Elizabeth Culmer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
edenfalling) wrote2003-12-12 01:25 am
edenfalling) wrote2003-12-12 01:25 am
Entry tags:
[Fic] "Day of the Dead" -- original
Here is this week's offering, very loosely based on a dream I had several years ago. (The dream was much more explicit than this. I would rate this story a mild PG-13 at best, and that only for vague implications in the last lines.) ETA: Revised 11/19/05, with further minor edits 6/23/06, since I later elaborated the dream/vignette into a proper world and story. This version is more compliant with the (hopeful) eventual book.
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Day of the Dead
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Ata trudged through the pine forests of the eastern mountains, heading for the Hidden City. She had heard rumors of war and a call for mercenaries in the south, and she had few other sources of income since Ogan died, since those horse-thief traitors stole her son and cast her out. She sighed at the crunching sounds behind her, as the boy from the last village waded through the newly fallen snow, leading her horse. He'd latched onto her when she spoke of her name and destination, seeming to think she offered a quick route to adventure and glory.
"Adventure?" she'd asked, waving aside her few remaining warriors and women. "I've never had adventures. I fought wars."
"But you won," he'd said, smiling eagerly. "You're Ata Earthshaker. You took the Winter City for the first time in three hundred years."
Well, there was that. And he looked at her as a woman, not a decrepit hag past her prime. Ata snorted. You'd think she was past forty, the way her people sometimes carried on. She still had time ahead to remarry and raise more children, so the horse-fuckers couldn't rest easy even if they killed Temuz -- a tacit knife at their backs. See how those sniveling idiots liked that. Drive her out, would they? Without her, they'd still be huddled on the steppe eking out life by scattered raids, not sitting warm and snug in the Nine Cities of the north.
She was the one who took the Winter City! Her plan, her time and sweat learning the language, learning the secrets of black powder, cannons, and rockets. Her blood on the stones, mixing with Ogan's as they fought through the streets one by one. And they cast her out.
She glanced at the sun through the branches. An hour to evening, or near enough. "Camp, boy. Gather wood." He crashed off into the snow-covered underbrush with a cheery smile and a whistled tune.
Zabir raised an eyebrow at Ata as he scooped her horse's reins from the snow. She shrugged. This was no ground for an ambush, not without summer leaves to obscure their sight-lines; the boy would do no harm.
As her people busied themselves tending to the horses and unwrapping handfuls of dried grain-paste for a quick supper, Ata brushed snow from a fallen log and sat, leaning her arms on her knees. The boy was too cheerful for winter. Too innocent. Like Mirel had been innocent before she lost him to frostbite and winter storms, out on the steppe when they were children. Her parents had always blamed her for killing their only son. She hated winter.
The boy returned with an armful of branches and proceeded to stack them in a loose pyramid. Ata struck flint against her hunting knife into a bit of dried moss from her pouch and had a fire going soon enough. The boy huddled near the flames, drinking in the warmth. So like Mirel. She shook her head.
Later, after she raised her skin tent and ordered him inside to save warmth during the night, Ata slipped into his blankets and reached down past his waist, stroking softly. He opened his mouth, only to still as she pressed her fingers over his lips.
"Hush. Tonight is special for my people, the first night of snow in winter. This is to call back life from the ice and darkness. Don't speak." He nodded, and she lowered her lips to his.
Tonight is for memory, Ata thought. Tonight is for all that I have lost, for all that winter has stolen from me.
Mirel, Ogan, Temuz, I miss you.
She closed her eyes as he thrust into her.
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Inspired by the 12/7/2003![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
15minuteficlets word: snow
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In other news, Vicky informs me that "Fire," my currently unedited Hermione monologue, has definite potential despite the massive self-insertion. The way I see it, my childhood has substantial similarities to what I imagine Hermione's was like. Why not use my own experiences to add verisimilitude?
The Milton paper is driving me up the wall. Also, I suspect the war in Heaven section, with the cannons, snuck into the preceding ficlet in Ata's invasion and siege tactics. Yay infernal engines of metals torn from the entrails of the earth, which belch fire and sulphurous vapors!
---------------------------------------------
Day of the Dead
---------------------------------------------
Ata trudged through the pine forests of the eastern mountains, heading for the Hidden City. She had heard rumors of war and a call for mercenaries in the south, and she had few other sources of income since Ogan died, since those horse-thief traitors stole her son and cast her out. She sighed at the crunching sounds behind her, as the boy from the last village waded through the newly fallen snow, leading her horse. He'd latched onto her when she spoke of her name and destination, seeming to think she offered a quick route to adventure and glory.
"Adventure?" she'd asked, waving aside her few remaining warriors and women. "I've never had adventures. I fought wars."
"But you won," he'd said, smiling eagerly. "You're Ata Earthshaker. You took the Winter City for the first time in three hundred years."
Well, there was that. And he looked at her as a woman, not a decrepit hag past her prime. Ata snorted. You'd think she was past forty, the way her people sometimes carried on. She still had time ahead to remarry and raise more children, so the horse-fuckers couldn't rest easy even if they killed Temuz -- a tacit knife at their backs. See how those sniveling idiots liked that. Drive her out, would they? Without her, they'd still be huddled on the steppe eking out life by scattered raids, not sitting warm and snug in the Nine Cities of the north.
She was the one who took the Winter City! Her plan, her time and sweat learning the language, learning the secrets of black powder, cannons, and rockets. Her blood on the stones, mixing with Ogan's as they fought through the streets one by one. And they cast her out.
She glanced at the sun through the branches. An hour to evening, or near enough. "Camp, boy. Gather wood." He crashed off into the snow-covered underbrush with a cheery smile and a whistled tune.
Zabir raised an eyebrow at Ata as he scooped her horse's reins from the snow. She shrugged. This was no ground for an ambush, not without summer leaves to obscure their sight-lines; the boy would do no harm.
As her people busied themselves tending to the horses and unwrapping handfuls of dried grain-paste for a quick supper, Ata brushed snow from a fallen log and sat, leaning her arms on her knees. The boy was too cheerful for winter. Too innocent. Like Mirel had been innocent before she lost him to frostbite and winter storms, out on the steppe when they were children. Her parents had always blamed her for killing their only son. She hated winter.
The boy returned with an armful of branches and proceeded to stack them in a loose pyramid. Ata struck flint against her hunting knife into a bit of dried moss from her pouch and had a fire going soon enough. The boy huddled near the flames, drinking in the warmth. So like Mirel. She shook her head.
Later, after she raised her skin tent and ordered him inside to save warmth during the night, Ata slipped into his blankets and reached down past his waist, stroking softly. He opened his mouth, only to still as she pressed her fingers over his lips.
"Hush. Tonight is special for my people, the first night of snow in winter. This is to call back life from the ice and darkness. Don't speak." He nodded, and she lowered her lips to his.
Tonight is for memory, Ata thought. Tonight is for all that I have lost, for all that winter has stolen from me.
Mirel, Ogan, Temuz, I miss you.
She closed her eyes as he thrust into her.
---------------------------------------------
Inspired by the 12/7/2003
15minuteficlets word: snow---------------------------------------------
In other news, Vicky informs me that "Fire," my currently unedited Hermione monologue, has definite potential despite the massive self-insertion. The way I see it, my childhood has substantial similarities to what I imagine Hermione's was like. Why not use my own experiences to add verisimilitude?
The Milton paper is driving me up the wall. Also, I suspect the war in Heaven section, with the cannons, snuck into the preceding ficlet in Ata's invasion and siege tactics. Yay infernal engines of metals torn from the entrails of the earth, which belch fire and sulphurous vapors!