Orion was bursting with frustration. “Exactly, ten minutes isn’t that long you know.”
Even as they had been talking, Azrael carefully picked up the unconscious man and they hurried into the castle.
***
9.32 minutes later
***
“I think I’ve stopped the bleeding and set the ribs,” Cerion announced, tired as he was from the precise exertions and pressure he had just undergone.
Azrael handed her fiancé a soft cloth. “Good work honey. Do you think it’s safe to leave him here?”
Cerion looked around, “sure, the office of a Council member should be as secure as any other part of the castle. Now let’s get to that coronation… where’s Orion?”
Checking herself quickly in the many mirrors that hung in Cerion’s office, Azrael glanced at her beloved’s reflection. “Didn’t you notice? He left while you were operating, made some pretentious excuse about using the bathroom.” She paused to regard her own reflection and then turned around, satisfied with the result. “To be fair to the boy though, it’s not everyday one of your best friends becomes King.”
Cerion nodded sagely, also checking his hair in a different mirror. “How do I look dear?” he asked as he absently smoothed down some hair behind his ears.
“Fine darling, but we really should go, or we’ll be late.”
“Right right, in a mom…”
“Now Cerion.” The tone used left no room for disagreement.
“At once dear.” Cerion replied meekly.
***
The moment of truth had come, and Elstridge was still of the opinion that it was all a big mistake. A view that was not shared by his mother, or the troop of soldiers who were his “Honor Guard”. Try as he might, it seemed like fate had conspired to force him through this process. Even so, that didn’t stop him from persevering against all odds…
“I’m sure you can see my point Captain.” He concluded to the Knight in charge, even as they walked down the hallway to the Ballroom entrance.
“Of course, your Highness.”
“That’s good, glad to know we’re on the same page.”
“As am I, your Highness.”
“It would be most embarrassing.”
“I agree, your Highness.”
“So will you let me go to the bathroom then?” A touch of hope crept into Elstridge’s voice.
“Absolutely not, your Highness.” The answer was final and very deliberate.
The Prince sighed deeply, something he had taken to doing a lot more of recently. Commands, requests and even outright deceit had all failed to provide the necessary components for his escape, and now he could see the doors of the Palace’s grand Ballroom, where over 500 people waited for him to arrive.
“Ho Elstridge!” shouted a familiar voice, causing the dejected young Prince to lift his head. Catching sight of Orion, still with his strange new hair style, a smile touched the face of the Prince.
“Ho Orion! I would have thought that you’d be inside already with the rest of the nobles, waiting for me to clap that big crown on my head.”
Orion looked down at his friend from the second story. With a deft jump, slide and roll he vaulted over the banister and down one of the many marble columns that supported the Palace. He drew level to the Guard, all of whom knew him, and looked quizzically at the Prince. “Actually they put it on for you, you know, that’s why it’s called a coronation… a crowning ceremony.”
Elstridge rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his childhood friend. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Orion flashed a grin, “you still upset about it?” he asked, already knowing the answer.
“Of course!” I don’t want to be King!” complained Elstridge, even as they were ten meters from the Ballroom. “Could you work some of that Wind Weaver magic to get me out of here?”
Orion raised his hands to show his good intentions as the attention of the Honor Guard shifted suddenly. “I’d love to help, but I haven’t had much luck with the Wind Weaving lately, and plus I wouldn’t want to upset your mother now. Azrael AND Cerion would kill me if I did.”
Elstridge sighed again. “Then all is lost, you were my last hope.”
Orion chuckled. “Don’t worry about it so much. One day we’ll look back at this and laugh about how stubborn and stupid you were.”
His friend’s reply was tinged with dark foreboding, “or we’ll all be homeless and starving, either one yea?”
Orion laughed again and then scampered up the stairs to enter the Ballroom’s balcony. “Good luck!” he called as he disappeared around the corner.
“It’s not me,” muttered the Prince with a mental sigh, “it’s the Kingdom that I have to run.”
***
“Phew I think we made it.” Huffed Cerion, hand placed on the lintel of the doorway leading onto the balcony. “I don’t hear any trumpets.”
At his words, the trumpeters that lined the red carpet leading to the throne began to sound their fanfare announcing the entrance of the King.
“I think you’re deaf dear,” said Azrael with a massive grin even as she breezed past her rather less fit fiancé.
“But…” spluttered Cerion even as he also walked in.
The coronation had begun.
***
Monday, June 4, 2007
Whoo... cliff hanger
The winds that whipped around the Central Steeple were vicious, cold like ice and fast like lightning. Still Talleth didn’t mind too much, he was used to standing in high places.
He no longer whistled the tune that he had in the after, yet still the melody of that song ran over in his head, the one verse that his father had taught him as a child. It was a re-assuring comfort for the young man, almost like his mental ritual for relaxation.
Taking a look at the city’s clock tower just to his right, the soberly dressed figure counted down the minutes in his head. ‘Any moment now.’
Right on cue, a group of three individuals stepped out from a carriage at the foot of the steeple. All three wore masks, yet the burning red hair of the first to descend gave them away. Even in the dark, Talleth’s eye sight was sharp, and the colors stood out like it was day to him.
Straightening his cloak’s collar, he began to move towards the palace.
With a trade mark grin he began to walk down the roof. “Easy as…”
Suddenly a tile shot out from below his feet, sending the normally self assured young man flying.
‘Damn tiles!’ he thought as he tumbled over the edge. Far below he could see the ground rushing up to greet him. This would hurt a lot.
***
Prince Elstridge peered out at the gathering throng of nobles, politicians and important personalities who now moved with grace and pomp through the Palace ballroom. Drops of sweat, no longer content to bead on his brow, now began to form on his back and his mouth was suddenly very dry.
“Don’t fret at the curtain son!” Called his mother, calmly sitting on a plump teal couch, sipping tea from a porcelain cup, “come drink your tea?”
Elstridge resisted the urge to scream at his mother, and instead walked over to the matching chair which was off to his right.
“For the 100th time mother, I’m not fretting!” He exclaimed, defiantly taking a cup of tea from the table.”
“Is that so?” The stately woman replied. Turning her head slightly to look at her obviously stressed son she continued. “Then why are you shaking so much?”
The rattle of the tea cup hitting the saucer stopped suddenly as Elstridge willed his hand to stop moving immediately.
“I meant your knees son.”
With an increasingly red face, the boy realized that his knees were knocking together. Standing up suddenly, he almost spilt the tea on his shirt, putting it down just in time to avoid the splash.
“I don’t want to be King mother!”
Elmaria Nina Royale thought back to the days when she had been much younger. Although she wasn’t considered old at the age of 46, already she could feel her face changing, and the gray hairs were sprouting quickly matching the blonde that were there first. Still her memory was sharp. When she had been but 17, she remembered well the day of her brother’s coronation and how he too had railed against his own crowning. It was hardly coincidence that her dear brother Elliam had become the greatest ruler that Wilderia had ever known. Well, the enlisting of the alliance with the Keep had definitely helped, but that was only marginal, at least in her own mind.
“Elstridge Liam Royale!” She breathed in her most commanding and authoritative tone. “You have been chosen by the people of Wilderia to lead them into this next season of this country. You have been raised from birth KNOWING that this day might come. Now, at the age of eighteen you WILL ascend the throne that I have minded in my brother’s steed, and you WILL rule with honor, with valor and with the COURAGE that befits a member of our family!”
Elstridge sighed deeply, mouthing the words that his mother had been repeating for the last three months whenever he brought up the topic. He knew she was right. Yet how could he tell her that it was not his right to rule? Or that he didn’t feel up to it. She wouldn’t understand.
“But…”
“I will brook no argument Elstridge! The ceremony begins in 15 minutes!”
The Prince gave up, his shoulders slumping forward. “Yes ma’am.”
***
Orion loved the palace. It was one of the few places where he had grown up, playing and then later pestering his older brother. Despite the seven year age difference and the many responsibilities that Cerion carried, the older of the two brothers always found time to spend with his little shadow; patiently explaining to him the intricacies of weather art or having water fights with equal facility. Indeed the palace staff encouraged such behavior, out of respect for Cerion’s father if nothing else, but also from a genuine affection for Orion, one that everyone seemed to have.
Cerion had a rather more adult view of the place, though he still loved it just as much as his brother. The receptacles for all knowledge and training pertaining to Weather arts may lie in the keep, but it was at the palace where the majority of Wind Weavers and Hydromancers met during the day, completing assignments for nobility, communicating with their Council Members and, of course, gossiping like the other palace denizens.
However for Cerion, this building was where he had found the one thing that he had always sought, a beautiful woman to spend his life with. Azreal.
“You’ve got that look again Cer.” Commented Orion as he held the door for his brother.
“You wouldn’t understand Orion.” Stated Azreal, even as her fiancé offered her his hand with a charming smile. Her dimples made a brief appearance as she continued, “you’re just a bit young.”
Cerion chuckled at the small scowl that crossed his brother’s face. Better then anyone he knew that his brother hated to be talked down to, and even at the age of 24, he still treated his younger brother as an equal in all things. That would hold even truer now.
“Don’t tease him Azreal; my brother wants to enjoy the night! You never know, tonight he could meet someone special. Or one of his many “friends”, you never know with this boy. ”
Orion strove mightily to keep from returning that comment with a sharp smack on his brother’s back, so much so that smoke began to trickle out his ears.
Azreal laughed in whimsical delight. “You look so cute Orion! Would you like work in our kitchen? You’d be a great stove!”
His angry front crumpled under his own humor and so instead the new Embermage decided to retreat with a parting shot. “I give up, how can one so young compete with two wise old Council members? Maybe inside I’ll meet a long lost sibling or someone to help me get you guys back.”
Azreal and Cerion laughed good naturedly, and Orion returned their smile. As they began their ascent up the stairs, the wind began to howl more fiercely.
“Say dear…” began Cerion, raising a hand to his hair. Orion began to laugh even as Azreal sighed. “No problems darling.” She muttered, rolling her eyes slightly, even as she smiled along with Orion.
With only a thought, Azreal began to weave a shield around them to block the gale. The barrier was almost complete when Orion’s head jerked up. “Do you hear that?”
Cerion glanced at his brother before returning his gaze to the pocket mirror that he carried. “Hear what?”
Suddenly something hit the top of Azreal’s Wind Bowl, and then with a pop, the entire structure dissolved, bringing in a fresh wave of cold air and a body that collapsed into the middle of the three of them.
“That, I guess,” Orion said.
He no longer whistled the tune that he had in the after, yet still the melody of that song ran over in his head, the one verse that his father had taught him as a child. It was a re-assuring comfort for the young man, almost like his mental ritual for relaxation.
Taking a look at the city’s clock tower just to his right, the soberly dressed figure counted down the minutes in his head. ‘Any moment now.’
Right on cue, a group of three individuals stepped out from a carriage at the foot of the steeple. All three wore masks, yet the burning red hair of the first to descend gave them away. Even in the dark, Talleth’s eye sight was sharp, and the colors stood out like it was day to him.
Straightening his cloak’s collar, he began to move towards the palace.
With a trade mark grin he began to walk down the roof. “Easy as…”
Suddenly a tile shot out from below his feet, sending the normally self assured young man flying.
‘Damn tiles!’ he thought as he tumbled over the edge. Far below he could see the ground rushing up to greet him. This would hurt a lot.
***
Prince Elstridge peered out at the gathering throng of nobles, politicians and important personalities who now moved with grace and pomp through the Palace ballroom. Drops of sweat, no longer content to bead on his brow, now began to form on his back and his mouth was suddenly very dry.
“Don’t fret at the curtain son!” Called his mother, calmly sitting on a plump teal couch, sipping tea from a porcelain cup, “come drink your tea?”
Elstridge resisted the urge to scream at his mother, and instead walked over to the matching chair which was off to his right.
“For the 100th time mother, I’m not fretting!” He exclaimed, defiantly taking a cup of tea from the table.”
“Is that so?” The stately woman replied. Turning her head slightly to look at her obviously stressed son she continued. “Then why are you shaking so much?”
The rattle of the tea cup hitting the saucer stopped suddenly as Elstridge willed his hand to stop moving immediately.
“I meant your knees son.”
With an increasingly red face, the boy realized that his knees were knocking together. Standing up suddenly, he almost spilt the tea on his shirt, putting it down just in time to avoid the splash.
“I don’t want to be King mother!”
Elmaria Nina Royale thought back to the days when she had been much younger. Although she wasn’t considered old at the age of 46, already she could feel her face changing, and the gray hairs were sprouting quickly matching the blonde that were there first. Still her memory was sharp. When she had been but 17, she remembered well the day of her brother’s coronation and how he too had railed against his own crowning. It was hardly coincidence that her dear brother Elliam had become the greatest ruler that Wilderia had ever known. Well, the enlisting of the alliance with the Keep had definitely helped, but that was only marginal, at least in her own mind.
“Elstridge Liam Royale!” She breathed in her most commanding and authoritative tone. “You have been chosen by the people of Wilderia to lead them into this next season of this country. You have been raised from birth KNOWING that this day might come. Now, at the age of eighteen you WILL ascend the throne that I have minded in my brother’s steed, and you WILL rule with honor, with valor and with the COURAGE that befits a member of our family!”
Elstridge sighed deeply, mouthing the words that his mother had been repeating for the last three months whenever he brought up the topic. He knew she was right. Yet how could he tell her that it was not his right to rule? Or that he didn’t feel up to it. She wouldn’t understand.
“But…”
“I will brook no argument Elstridge! The ceremony begins in 15 minutes!”
The Prince gave up, his shoulders slumping forward. “Yes ma’am.”
***
Orion loved the palace. It was one of the few places where he had grown up, playing and then later pestering his older brother. Despite the seven year age difference and the many responsibilities that Cerion carried, the older of the two brothers always found time to spend with his little shadow; patiently explaining to him the intricacies of weather art or having water fights with equal facility. Indeed the palace staff encouraged such behavior, out of respect for Cerion’s father if nothing else, but also from a genuine affection for Orion, one that everyone seemed to have.
Cerion had a rather more adult view of the place, though he still loved it just as much as his brother. The receptacles for all knowledge and training pertaining to Weather arts may lie in the keep, but it was at the palace where the majority of Wind Weavers and Hydromancers met during the day, completing assignments for nobility, communicating with their Council Members and, of course, gossiping like the other palace denizens.
However for Cerion, this building was where he had found the one thing that he had always sought, a beautiful woman to spend his life with. Azreal.
“You’ve got that look again Cer.” Commented Orion as he held the door for his brother.
“You wouldn’t understand Orion.” Stated Azreal, even as her fiancé offered her his hand with a charming smile. Her dimples made a brief appearance as she continued, “you’re just a bit young.”
Cerion chuckled at the small scowl that crossed his brother’s face. Better then anyone he knew that his brother hated to be talked down to, and even at the age of 24, he still treated his younger brother as an equal in all things. That would hold even truer now.
“Don’t tease him Azreal; my brother wants to enjoy the night! You never know, tonight he could meet someone special. Or one of his many “friends”, you never know with this boy. ”
Orion strove mightily to keep from returning that comment with a sharp smack on his brother’s back, so much so that smoke began to trickle out his ears.
Azreal laughed in whimsical delight. “You look so cute Orion! Would you like work in our kitchen? You’d be a great stove!”
His angry front crumpled under his own humor and so instead the new Embermage decided to retreat with a parting shot. “I give up, how can one so young compete with two wise old Council members? Maybe inside I’ll meet a long lost sibling or someone to help me get you guys back.”
Azreal and Cerion laughed good naturedly, and Orion returned their smile. As they began their ascent up the stairs, the wind began to howl more fiercely.
“Say dear…” began Cerion, raising a hand to his hair. Orion began to laugh even as Azreal sighed. “No problems darling.” She muttered, rolling her eyes slightly, even as she smiled along with Orion.
With only a thought, Azreal began to weave a shield around them to block the gale. The barrier was almost complete when Orion’s head jerked up. “Do you hear that?”
Cerion glanced at his brother before returning his gaze to the pocket mirror that he carried. “Hear what?”
Suddenly something hit the top of Azreal’s Wind Bowl, and then with a pop, the entire structure dissolved, bringing in a fresh wave of cold air and a body that collapsed into the middle of the three of them.
“That, I guess,” Orion said.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
The charecter development thickens.
Talleth wandered down the row of shops, smiling broadly and whistling the tune that his father had taught him so many years ago. With his thumbs tucked into his belt and the happy mood he projected, many of the market’s patrons stopped to give him a smile or a wave. One store keeper, a big man with a cheerful grin, even went so far as to toss the tall youth an apple, one which was deftly caught.
“Thank you my good man!” he called, taking a big bite of the juicy red apple.
With an even broader smile, the young man continued down the market, no longer whistling, as he savoured the tasty apple. Things tasted sweeter when they were free.
Behind him a commotion began, resolving itself into the shape of several armed men running down the street. With a glance backward, Talleth stepped to the side, letting the City Patrol pass by, even casting a curious glance after them.
“What do you suppose the fuss is?” He asked a woman to his left.
“It has to be that bandit, Varako,” announced the rather rotund lady, nodding sharply. “He’s been robbing banks, stealing from the city’s treasury, and even had the nerve to steal the Prince’s gift for his sweet heart, the lovely Gabriella.
Talleth’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I heard that the Lady received the present.” He replied offhand, before taking another bite from the apple.
The woman nodded. “Aye, that she did, with a note saying that it was from a secret admirer, one who would always cherish and protect her.” The old lady’s voice crackled with derision. “The nerve of that villain!”
Talleth laughed good naturedly, “Right you are Ma’am, perhaps it’s time something was done yes?”
“High time indeed!”
With a tip of his cap, Talleth moved on down the street, following the flow of people who filled in the wake of the Patrol. With his roguish smile and confident manner, many of the young ladies rewarded him with coy glances and lowered eye lids. It helped that he was quite handsome too, with well groom mid length black hair and a striking green doublet.
The city’s Bell began to tool.
“Ahh,” sighed Talleth knowingly, stepping smoothly into a side street. “The Prince has come.”
Walking further down, the broad shouldered young man glanced around quickly to make sure he was along. Then without a word, he vanished.
***
Cerion stared hard at the mirror, trying to figure out what was wrong with the way his hair was arranged. Short spikes were out of the question, too much like his brother, yet that only left him with long hair that covered his face, something that his fiancé despised.
“You know, if you stay in her any longer Cer, you’ll start putting down roots.”
Not surprised by the intrusion, Cerion stepped to the side to put his beloved Azreal into view.
“Am I really that late?” he asked, sounding slightly plaintive.
“Not really, however I know how long you like to stare at your captivating beauty, so I thought I’d drop by. The bells will sound in a few minutes.
“Minutes!” Spluttered the hydromancer, fumbling desperately for oil to add to his already slick plumage.
“Relax dear, let me,” suggested Azreal as she began to work her wind weaving.
“I thought I told you that I didn’t like it when…”
“Hush dear,” said Azreal as she called a mask into the room from the wardrobe behind.
“Why do I have to wear a mask?” He whined
“Because it’s a masquerade dear.” Replied his beloved calmly. “What is it with your family, you guys love to complain.”
“Really?” How’s Orion? Still learning to control the fire?”
“I think he’s getting the hang of it. I haven’t had to suffocate him in about three days now, and he promised not to combust while we’re at the party.”
Cerion chuckled. “Party? It’s a coronation ceremony my darling! You know, the biggest social and political event this country has seen in almost a decade?”
Azreal laughed lightly, a rippling and extraordinarily pleasing sound that made Cerion’s heart beat a little faster.
“I’d hope so; I don’t do my hair like this everyday.”
For the first time since she had stepped into the room Cerion actually took notice of his soon to be wife. At that moment, he resolved to do so more often.
Azreal was beautiful, nay exquisite. Her gown was deep blue velvet that managed to shimmer in the light of the candles which surrounded them, yet it didn’t shine so brightly as to detract from the lady herself. The hem crumpled into the floor, yet even the crumples seemed like waves from which she was rising to display her remarkable beauty. Her long black hair was delicately piled in soft braids that seemed to intertwine with remarkable complexity and grace, and it ended in a cascade of brilliant curls which both reached long past her shoulders, yet hinted at the curve of her neck. Small diamonds and pearls were woven into her hair, and at her throat was a brilliant sapphire pendant, cut in the shape of a diamond, with a swirl of white gold as the setting.
“All done honey,” said Azreal as she broke the three minute long silence. “You can pick your jaw up on the way out.” Without another word, the Wind Weaver left, leaving the swishing of her gown behind her.
Cerion rubbed his chin ruefully as he strode out of his private bathroom. To himself he thought. ‘I am the LUCKIEST man on earth… and let no one forgot it!’
***
“Thank you my good man!” he called, taking a big bite of the juicy red apple.
With an even broader smile, the young man continued down the market, no longer whistling, as he savoured the tasty apple. Things tasted sweeter when they were free.
Behind him a commotion began, resolving itself into the shape of several armed men running down the street. With a glance backward, Talleth stepped to the side, letting the City Patrol pass by, even casting a curious glance after them.
“What do you suppose the fuss is?” He asked a woman to his left.
“It has to be that bandit, Varako,” announced the rather rotund lady, nodding sharply. “He’s been robbing banks, stealing from the city’s treasury, and even had the nerve to steal the Prince’s gift for his sweet heart, the lovely Gabriella.
Talleth’s eyebrows rose slightly. “I heard that the Lady received the present.” He replied offhand, before taking another bite from the apple.
The woman nodded. “Aye, that she did, with a note saying that it was from a secret admirer, one who would always cherish and protect her.” The old lady’s voice crackled with derision. “The nerve of that villain!”
Talleth laughed good naturedly, “Right you are Ma’am, perhaps it’s time something was done yes?”
“High time indeed!”
With a tip of his cap, Talleth moved on down the street, following the flow of people who filled in the wake of the Patrol. With his roguish smile and confident manner, many of the young ladies rewarded him with coy glances and lowered eye lids. It helped that he was quite handsome too, with well groom mid length black hair and a striking green doublet.
The city’s Bell began to tool.
“Ahh,” sighed Talleth knowingly, stepping smoothly into a side street. “The Prince has come.”
Walking further down, the broad shouldered young man glanced around quickly to make sure he was along. Then without a word, he vanished.
***
Cerion stared hard at the mirror, trying to figure out what was wrong with the way his hair was arranged. Short spikes were out of the question, too much like his brother, yet that only left him with long hair that covered his face, something that his fiancé despised.
“You know, if you stay in her any longer Cer, you’ll start putting down roots.”
Not surprised by the intrusion, Cerion stepped to the side to put his beloved Azreal into view.
“Am I really that late?” he asked, sounding slightly plaintive.
“Not really, however I know how long you like to stare at your captivating beauty, so I thought I’d drop by. The bells will sound in a few minutes.
“Minutes!” Spluttered the hydromancer, fumbling desperately for oil to add to his already slick plumage.
“Relax dear, let me,” suggested Azreal as she began to work her wind weaving.
“I thought I told you that I didn’t like it when…”
“Hush dear,” said Azreal as she called a mask into the room from the wardrobe behind.
“Why do I have to wear a mask?” He whined
“Because it’s a masquerade dear.” Replied his beloved calmly. “What is it with your family, you guys love to complain.”
“Really?” How’s Orion? Still learning to control the fire?”
“I think he’s getting the hang of it. I haven’t had to suffocate him in about three days now, and he promised not to combust while we’re at the party.”
Cerion chuckled. “Party? It’s a coronation ceremony my darling! You know, the biggest social and political event this country has seen in almost a decade?”
Azreal laughed lightly, a rippling and extraordinarily pleasing sound that made Cerion’s heart beat a little faster.
“I’d hope so; I don’t do my hair like this everyday.”
For the first time since she had stepped into the room Cerion actually took notice of his soon to be wife. At that moment, he resolved to do so more often.
Azreal was beautiful, nay exquisite. Her gown was deep blue velvet that managed to shimmer in the light of the candles which surrounded them, yet it didn’t shine so brightly as to detract from the lady herself. The hem crumpled into the floor, yet even the crumples seemed like waves from which she was rising to display her remarkable beauty. Her long black hair was delicately piled in soft braids that seemed to intertwine with remarkable complexity and grace, and it ended in a cascade of brilliant curls which both reached long past her shoulders, yet hinted at the curve of her neck. Small diamonds and pearls were woven into her hair, and at her throat was a brilliant sapphire pendant, cut in the shape of a diamond, with a swirl of white gold as the setting.
“All done honey,” said Azreal as she broke the three minute long silence. “You can pick your jaw up on the way out.” Without another word, the Wind Weaver left, leaving the swishing of her gown behind her.
Cerion rubbed his chin ruefully as he strode out of his private bathroom. To himself he thought. ‘I am the LUCKIEST man on earth… and let no one forgot it!’
***
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Finding that call
Before the torch he stood, eye closed, but ears clearly hearing the sounds made by the guttering flame. Shadows that he couldn’t see flickered along the wall beckoning silently to anyone who would notice. Ignoring the room around, dark but for the light of that one torch, the young man, tall and lean, braced sandaled feet on the ground.
He could feel the heat on his face, the swirl of the air caused by the convection current… but he couldn’t sense what he sought, where the targets stood.
With a disheartened sigh he let his shoulders sag, slowly opening his eyes to see the circle of wooden poles around him, each topped by small sheaves of grass.
“It’s no use, I can’t see them ‘rael, I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Stepping from the shadows outside the circle, the woman named Azrael pulled back her hood, revealing her loosely tied raven black hair which subtly reflected the light. A slight smile played around her lips as she addressed her whining charge.
“You’ve been saying that for days Orion, yet there isn’t any doubt, you’ve been tested and you will use your power. We’ll stay here all month if need be.”
Pausing to regard the young man who, at 17 years of age, could look over her head easily, she sighed. “Just remember what I taught you, feel the world around you…follow the air.”
Orion looked doubtful, but he shrugged once more with resignation and turned to face the torch again. Ever since he had started to feel the convection current flowing up off the fire, he had thought that something would happen. Yet that had been a week ago, and nothing had changed in the last 10 days.
“Remember, follow the air!” Azrael called as she stepped back into the shadows.
Once more Orion closed his eyes, feeling for the heat and the flow of the currents that moved around him. As the hot air rose above the torch, it pulled in cooler air from the sides to replace the vacuum. This created air flow through the wooden sticks.
As Orion followed the air flows upwards, he suddenly had a new idea. Instead of tracing the air up and waiting for it to come down, perhaps it would be quicker to follow it down and outward from that. Sure it would be harder, moving between air points instead of simply following one, but at least it would be less boring then waiting for air to cool.
Beads of sweat started to form on his back as he laboriously forced his mind back down the air flow, towards the source of heat. He could feel the air streaming from the sides, and even further… just beyond his mind’s eye… obstructions.
The momentary distraction caused by that sense of achievement was all it took. Without warning, his consciousness plunged into the flame.
“ARGH!” He screamed, his mind surrounded by heat… and fire that scorched his soul.
“Orion!” Gasped Azrael, leaping forward and beginning her Wind Weaving. Without thought, her tendrils of air locked around his limbs, as she prepared to pull him towards her.
Then she stopped… amazed and truly frightened.
Orion’s hair, black as the night sky, was slowly being changed, from the roots up. A bright blondish orange climbed the straight and spiky hair, reaching all the way to the tips.
The boy’s back had begun to arch back, and his arms were flung out to the side, fingers curled into fists.
“AHHHHRG!!!” Screamed Orion again, and with that sound, his hands unfurled, bursting into flames.
“What in the world…?” exclaimed Azrael as she watched helplessly. She knew that pulling Orion away from the torch could be dangerous, yet the boy seemed to be in a tremendous amount of pain.
As suddenly as it began, Orion suddenly went limp, and dropped to the floor, all fire gone from his body. Smoke streamed from his clothing, from his fists, still orange hair and back.
Azrael quickly moved in to check his vital signs. His pulse fluttered slightly, but it still beat strong enough to show he was in no danger of dying. His breathing was rapid but steady and there were no burns on his skin.
Standing straight, the Wind Weaver called once again on her art, and using threads of air, she carefully laid the boy on his back and lifted him up. It was close to effortless for the small woman, so easily did the flows come, but still she concentrated just like she taught her students, and slowly began to walk out of the room.
To the naked eye, Orion’s limp body floated behind her, no longer smoking, as she made her way to his bed chamber. Once she reached the spartan room, she laid him down, tucked him in and left. Sleep, she hoped, would revive him. Anything else, she was afraid to try.
The next morning Azrael rose with the Sun and went immediately to check on her pupil. Surprisingly he wasn’t in the room. Despair and anxiety coursed through her veins for a split second, before she heard the sounds of sandaled feet padding around the garden outside.
Walking outside into the morning sunlight, she took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
There stood Orion… dressed in his customary black Acolyte’s uniform. His bright orange hair, caught the sunlight… and it almost seemed like his head burned with a torch’s fire. The young man was staring hard into the small pool in which several fishes swam. It became clear, as Azrael approached, that he was looking at his reflection.
“Morning Orion.” She greeted him, stopping a few feet away.
“Am I dreaming Az… Ouch!” He declared, rubbing the place where Azrael has flicked his ear.
“Morning Azrael!” The teacher remonstrated, crossing her arms and glaring at her student. “Training in weather arts isn’t the only thing I’m meant to teach you know.”
“Sorry, morning Azrael,” Orion mumbled before quickly continuing on. “Have you seen this?? Look at my hair!! What happened?? Is this some sorta joke? I don’t remember passing out last night…”
Azrael looked thoughtful for a moment. “You had an accident during training. You caught on fire. I don’t know how.”
Orion’s answering looking was pure astonishment, touched with suspicion. “You’re serious right? This isn’t like the time you told me that the male Acolytes roomed with the female ones.”
Azrael was torn between laughing at that memory and the gravity of the situation. As a result, only a slight smile touched her face, “I’m serious Orion… I think you’ve become an Embermage instead of a Wind Weaver.”
Understanding slowly dawned on the young man, followed swiftly by an expression of awe. “There hasn’t been an Embermage in 200 years!” he declared.
“Correct,” nodded Azrael, smiling at the reaction her charge had plastered on his face. “and as such, there isn’t anyone who can teach you how to control your gift. As your teacher, I will try. However a lot of the work will be your own. I wonder if you’ll be up to it.”
Orion considered his teacher for a moment, then smiled. “My brother told me that life was very simple. We make choices and don’t look back.”
Azrael raised her eyebrow “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
Orion smiled, “that’s what I used to think… but it does in a way. Once you make a choice… it’s your job to follow it through. I’m ready to learn. After all, my brother is the greatest Hydromancer in this City, maybe I’ll be able to show him that I can do things too.”
Azrael smiled again, this time a secret and knowing smile. Sibling rivalry was one of the strongest motivations between brothers, or sisters for that matter. She would have to tell Cerion the news. Her fiancé would be proud of his younger brother, though he would never admit it.
“Alright, take the day off, and I’ll do some research. There are plenty of manuals at Aeris Keep, I’ll see what I can find. Until then, try not to burn things down, and don’t tell anyone ok?”
Orion grinned broadly, showing a startling but not uncommon resemblance to his older brother. “Sure thing ‘rael, you can count on me!”
Azrael sighed deeply. How many times had she heard that phrase… it always meant trouble.
He could feel the heat on his face, the swirl of the air caused by the convection current… but he couldn’t sense what he sought, where the targets stood.
With a disheartened sigh he let his shoulders sag, slowly opening his eyes to see the circle of wooden poles around him, each topped by small sheaves of grass.
“It’s no use, I can’t see them ‘rael, I don’t think it’s going to work.”
Stepping from the shadows outside the circle, the woman named Azrael pulled back her hood, revealing her loosely tied raven black hair which subtly reflected the light. A slight smile played around her lips as she addressed her whining charge.
“You’ve been saying that for days Orion, yet there isn’t any doubt, you’ve been tested and you will use your power. We’ll stay here all month if need be.”
Pausing to regard the young man who, at 17 years of age, could look over her head easily, she sighed. “Just remember what I taught you, feel the world around you…follow the air.”
Orion looked doubtful, but he shrugged once more with resignation and turned to face the torch again. Ever since he had started to feel the convection current flowing up off the fire, he had thought that something would happen. Yet that had been a week ago, and nothing had changed in the last 10 days.
“Remember, follow the air!” Azrael called as she stepped back into the shadows.
Once more Orion closed his eyes, feeling for the heat and the flow of the currents that moved around him. As the hot air rose above the torch, it pulled in cooler air from the sides to replace the vacuum. This created air flow through the wooden sticks.
As Orion followed the air flows upwards, he suddenly had a new idea. Instead of tracing the air up and waiting for it to come down, perhaps it would be quicker to follow it down and outward from that. Sure it would be harder, moving between air points instead of simply following one, but at least it would be less boring then waiting for air to cool.
Beads of sweat started to form on his back as he laboriously forced his mind back down the air flow, towards the source of heat. He could feel the air streaming from the sides, and even further… just beyond his mind’s eye… obstructions.
The momentary distraction caused by that sense of achievement was all it took. Without warning, his consciousness plunged into the flame.
“ARGH!” He screamed, his mind surrounded by heat… and fire that scorched his soul.
“Orion!” Gasped Azrael, leaping forward and beginning her Wind Weaving. Without thought, her tendrils of air locked around his limbs, as she prepared to pull him towards her.
Then she stopped… amazed and truly frightened.
Orion’s hair, black as the night sky, was slowly being changed, from the roots up. A bright blondish orange climbed the straight and spiky hair, reaching all the way to the tips.
The boy’s back had begun to arch back, and his arms were flung out to the side, fingers curled into fists.
“AHHHHRG!!!” Screamed Orion again, and with that sound, his hands unfurled, bursting into flames.
“What in the world…?” exclaimed Azrael as she watched helplessly. She knew that pulling Orion away from the torch could be dangerous, yet the boy seemed to be in a tremendous amount of pain.
As suddenly as it began, Orion suddenly went limp, and dropped to the floor, all fire gone from his body. Smoke streamed from his clothing, from his fists, still orange hair and back.
Azrael quickly moved in to check his vital signs. His pulse fluttered slightly, but it still beat strong enough to show he was in no danger of dying. His breathing was rapid but steady and there were no burns on his skin.
Standing straight, the Wind Weaver called once again on her art, and using threads of air, she carefully laid the boy on his back and lifted him up. It was close to effortless for the small woman, so easily did the flows come, but still she concentrated just like she taught her students, and slowly began to walk out of the room.
To the naked eye, Orion’s limp body floated behind her, no longer smoking, as she made her way to his bed chamber. Once she reached the spartan room, she laid him down, tucked him in and left. Sleep, she hoped, would revive him. Anything else, she was afraid to try.
The next morning Azrael rose with the Sun and went immediately to check on her pupil. Surprisingly he wasn’t in the room. Despair and anxiety coursed through her veins for a split second, before she heard the sounds of sandaled feet padding around the garden outside.
Walking outside into the morning sunlight, she took a moment for her eyes to adjust.
There stood Orion… dressed in his customary black Acolyte’s uniform. His bright orange hair, caught the sunlight… and it almost seemed like his head burned with a torch’s fire. The young man was staring hard into the small pool in which several fishes swam. It became clear, as Azrael approached, that he was looking at his reflection.
“Morning Orion.” She greeted him, stopping a few feet away.
“Am I dreaming Az… Ouch!” He declared, rubbing the place where Azrael has flicked his ear.
“Morning Azrael!” The teacher remonstrated, crossing her arms and glaring at her student. “Training in weather arts isn’t the only thing I’m meant to teach you know.”
“Sorry, morning Azrael,” Orion mumbled before quickly continuing on. “Have you seen this?? Look at my hair!! What happened?? Is this some sorta joke? I don’t remember passing out last night…”
Azrael looked thoughtful for a moment. “You had an accident during training. You caught on fire. I don’t know how.”
Orion’s answering looking was pure astonishment, touched with suspicion. “You’re serious right? This isn’t like the time you told me that the male Acolytes roomed with the female ones.”
Azrael was torn between laughing at that memory and the gravity of the situation. As a result, only a slight smile touched her face, “I’m serious Orion… I think you’ve become an Embermage instead of a Wind Weaver.”
Understanding slowly dawned on the young man, followed swiftly by an expression of awe. “There hasn’t been an Embermage in 200 years!” he declared.
“Correct,” nodded Azrael, smiling at the reaction her charge had plastered on his face. “and as such, there isn’t anyone who can teach you how to control your gift. As your teacher, I will try. However a lot of the work will be your own. I wonder if you’ll be up to it.”
Orion considered his teacher for a moment, then smiled. “My brother told me that life was very simple. We make choices and don’t look back.”
Azrael raised her eyebrow “That doesn’t really answer my question.”
Orion smiled, “that’s what I used to think… but it does in a way. Once you make a choice… it’s your job to follow it through. I’m ready to learn. After all, my brother is the greatest Hydromancer in this City, maybe I’ll be able to show him that I can do things too.”
Azrael smiled again, this time a secret and knowing smile. Sibling rivalry was one of the strongest motivations between brothers, or sisters for that matter. She would have to tell Cerion the news. Her fiancé would be proud of his younger brother, though he would never admit it.
“Alright, take the day off, and I’ll do some research. There are plenty of manuals at Aeris Keep, I’ll see what I can find. Until then, try not to burn things down, and don’t tell anyone ok?”
Orion grinned broadly, showing a startling but not uncommon resemblance to his older brother. “Sure thing ‘rael, you can count on me!”
Azrael sighed deeply. How many times had she heard that phrase… it always meant trouble.
Thursday, March 8, 2007
Choices
Griffin sat perfectly still, eyes shut tight, deep in his meditations. Beneath the shade of a massive oak tree the young man pondered the wonders of the universe, the beauty of nature. Cool wind blew through the leaves, causing the branches to rock every so faintly, lifting his spirits.
Suddenly a gunshot echoed within the park, causing the young man’s steely eyes to snap open even as he dived to the side. A bullet of bright silver burned through his spiky black hair, burying itself into the bark just above where his ear had been moments before. The smell of melting wax and burnt wood began to waft into the air.
Still moving from his dive, Griffin continued to roll, stopping only when he had found a large rock to hide behind. Back pressed hard against stone, a snarl touched his face as the former assassin reached for his pistol, realizing as he did so that he no longer carried a gun wherever he went.
His right hand then rose up to his left shoulder, fingers feeling and then grasping the moulded handle of his custom made Japanese throwing knife secured there under his short sleeved shirt. Drawing it smoothly from the sheath, he raised it slightly above the rock, angling the reflection to survey the direction from which the shot had originated. At the distance he sat, nothing appeared out of the ordinary, most likely because the nearest cover was almost 50 meters away.
Looking around, the young man took quick stock of his surroundings. The tree where he had previously sat stood on a small hill in the middle of a large green hill. Hiding as he was behind this rock, he was half way down the incline, with the woods directly before him. If he could just get amongst the trees, he had a good chance of escape. That or he could go for the long barrelled Beretta that was stashed in his Crumpler bag hanging from a branch in the tree.
Which do you choose:
A: RUN for the hills… ehh trees!
B: The best defence is a good offence!
Suddenly a gunshot echoed within the park, causing the young man’s steely eyes to snap open even as he dived to the side. A bullet of bright silver burned through his spiky black hair, burying itself into the bark just above where his ear had been moments before. The smell of melting wax and burnt wood began to waft into the air.
Still moving from his dive, Griffin continued to roll, stopping only when he had found a large rock to hide behind. Back pressed hard against stone, a snarl touched his face as the former assassin reached for his pistol, realizing as he did so that he no longer carried a gun wherever he went.
His right hand then rose up to his left shoulder, fingers feeling and then grasping the moulded handle of his custom made Japanese throwing knife secured there under his short sleeved shirt. Drawing it smoothly from the sheath, he raised it slightly above the rock, angling the reflection to survey the direction from which the shot had originated. At the distance he sat, nothing appeared out of the ordinary, most likely because the nearest cover was almost 50 meters away.
Looking around, the young man took quick stock of his surroundings. The tree where he had previously sat stood on a small hill in the middle of a large green hill. Hiding as he was behind this rock, he was half way down the incline, with the woods directly before him. If he could just get amongst the trees, he had a good chance of escape. That or he could go for the long barrelled Beretta that was stashed in his Crumpler bag hanging from a branch in the tree.
Which do you choose:
A: RUN for the hills… ehh trees!
B: The best defence is a good offence!
ATTACK!
‘The best way to survive any encounter is to keep your opponent off balance.’ Those were the words of Griffin’s mentor many years ago. ‘If you focus too much on yourself, you neglect one whole half of the fight.’
Griffin smiled briefly as he recalled the situation in which he had learnt those fateful words. With a kick flip, he stood up and sprinted towards the tree. Approaching quickly, he flung his knife from almost 10 meters away. It nipped through the strap holding up the Crumpler. Slowly the bag began to fall.
Leaping into the air, the agile youth pressed off the side of the tree springing up to catch the bag.
As he landed, Griffin curled into a roll and extricated the pistol within all within seconds. With huge tug, he ripped it from the holster within and levelled it at the direction from which he believed the shot had been fired.
It was then that he saw the assailant, dressed all in black; heave up an RPG on his shoulder about 40 meters away.
“Ahh crap.” He muttered realizing his immediate peril.
However a small part of his imagination kicked in and he sank to a crouch where he stood.
“That’s a rocket.” He reasoned. “Rockets explode.”
Even as the trigger for the RPG was pressed, Griffin began to fire.
The second shot hit the rocket. It made a very big explosion.
Griffin smiled briefly as he recalled the situation in which he had learnt those fateful words. With a kick flip, he stood up and sprinted towards the tree. Approaching quickly, he flung his knife from almost 10 meters away. It nipped through the strap holding up the Crumpler. Slowly the bag began to fall.
Leaping into the air, the agile youth pressed off the side of the tree springing up to catch the bag.
As he landed, Griffin curled into a roll and extricated the pistol within all within seconds. With huge tug, he ripped it from the holster within and levelled it at the direction from which he believed the shot had been fired.
It was then that he saw the assailant, dressed all in black; heave up an RPG on his shoulder about 40 meters away.
“Ahh crap.” He muttered realizing his immediate peril.
However a small part of his imagination kicked in and he sank to a crouch where he stood.
“That’s a rocket.” He reasoned. “Rockets explode.”
Even as the trigger for the RPG was pressed, Griffin began to fire.
The second shot hit the rocket. It made a very big explosion.
Running
Griffin cast around hurriedly for something to use as a distraction, yet the area around the rock was fairly barren. This presented a slight problem to the trapped young man. Faced with no other options, it seemed that he was going to take the risk. After all, the sniper had missed a stationary target once; hopefully he’d miss a moving one.
Squirming back into a somewhat crouched position, Griffin slid his weapon back into its sheath, and took off a sprint.
A fair few seconds passed and he didn’t hear any sounds. It seemed like a good sign.
Suddenly, there was a noise, though it sounded more like the whoosh of a speeding train then a bullet. Griffin didn’t look back though, he knew the secret to these things.
Without warning a massive explosion took place to his left, the shockwave expanding far faster then his puny running speed. A second later, all which remained of the coward was a charred crater.
Squirming back into a somewhat crouched position, Griffin slid his weapon back into its sheath, and took off a sprint.
A fair few seconds passed and he didn’t hear any sounds. It seemed like a good sign.
Suddenly, there was a noise, though it sounded more like the whoosh of a speeding train then a bullet. Griffin didn’t look back though, he knew the secret to these things.
Without warning a massive explosion took place to his left, the shockwave expanding far faster then his puny running speed. A second later, all which remained of the coward was a charred crater.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
The Mirror Version 1
He was completely ordinary and completely unnoticeable. There was nothing about him to hold one's attention; it slipped off him like water off a duck. No one gave him more than a passing glance, and no one gave him a thought.
Each night he sat in front of the mirror staring at himself, wondering what he could change that would make a difference - any difference that would help people notice him. Each time he found nothing. He was commonness personified, bland dull normality in the shape of a man.
One night he was doing as he always did, when all of a sudden the surface of the mirror began to ripple. Soon, to his horror, something else was staring out at him.
"What are you?" he asked of it.
"The means to making your wish come true."
"What is the cost?"
It smiled, catlike. "We can talk about that later. Are you willing?"
He was willing.
"Done," it said.
What followed was the two best months of his life. He was a different man now, so blissfully happy he was almost convinced he was living a dream. He rarely looked in the mirror because he simply didn't have time to, or perhaps because he was secretly afraid of seeing the thing that had granted him his wish. One night though, he happened to glance at his reflection and saw, again, something else watching him.
"Hello," it said amiably displaying long yellow teeth. "I've come to collect."
"All right," he said. "What do you want?"
"Nothing very much," it said placatingly. "Only something small. Like... the light in your eye."
He looked at a bit of mirror that was still reflective, not roiling darkness and slimy skin, and saw, really saw, for the first time how much he had changed. He looked happier, of course. He had put on weight. And there was a light in his eye, the light of one who has all he wanted in life and is perfectly content.
"It wasn't there before, and what use is it to me now? You could have asked for worse and I would have had to give it to you. Take it if you will."
"I will," the thing in the mirror said with a horrible smile that had too many teeth and tongues, "and I believe I have got a better bargain than you think."
There was a terrible pain in the man's head, heart and soul, and when it was gone the man was overcome with exhaustion and the feeling that something vital had been ripped from him.
From that day life continued for him as it had since his wish had been granted, but he found he could take no pleasure in anything anymore. He grew thinner and thinner, grayer and grayer, and never smiled again.
After he disappeared for a few days they knocked down his front door and found him in front of a broken mirror; he had sliced his wrists with a sharp, shining shard.
The Mirror Version 2
Mark was a very nondescript young man, the kind so extraordinarily ordinary he managed to walk through life without anybody noticing him. If you were to ask for him, which no one did, you would be greeted with the vague, annoyed gestures of the person who knows something has slipped his mind: "Marcus… just one moment, I seem to recall…" only the person never did. If you were to walk past him in the street, you wouldn't even have noticed him as you accidentally bumped his briefcase and sent its contents fluttering onto the street.
This sort of thing happened a lot to Mark, who was as quietly, blandly unhappy as it was possible for a person to be. Every day he woke up at seven, commuted to work, came home to his messy apartment, stared at the TV while he had takeout and shuffled off to bed. No one paid him any heed as he came and went, and even when he paid the rent his landlord always looked at him with an expression of vague surprise, as if she had forgotten she had someone living in the boxy set of rooms above hers.
For all his outward unremarkablility Mark possessed his own passions deep within him, burning brightly yet utterly unperceivable by others. He wanted desperately to be noticed. And he was deeply, senselessly in love.
Her name was Amanda. She lit up his world. Whenever she came into the room, he couldn't take his eyes off her. Whenever she was out of it, he daydreamed about her endlessly. It was just as well his manager never checked up on his work aside from a very occasional "Hey Mick, how's it going?" which Mark always started to answer enthusiastically, forgetting the manager never stopped long enough to listen to his reply.
Mark had tried a number of ways to win her heart, none of them successful. He had attempted to write her poetry, which had started promisingly with Roses are red, violets are blue and ended in a variety of less appealing ways, such as I can't think about anything else please say you'll go out with me then we can take a drive to Vegas and get married by an Elvis impersonator in a little run down chapel and I'll take really good care of you forever and ever and make you happy even though my apartment has a weird smell and is kinda damp but you won't get sick, honest.
He was pretty sure 'honest' didn't rhyme with 'blue'.
He also sent her flowers, once. That hadn't turned out well either because the florist had simply forgot his order for her birthday, and after a large number of phone calls the roses turned up at her desk the following week. And that was when he realized he had forgotten to include a card with the bouquet.
The real problem, however, was that he simply lacked the guts to walk up to her and say, "Amanda, the roses were from me, although they don't compare to your beauty. Would you do me the honor of having dinner with me tomorrow night?"
Mark never realized that, and instead put all his energy into blaming his unnoticeability. If he made himself more noticeable, everything would magically fall into place. He would have friends. Amanda would go out with him. Life would be perfect.
First he bought books with titles like "10 Steps To A New You!" and "How To Realize Your Inner Star!" He took them home, devoured them, and the next Monday was ready to show the world a New Him. Walking into the office with what he hoped was a confident stride, but was at best a slightly awkward almost-run, he shoved his hand at the first colleague he met and flashed a huge, yellow smile.
"Good morning, Jim!" he declared in a voice that was more volume than self-assurance.
Jim made no attempt to rise from his seat. His eyes followed the hand under his nose to the person it belonged to. His brow knitted. "Good morning…?"
"Marcus," Mark supplied, ignoring his glasses, which were starting to slide down his nose, and holding onto his smile desperately.
"Ah, Parker. Knew that." And Jim went back to surfing porn.
Out went the self-help books in the trash the next day. Through with his inner star, Mark decided to work on his outer star. His coffee table was strewn with new magazines with titles like "10 Steps To An Amazing Body" and "How To Get The Perfect Physique!"
Fifteen minutes into his brand new gym membership Mark twisted a muscle he never knew he had and that was the end of that.
---
The rent was due, and even though something in him rebelled at paying it on time – maybe he secretly wanted the landlord to come knocking on the door, just to prove to himself that someone knew he existed – he found himself ringing her doorbell. She opened her door and looked at him with hazy astonishment that had nothing to do with his disheveled appearance or the lack of his briefcase; it was the same look she always gave him. Mark handed her his rent wordlessly and even before he finished turning away, the door was already shut.
He let himself into his apartment, kicked at the door to shut it, went straight to his bathroom and turned on the tap. There was a mirror over the sink, cracked and dotted with age. He wet his hand aimlessly under the running water as he stared at his reflection, furious. His reflection stared back, as scary as a limp sock.
The most notable thing about his features were how bland they were. He looked the precise definition of common, and a rather mussed one at that. No one ever noticed the Joes and Johns of the world. They noticed the dashing, swashbucking, romantic Romeos and Ronaldos.
"It's all your fault!" he told it angrily, and then because he was angry and all the angry manly men in movies seemed to do it, he punched the mirror. "OUCH!"
The mirror remained mirrorlike, but his hand now hurt. Shaking it and cursing plaintively and rather unimaginatively, he leaned in again for a closer look. Maybe if he had plastic surgery. Or maybe if he let his hair grow long and dyed it black…
The face within the mirror was suddenly not his own. "Boo," it said.
Mark let out a shrill yelp and stumbled back. The back of his legs caught against the bathtub, and stars swam briefly across his vision as his head met the shower wall abruptly. "Oooh," he muttered hazily, the darkness reminding him of
It was not a very nice Face, although it was grinning with what might be construed as amusement. It certainly did not pass as human, nor did it look as if it had ever bothered to try. Mark rubbed his eyes because it seemed like the sensible thing to do and wondered if Amanda could love a madman.
"Not very likely," the Face said.
"I beg your pardon?" Mark inquired, astonished and even more concerned for his mental health.
The Face looked exasperated. "I can read your mind. I know your darkest fears and deepest desires, blah blah blah. Let's cut straight to the chase." It grinned again, displaying very sharp teeth. "I can make your wish come true."
"And what do you want in return?" Mark demanded, regaining his wits and his footing. "My soul?"
Astonishment registered on the Face. "What on earth for?"
"To… eat?" Mark ventured hesitantly, not sure if he should be giving it ideas.
"What, raw, bound to a bed of sticky rice with seaweed? I've never subscribed to that whole healthy Japanese food fad that's going on down there at the moment. Cold intestine-noodles. Green tea." Its nose wrinkled. "Pooh. Disgusting."
"All right, then what do you want?"
"How about we talk later? When you've enjoyed the fruits of your wish for a little while, I'll let you choose."
Mark eyed it suspiciously. It eyed him in return.
"Don't just stand there dilly dallying," the Face said impatiently. "Do you want your wish, or not?"
"I guess," he said slowly.
"'You guess'? Did your mother give you testicles? Yes or no."
Mark looked at the Face, but instead of its rather horrific features he saw Amanda's pretty ones smiling at him. He saw his colleagues patting him on the back. He saw his manager actually listening to what he had to say. He saw the arrogant businessman of the day apologizing to him for knocking his briefcase away.
"Yes," he said, and he had never meant anything more.
"Done," said the Face, and made as if to leave. "You Will Be Noticed."
"Wait!" called Mark. "It won't be anything too drastic, will it? No people mobbing me outside my door, or scrutinizing my every movement and laughing each time I make the slightest mistake?"
"Young man," the Face said, looking very affronted, "it is my sincerest hope your wish will make you very, very happy."
Then it was really, truly, gone.
Mark was staring at his own reflection again. It looked much the same as before. Except for maybe an emerging pimple on the side of his nose.
Mark sighed, turned off the tap and went to bed. It had been a long day.
---
"Hey, Parker," Jim greeted nonchalantly as Mark stepped into the office.
Mark half-turned in disbelief. "Did you say something?"
"Parker. That's your name, yeah?" Jim looked pleased with himself. "I never forget a name."
"Y-yes," Mark stuttered, and made his way to his desk in a daze.
"Mick!" a different voice boomed. "There you are. How are you doing?"
Mark looked up at his manager, and for once the brown eyes didn't slide off him at the slightest distraction. He appeared to be waiting, quite patiently, for a reply.
"Extraordinarily well," Mark answered honestly.
But nothing compared to when Amanda made her way over to his desk at lunch, apologized for overreacting the previous day – "Hormones," she gave a little self-deprecating laugh, "you know how it is." Mark didn't, but he nodded anyway – and asked him if he were free for dinner that night.
Of course he was. He'd been waiting for that dinner for a very long time.
---
Two months later the bubble still hadn't burst. He was convinced he was living a dream, he was so happy, and so he wasn't exactly surprised to see the Face in the mirror one morning as he was knotting the new tie Amanda had just given him. "Hello," he greeted it as soon as he recovered from the shock of seeing his features warp and twist into something else. "Lovely day, isn't it?"
"Who gives a flying funnybone about the weather?" the Face snorted. "You've had a wonderful time traipsing about lately, haven't you?"
"Very much so, and it's all thanks to you."
"Great. Fantastic. Listen, I've come to collect."
Suddenly the cloud Mark was walking on dissipated. He crashed back to reality. "Have you?" he asked, throat suddenly dry.
"I'm a lenient creature, I'll still let you choose, never fear. Now, how do you feel about giving me your sense of beauty? You've been doing a lot of appreciating lately, I hear."
It leered convincingly. Mark shrank back in equal parts disgust and horror.
"No, no… to never be able to see Amanda the way I do now? It's too high a price."
"Remember what I gave you, young man. It's a priceless gift, it is, and it has brought you much. How about your tenacity? The delightful part of you that kept on trying to get noticed, even when nothing short of otherworldly intervention could help you?"
Mark doubted he had a lot of tenacity and said so, but the Face had been accurate in his last example and Mark would be even less of a man if he gave it up.
"Then," the Face said, quite exasperated, "what about the light in your eye? The one right there?"
Mark blinked and peered into a part of the mirror that was still mirror, right by the Face's chin. The Face was right; his eyes gleamed in a way they hadn't at their previous meeting.
"But..." Mark began, only to be interrupted by the Face.
"If it wasn't there before, you won't miss it, will you?" it pointed out reasonably. "And you do owe me payment. For an amazing gift that made you so, so much happier, and put that light there."
"Are you sure," Mark tried again.
"I think it's an excellent bargain," the Face assured him.
Mark looked at himself. Then he looked at the Face. "Okay," he said.
The Face smiled a smile that seemed to split it into two. "Done."
Then there was a whirling about him, and a sudden pain in his eyes, and Mark shut them instinctively as he gripped the sink tightly. When he opened them again, his world was blurry and his eyes were stinging. He thought he heard the faintest trace of a howl, furious and unearthly, coming from somewhere behind the mirror.
Slowly Mark opened the bathroom cabinet and fumbled for his glasses. He'd stopped wearing them a short while ago; Amanda, not content with changing the contents of his wardrobe, had insisted that he get rid of those awful frames. He stared at the mirror contemplatively.
"I wonder," he said, "what the Face wanted with a pair of contact lenses."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)