[Fic] "Ashes" ch. 1 fragment -- original
Mar. 30th, 2010 11:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
edenfallingYears and years ago, I had a dream about a man and a woman (Geriam/Riam and Morgalen) going on an epic quest in a dark, fog-shrouded world to find the Bottomless Mists where they did something to A) save their world and B) redeem Morgalen's brother from darkness. But I didn't have any clear sense of who those two characters were, nor the rules of their world, nor much else. (Well, I knew it centered around the theme of self-sacrifice, that it was a tragedy, and that there were skeevy incestuous undertones to Morgalen's obsession with her brother, but that's not nearly enough to work with.)
I have taken stabs at writing the story every now and then, all of which have fallen flat for one reason or another -- mostly that I still did not have a grasp of Riam and Morgalen as people. A couple years ago I finally worked out the rules of magic for their world (and why it's post-apocalyptic, and what they have to do to fix it). Tonight at work, I finally figured out who they are.
And everything else began falling into place.
This is what I have so far (1,350 words):
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Ashes, Chapter One: The Last Living Kingdom
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As the sun began its afternoon fall from zenith into the lurking miasma around Zerlon, something like a live coal crossed the boundary lines into the valley. Riam lost his balance at the shock and dropped his sword to the scarred boards of the practice hall.
Zalir barely managed to stay her own stroke before she sliced his arm off. "What in the eight--" she began.
"Magician on the northern boundary," Riam said before Zalir could get properly started yelling. "Bound to fire, I think, or maybe lightning. Send a fist to relieve the regular patrol, and raise the warning flag. I'll find Tir and give her the news."
Zalir nodded her understanding, and Riam sprinted out of the practice hall, running through the manor house and grounds in search of his sister.
Tir was not in the main house, it happened, but in the third stable behind the patrollers' barracks. Riam leaned on the doorframe for a long minute, gathering his breath and thoughts. A few curious horses looked over the doors of their stalls as he walked down the long aisle, but he had no time to pause and greet them.
Tir sat on a stool at the far end of the stable, grooming the elderly gray mare that had carried their father for many years. She crooned under her breath, relaxed as she so rarely had peace to be. Riam hated to disturb her.
But they were the holder and the binder of Zerlon, and vigilance took precedence over all other concerns.
"A magician is in the valley," Riam said, "at the northern pass. I told Zalir to send a fist; they should arrive by the time the magician gets through the walls and the maze. The regular patrol should bring him here by sundown."
Tir didn't turn or stop the rhythmic motion of her hands. "Good. What alignment?"
Riam shrugged. "He feels like a coal in my hands, so most likely fire."
Tir turned her head slightly and scowled. "For you to still feel him, he must be drawing active power. Light help us all if he's bringing pursuit."
"The patrol will stop anything that tries to follow him through," Riam said.
Tir made a noncommittal noise, then set the currycomb back on its hook and patted the gray mare's neck. The horse whickered and twisted to lip at Tir's wildly curling hair. "You had the warning flag sent up?"
Riam nodded.
"Good. Have someone put a lantern in the welcome window and see about dusting the windows in the great hall. I'll head to the kitchen and tell them we need a fancy supper tonight."
"As you say," Riam agreed.
"Also, next time you run to me with a warning, try remembering your sword," Tir added, finally standing and facing her brother head-on. "What if the magician had sent hire-swords ahead of himself, or was bound to wind instead of fire and sped himself here to take me hostage? Binding is no use in battle. Swords are."
"Swords are no use after battles. Binding is," Riam pointed out. "And you know I'm useless in fights. I'm for warnings and aftermaths."
"You're going to get yourself killed one day with that attitude," Tir said, as always.
"You'll protect me," Riam answered, finishing the pattern. He smiled. "I nearly got myself stabbed because I was trying to use a sword when I felt the magician. If I'd been in the garden or the library instead, Zalir wouldn't have nearly cut me in half."
Tir rolled her eyes and leaned against the patient mare. "You would have stabbed yourself with a shovel or dropped a book on your foot," she said. "And I can only protect you if I'm there. Carry at least a knife tonight, for my sake. We can't afford to lose you, not with Sular so new to her training."
"Sular could make the bond without me watching over her shoulder," Riam said. "She has a feel for the patterns. But I'll wear a sword, for you."
"Good," said Tir. "Now go find that lantern."
Riam jogged out of the stable and began spreading word through the household to expect a guest along with the returning patrollers. Then he took a bucket of water and some rags and began washing the windows of the great hall, wondering what quest might bring a magician across the dying lands to Zerlon, and what news the stranger might bring from the other living kingdoms beyond the miasma-smothered wastes.
---------------------------------------------
The northern patrol rode through the manor gates as the last twilight faded, leaving only the stars at zenith and the myriad lanterns scattered through the valley to illuminate the edges of the lurking miasma. The fist of patrollers -- two young men and an older woman -- escorted the magician to the main house, then rode toward the stables and barracks, leading the magician's horse on a long line behind them. The magician walked into the main house alone.
Riam, waiting in the front hall with Tir and Zalir, blinked in surprise when the magician spoke.
"Greetings to the house, the holder, and the binder," the magician said in a sweet, husky voice, casting back the hood of her cloak to reveal short-cropped black hair and the ghostly skin of the mountain clans beyond the plains and seven lakes. "I am Morgalen ha le Shani, and I claim guest-right for this night and the next, until I am ready to continue my journey."
Riam noted the phrasing -- claim, not ask -- with interest, and wondered how Tir would respond.
Tir's hand rested on the hilt of her sword, not quite an insult but not welcoming either. "Do you bring pursuit?" she asked.
"I bring no pursuit, nor deceit, nor a covetous heart," Morgalen said, answering all three questions at once, before Tir could ask.
Tir lifted her hand, moving obviously enough to make it clear how suspicious she had been. "Then I grant you guest-right for this night and the next. Welcome to Zerlon, last and least of the living kingdoms. What brings you to the edge of the Great Waste?"
"That," said Morgalen, one hand reaching up to unfasten the clasp of her cloak, "is a long and twisting tale, best told while seated and full rather than standing and hungry."
Tir scowled. Morgalen smiled, and folded her cloak neatly over her arm. "I believe I am owed a meal," the magician said. "Shall we?"
Riam watched Morgalen closely as Tir led the way to the great hall, where the rest of the household and the off-duty patrollers waited. Magicians were rare as pearls, and for a woman to bind herself rather than learn the sword or the plough was even rarer -- the driven focus that led people to trade rebirth for power seemed more a male failing than a female one.
And Morgalen had neatly yanked Tir's authority from under her feet in her own house. That was interesting. Also rash, rude, and indicative of trouble. But mostly interesting.
Riam wondered whether that rashness was a symptom of the fire feeding through the magician's soul. He wondered what her flames looked like when she opened the gate between worlds and let the fire out. He wondered if they felt as much like a live coal to her as they did to him.
At the high table, Riam sat on Tir's left hand, binder supporting holder. As their guest, Morgalen sat on Tir's right. Lanterns burned in all the newly cleaned windows, the patrollers sat in ranks along the foot of the room, and the household sat at two tables along the sides, their backs to the glass and the waiting darkness outside. Bread and stew sat neatly covered in the centers of the tables.
"Would it suit you to give the benediction?" Tir asked, stiff formality signaling her dislike to all the household.
"I will leave that to your binder," Morgalen said with a bright, sharp smile, "as I'm unfamiliar with your customs and I have found that my own are often disturbing to those born outside my clan."
"I see." Tir turned slightly. "Riam. Please begin."
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That's as far as I got tonight. But it is such a relief to finally know who Morgalen and Riam are. I have been chasing them off and on for over fifteen years now, and I was beginning to think this was one of those interesting ideas that would never quite get off the ground.
And that would have been a pity.
I have taken stabs at writing the story every now and then, all of which have fallen flat for one reason or another -- mostly that I still did not have a grasp of Riam and Morgalen as people. A couple years ago I finally worked out the rules of magic for their world (and why it's post-apocalyptic, and what they have to do to fix it). Tonight at work, I finally figured out who they are.
And everything else began falling into place.
This is what I have so far (1,350 words):
---------------------------------------------
Ashes, Chapter One: The Last Living Kingdom
---------------------------------------------
As the sun began its afternoon fall from zenith into the lurking miasma around Zerlon, something like a live coal crossed the boundary lines into the valley. Riam lost his balance at the shock and dropped his sword to the scarred boards of the practice hall.
Zalir barely managed to stay her own stroke before she sliced his arm off. "What in the eight--" she began.
"Magician on the northern boundary," Riam said before Zalir could get properly started yelling. "Bound to fire, I think, or maybe lightning. Send a fist to relieve the regular patrol, and raise the warning flag. I'll find Tir and give her the news."
Zalir nodded her understanding, and Riam sprinted out of the practice hall, running through the manor house and grounds in search of his sister.
Tir was not in the main house, it happened, but in the third stable behind the patrollers' barracks. Riam leaned on the doorframe for a long minute, gathering his breath and thoughts. A few curious horses looked over the doors of their stalls as he walked down the long aisle, but he had no time to pause and greet them.
Tir sat on a stool at the far end of the stable, grooming the elderly gray mare that had carried their father for many years. She crooned under her breath, relaxed as she so rarely had peace to be. Riam hated to disturb her.
But they were the holder and the binder of Zerlon, and vigilance took precedence over all other concerns.
"A magician is in the valley," Riam said, "at the northern pass. I told Zalir to send a fist; they should arrive by the time the magician gets through the walls and the maze. The regular patrol should bring him here by sundown."
Tir didn't turn or stop the rhythmic motion of her hands. "Good. What alignment?"
Riam shrugged. "He feels like a coal in my hands, so most likely fire."
Tir turned her head slightly and scowled. "For you to still feel him, he must be drawing active power. Light help us all if he's bringing pursuit."
"The patrol will stop anything that tries to follow him through," Riam said.
Tir made a noncommittal noise, then set the currycomb back on its hook and patted the gray mare's neck. The horse whickered and twisted to lip at Tir's wildly curling hair. "You had the warning flag sent up?"
Riam nodded.
"Good. Have someone put a lantern in the welcome window and see about dusting the windows in the great hall. I'll head to the kitchen and tell them we need a fancy supper tonight."
"As you say," Riam agreed.
"Also, next time you run to me with a warning, try remembering your sword," Tir added, finally standing and facing her brother head-on. "What if the magician had sent hire-swords ahead of himself, or was bound to wind instead of fire and sped himself here to take me hostage? Binding is no use in battle. Swords are."
"Swords are no use after battles. Binding is," Riam pointed out. "And you know I'm useless in fights. I'm for warnings and aftermaths."
"You're going to get yourself killed one day with that attitude," Tir said, as always.
"You'll protect me," Riam answered, finishing the pattern. He smiled. "I nearly got myself stabbed because I was trying to use a sword when I felt the magician. If I'd been in the garden or the library instead, Zalir wouldn't have nearly cut me in half."
Tir rolled her eyes and leaned against the patient mare. "You would have stabbed yourself with a shovel or dropped a book on your foot," she said. "And I can only protect you if I'm there. Carry at least a knife tonight, for my sake. We can't afford to lose you, not with Sular so new to her training."
"Sular could make the bond without me watching over her shoulder," Riam said. "She has a feel for the patterns. But I'll wear a sword, for you."
"Good," said Tir. "Now go find that lantern."
Riam jogged out of the stable and began spreading word through the household to expect a guest along with the returning patrollers. Then he took a bucket of water and some rags and began washing the windows of the great hall, wondering what quest might bring a magician across the dying lands to Zerlon, and what news the stranger might bring from the other living kingdoms beyond the miasma-smothered wastes.
---------------------------------------------
The northern patrol rode through the manor gates as the last twilight faded, leaving only the stars at zenith and the myriad lanterns scattered through the valley to illuminate the edges of the lurking miasma. The fist of patrollers -- two young men and an older woman -- escorted the magician to the main house, then rode toward the stables and barracks, leading the magician's horse on a long line behind them. The magician walked into the main house alone.
Riam, waiting in the front hall with Tir and Zalir, blinked in surprise when the magician spoke.
"Greetings to the house, the holder, and the binder," the magician said in a sweet, husky voice, casting back the hood of her cloak to reveal short-cropped black hair and the ghostly skin of the mountain clans beyond the plains and seven lakes. "I am Morgalen ha le Shani, and I claim guest-right for this night and the next, until I am ready to continue my journey."
Riam noted the phrasing -- claim, not ask -- with interest, and wondered how Tir would respond.
Tir's hand rested on the hilt of her sword, not quite an insult but not welcoming either. "Do you bring pursuit?" she asked.
"I bring no pursuit, nor deceit, nor a covetous heart," Morgalen said, answering all three questions at once, before Tir could ask.
Tir lifted her hand, moving obviously enough to make it clear how suspicious she had been. "Then I grant you guest-right for this night and the next. Welcome to Zerlon, last and least of the living kingdoms. What brings you to the edge of the Great Waste?"
"That," said Morgalen, one hand reaching up to unfasten the clasp of her cloak, "is a long and twisting tale, best told while seated and full rather than standing and hungry."
Tir scowled. Morgalen smiled, and folded her cloak neatly over her arm. "I believe I am owed a meal," the magician said. "Shall we?"
Riam watched Morgalen closely as Tir led the way to the great hall, where the rest of the household and the off-duty patrollers waited. Magicians were rare as pearls, and for a woman to bind herself rather than learn the sword or the plough was even rarer -- the driven focus that led people to trade rebirth for power seemed more a male failing than a female one.
And Morgalen had neatly yanked Tir's authority from under her feet in her own house. That was interesting. Also rash, rude, and indicative of trouble. But mostly interesting.
Riam wondered whether that rashness was a symptom of the fire feeding through the magician's soul. He wondered what her flames looked like when she opened the gate between worlds and let the fire out. He wondered if they felt as much like a live coal to her as they did to him.
At the high table, Riam sat on Tir's left hand, binder supporting holder. As their guest, Morgalen sat on Tir's right. Lanterns burned in all the newly cleaned windows, the patrollers sat in ranks along the foot of the room, and the household sat at two tables along the sides, their backs to the glass and the waiting darkness outside. Bread and stew sat neatly covered in the centers of the tables.
"Would it suit you to give the benediction?" Tir asked, stiff formality signaling her dislike to all the household.
"I will leave that to your binder," Morgalen said with a bright, sharp smile, "as I'm unfamiliar with your customs and I have found that my own are often disturbing to those born outside my clan."
"I see." Tir turned slightly. "Riam. Please begin."
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
---------------------------------------------
That's as far as I got tonight. But it is such a relief to finally know who Morgalen and Riam are. I have been chasing them off and on for over fifteen years now, and I was beginning to think this was one of those interesting ideas that would never quite get off the ground.
And that would have been a pity.
