Beginnings can grow out of endings
Apr. 23rd, 2011 07:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bardiphoukaGenre: Fantasy
Word Count 1808
Contest: Brigit's Flame
Prompt Depaysement
There were rare moments, in the predawn breaths of sleep, when he knew where he was. And then breath would follow breath and he would wake slowly, knowing only the constant, that he had no home and the rest did not matter.
In this case he could feel the impersonal comfort of a hotel or hospital bed under his war scarred body. He concentrated on his breathing exercises. He felt no wounds as he flexed various muscles so he assumed that it was a hotel bed. Which meant in a moment he could get look over at the nightstand and find something to tell him what country he was in.
He felt like this was a practice he had been doing forever. He had a vague, vague memory of knowing where he was at once, because he knew nothing but home. He could stretch and feel the green of the trees overhead.
The room was quiet. This morning this was not a good thing, because it let him remember why he always carried this ache of not having a home.
He moved with caution into the edge of the clearing. An odd structure made of green saplings lashed together and of uncured hides stood at one edge of the trees as though asking their shelter. . To the side and back a little was an open fire pit. Although the fire was out, Dermot could tell that it had been used recently, since the last daybreak as a matter of fact. He pulled his knife out and held it loosely in his throwing hand while moving slowly.
There was a rustling in the tree next to him that he felt rather than heard or saw. With a smooth move he threw the knife like a hawk, followed by a thrust of the sword into the crimson foliage. There was the familiar feel of soft intrusion of steel meeting flesh and gristle that let him know before he withdrew the weapon that he had found his target. He pulled the length of the blade back out, blood coating it with a sheen that had already begun to turn dark. Dermot had already turned to see if there were other targets when the sound of tumbling through the branches brought him back around.
On the ground, blood seeping through the leaf gathering that served as a grim cushion, was the slight body of a young girl, perhaps 4 or 5 years old. Dermot’s knife was lodged in her slim throat while her blood-died shift was torn from hip to chest where his sword had penetrated. Dermot started, the venison he had eaten to break his fast rising in his gorge. This aimless killing of infants was something that he would never get used to. The child lay there at his feet. It did not even look like she had time to be startled before her breath was taken from her.
Dermot sighed and looked at the jumbled body of the girl as though waiting for her to rise and chastise him for his actions in the still space that surrounded them. Turning around at last he found himself face to face with an old woman. He felt a moment burst of self anger. Regardless of what was going on, nobody should have been able to get so close to him without his knowing it.
He looked closely at the leathered crone who stood before him, silent but staring. He felt he should make an effort to say something to her, if nothing else than to break her silence. But what would he say? That he was sorry? That it was not his fault that he had been brought to this clearing to bring to a violent end this small life that lay in a too still tumble of limbs before them? Or perhaps, as he tried to regain his inner balance, to just warn her to move? She might be old but these people, like his own, had created over the years more than their share of female warriors.
Although he was no bard, Dermot knew had to speak. But when he went to clear his throat. found out with some apprehension that he could not bring any words out. It was as though his very breath had been placed in a faraway deep lake where words would be brought at the peril of death. He tried to bring his bloodrust sword up but found he could not move his arm. Only his eyes, which a moment ago had been filled with resigned blue sadness, blazed with a blue grey thunder cap of hardness and anger that he had allowed himself to be caught in the Hag’s spell casting.
It seemed as though an eternity was passing to Dermot. The old woman stood, seeming to be wrapped in shadow and saying nothing. She just continued to stand there looking down at the corpse of the small girl child. He found himself wishing the girl would say something. Or at the very least move out of the shadow and raise her head so that he could see her eyes. He had learned long ago that much could be told about an opponent, even a foreigner, by looking into their eyes. Each emotion they told could bring a different strategy. Even though her magic hold him in stillness, Dermot had no doubt that somehow he would find a way to win this encounter. It was not bravado on his part or of a misplaced ego. Dermot simply refused to believe that he could be anything less than victorious. He had learned early on from watching others that allowing even the possibility of defeat was the first step on the road to being defeated.
That moment seemed to last for an eternity as they both stood there as though they were frozen. For an instant Dermot almost thought perhaps they were both under the power of some unseen third party. But then at last there came a moment when the shadows seemed to disappear while she raised her head. For a moment her thick dark tresses obscured her face in the way that shadows had obscured her. But then they slid to either side of her deeply lined face and he found himself pulled as surely as season pulls season. He eyes turned from hazel to a darkness more profound than anything he had every experienced. They reached out and absorbed the very essence of his soul, turned it inside out and examined every flaw and virtue with a shredding intensity. But still she said nothing. Dermot found himself sweating, trembling, and for the first time since his childhood, fearful. At length there was a feel of being returned to himself. It was as though he was being released from some dark inquisition, if not from the spell that continued to leave him bound speech and sword.
The woman seemed to gather the strands of some ancient power to herself before she spoke. “I see you are not by your inner nature a truly cruel man. You are, however, a very, very foolish and quite ignorant one, which can be as dangerous to the innocent. You have brought death to this place for no reason but the idle dreams of some foreign tyrant who does not realize he himself is truly without power.” Dermot was surprised at her voice, which was soft and melodious. It was not what he would have expected from the ancient, withered crone in front of him. His heart gave a lurch in its ordinary rhythm as the woman herself appeared to change appearance before his eyes. Without him having noticed it appeared she was no longer a hag. Instead it seemed she had about her a stern, ageless beauty that he would have ascribed to the warrior goddess Morrigan if he had ever been called upon to describe her.
“Do not get me wrong for a moment. This does not mean I do not think you deserve to die a most horrible death for what you have done” she continued. “If you were a human I can guarantee that you would be face to face with whatever gods you worship before three times three breaths had passed between us And I doubt the Older Folk would really argue with me about it. But I feel they have other plans for you. ”
He felt himself reeling in confusion. Not Human? He knew himself as well as any man. He was Dermot Mac Dubhradh, born and raised along the smooth green plains of home along with 6 other brothers. He had drunk, fought and bed at least as well as any other man. So what did this strange, shape shifting woman mean? He began to fear that he was not only under the control of a woman who was possessed of magic powers but of an insane woman who was possessed of those powers.
She looked at him, through his as though she seemed to be reading his mind. Actually, he reconsidered; she more than likely was reading his mind, or what little he had left of it to his own at the moment. “I know you have no idea what I am talking about.” She continues speaking in her soft whisper of a contralto, and probably more is the pity of that for all of it. But done is done. You have many lessons to learn before you can begin being what you should yourself be. Starting with what the true and important victories in life are. “
“I free you, Dermot Mac Dubhradh, but do not think at all that I have decided to release you. I believe that for you to learn what it is like to be a victor you must first begin by spending some time as those you believe to be the defeated. After a few turns on that cycle perhaps we shall see what you have learned about the reality of victory and of true power. Now leave me to my grief from your actions this day.”
He heard the door open and reached under the pillow. His eyes widened as he realised that there was no weapon there. He turned to the door trying to think.
“Why you decided to wake? I hope you like everything bagels.” She sat the carrier with its bag of bagels and two paper cups of coffee with the universal cardboard sleeves. She crossed over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, her waist length hair cascading over him like soft mist as she did.
He looked up into her eyes and felt a moment of perplexity at what he felt. It was something distant, something grounded. It was more than love. It was the beginning of a way home.
Word Count 1808
Contest: Brigit's Flame
Prompt Depaysement
There were rare moments, in the predawn breaths of sleep, when he knew where he was. And then breath would follow breath and he would wake slowly, knowing only the constant, that he had no home and the rest did not matter.
In this case he could feel the impersonal comfort of a hotel or hospital bed under his war scarred body. He concentrated on his breathing exercises. He felt no wounds as he flexed various muscles so he assumed that it was a hotel bed. Which meant in a moment he could get look over at the nightstand and find something to tell him what country he was in.
He felt like this was a practice he had been doing forever. He had a vague, vague memory of knowing where he was at once, because he knew nothing but home. He could stretch and feel the green of the trees overhead.
The room was quiet. This morning this was not a good thing, because it let him remember why he always carried this ache of not having a home.
He moved with caution into the edge of the clearing. An odd structure made of green saplings lashed together and of uncured hides stood at one edge of the trees as though asking their shelter. . To the side and back a little was an open fire pit. Although the fire was out, Dermot could tell that it had been used recently, since the last daybreak as a matter of fact. He pulled his knife out and held it loosely in his throwing hand while moving slowly.
There was a rustling in the tree next to him that he felt rather than heard or saw. With a smooth move he threw the knife like a hawk, followed by a thrust of the sword into the crimson foliage. There was the familiar feel of soft intrusion of steel meeting flesh and gristle that let him know before he withdrew the weapon that he had found his target. He pulled the length of the blade back out, blood coating it with a sheen that had already begun to turn dark. Dermot had already turned to see if there were other targets when the sound of tumbling through the branches brought him back around.
On the ground, blood seeping through the leaf gathering that served as a grim cushion, was the slight body of a young girl, perhaps 4 or 5 years old. Dermot’s knife was lodged in her slim throat while her blood-died shift was torn from hip to chest where his sword had penetrated. Dermot started, the venison he had eaten to break his fast rising in his gorge. This aimless killing of infants was something that he would never get used to. The child lay there at his feet. It did not even look like she had time to be startled before her breath was taken from her.
Dermot sighed and looked at the jumbled body of the girl as though waiting for her to rise and chastise him for his actions in the still space that surrounded them. Turning around at last he found himself face to face with an old woman. He felt a moment burst of self anger. Regardless of what was going on, nobody should have been able to get so close to him without his knowing it.
He looked closely at the leathered crone who stood before him, silent but staring. He felt he should make an effort to say something to her, if nothing else than to break her silence. But what would he say? That he was sorry? That it was not his fault that he had been brought to this clearing to bring to a violent end this small life that lay in a too still tumble of limbs before them? Or perhaps, as he tried to regain his inner balance, to just warn her to move? She might be old but these people, like his own, had created over the years more than their share of female warriors.
Although he was no bard, Dermot knew had to speak. But when he went to clear his throat. found out with some apprehension that he could not bring any words out. It was as though his very breath had been placed in a faraway deep lake where words would be brought at the peril of death. He tried to bring his bloodrust sword up but found he could not move his arm. Only his eyes, which a moment ago had been filled with resigned blue sadness, blazed with a blue grey thunder cap of hardness and anger that he had allowed himself to be caught in the Hag’s spell casting.
It seemed as though an eternity was passing to Dermot. The old woman stood, seeming to be wrapped in shadow and saying nothing. She just continued to stand there looking down at the corpse of the small girl child. He found himself wishing the girl would say something. Or at the very least move out of the shadow and raise her head so that he could see her eyes. He had learned long ago that much could be told about an opponent, even a foreigner, by looking into their eyes. Each emotion they told could bring a different strategy. Even though her magic hold him in stillness, Dermot had no doubt that somehow he would find a way to win this encounter. It was not bravado on his part or of a misplaced ego. Dermot simply refused to believe that he could be anything less than victorious. He had learned early on from watching others that allowing even the possibility of defeat was the first step on the road to being defeated.
That moment seemed to last for an eternity as they both stood there as though they were frozen. For an instant Dermot almost thought perhaps they were both under the power of some unseen third party. But then at last there came a moment when the shadows seemed to disappear while she raised her head. For a moment her thick dark tresses obscured her face in the way that shadows had obscured her. But then they slid to either side of her deeply lined face and he found himself pulled as surely as season pulls season. He eyes turned from hazel to a darkness more profound than anything he had every experienced. They reached out and absorbed the very essence of his soul, turned it inside out and examined every flaw and virtue with a shredding intensity. But still she said nothing. Dermot found himself sweating, trembling, and for the first time since his childhood, fearful. At length there was a feel of being returned to himself. It was as though he was being released from some dark inquisition, if not from the spell that continued to leave him bound speech and sword.
The woman seemed to gather the strands of some ancient power to herself before she spoke. “I see you are not by your inner nature a truly cruel man. You are, however, a very, very foolish and quite ignorant one, which can be as dangerous to the innocent. You have brought death to this place for no reason but the idle dreams of some foreign tyrant who does not realize he himself is truly without power.” Dermot was surprised at her voice, which was soft and melodious. It was not what he would have expected from the ancient, withered crone in front of him. His heart gave a lurch in its ordinary rhythm as the woman herself appeared to change appearance before his eyes. Without him having noticed it appeared she was no longer a hag. Instead it seemed she had about her a stern, ageless beauty that he would have ascribed to the warrior goddess Morrigan if he had ever been called upon to describe her.
“Do not get me wrong for a moment. This does not mean I do not think you deserve to die a most horrible death for what you have done” she continued. “If you were a human I can guarantee that you would be face to face with whatever gods you worship before three times three breaths had passed between us And I doubt the Older Folk would really argue with me about it. But I feel they have other plans for you. ”
He felt himself reeling in confusion. Not Human? He knew himself as well as any man. He was Dermot Mac Dubhradh, born and raised along the smooth green plains of home along with 6 other brothers. He had drunk, fought and bed at least as well as any other man. So what did this strange, shape shifting woman mean? He began to fear that he was not only under the control of a woman who was possessed of magic powers but of an insane woman who was possessed of those powers.
She looked at him, through his as though she seemed to be reading his mind. Actually, he reconsidered; she more than likely was reading his mind, or what little he had left of it to his own at the moment. “I know you have no idea what I am talking about.” She continues speaking in her soft whisper of a contralto, and probably more is the pity of that for all of it. But done is done. You have many lessons to learn before you can begin being what you should yourself be. Starting with what the true and important victories in life are. “
“I free you, Dermot Mac Dubhradh, but do not think at all that I have decided to release you. I believe that for you to learn what it is like to be a victor you must first begin by spending some time as those you believe to be the defeated. After a few turns on that cycle perhaps we shall see what you have learned about the reality of victory and of true power. Now leave me to my grief from your actions this day.”
He heard the door open and reached under the pillow. His eyes widened as he realised that there was no weapon there. He turned to the door trying to think.
“Why you decided to wake? I hope you like everything bagels.” She sat the carrier with its bag of bagels and two paper cups of coffee with the universal cardboard sleeves. She crossed over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, her waist length hair cascading over him like soft mist as she did.
He looked up into her eyes and felt a moment of perplexity at what he felt. It was something distant, something grounded. It was more than love. It was the beginning of a way home.
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Date: 2011-04-27 11:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-27 06:12 pm (UTC)