• About
  • About the Brooklyn Project
  • Allies
  • Bound to the Flame Chapters and Artwork
  • Definitions and Erin-isms
  • Erin’s Point-Based Guide for Evaluating Movie Adaptions
  • Novels
  • The Archives of Selay’uu

The Upstairs Archives

~ A random repository of how-to-write and geekery, with an occasional snippet of accidental wisdom.

The Upstairs Archives

Tag Archives: original work

The Button Song

11 Monday Jan 2016

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

again, erin rebelling, original work, poetry

It’s been a while since I wrote poetry, but then the opening lines came into my head and I came up with this pseudo-Shakespearean offering. Enjoy!


 

The Button Song

Tell me the company you keep

And I will tell you what you are

The Charlatan said to the Troubadour:

The things that trouble your sweet sleep,

Your dreams of troubling a star.

Your fortune, sir, for a penny a look!

Do you dare to see what Fate’s writ in her book?

Dear sir, you think you know me well?

The Troubadour said with mild contempt.

You think I dance for the sake of my bells,

With face grotesque and look unkempt.

I play for the people I see every day:

Yet never I’ve played for the same people twice.

Some prefer beer, some Chardonnay:

And for some will a glass of milk suffice.

Can you label my friends as you’d label a jar?

Can you tell the potters apart in a bazaar?

Do you think you know each human heart

When their owners themselves their depths do not plumb

And each of them their fears, and their starts;

The torrent of speech and that strikes them dumb.

Men are not buttons, nor are they their works.

Women are not apronstrings, mere wives, or berserks.

I’ve seen dreams more original in your streets

Than many the dreams of kings;

And the orphan’s throat hums many a note

That peacocks cannot sing.

And a feather I wear in my cap, good sir,

And a song I bear in my heart,

A simple life for the Troubadour,

And a truer—forgive me if I seem tart.

But I love my simple life, dear sir,

And I would not change it again,

No matter the fortune you read for a fur,

No matter my own secret pain:

And for you, fortune-teller, I’ll leave my advice:

Make a study of the poor and the meek,

Ignore your dreams of avarice,

And finally, begin to seek.

And now, dear sir, I’ll wish you good day:

The road my friends walk now calls me away.

 

Advertisement

Some More Artwork

04 Monday Jan 2016

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Artwork, Bound to the Flame, Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard, Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

artwork, bound to the flame, doctor who, fan art, original fiction, original work

My last sketchbook was dominated largely by Star Wars and Avengers. This one is mostly Doctor Who–that is, the pages that haven’t been donated to my 5-year-old sister’s art sessions. Whyyyy.

Anyway, here’s a few samples of what I’ve been working on:

WIN_20151227_22_10_56_Pro

Rose and the Doctor, visiting the Smithsonian–a WIP.

Continue reading →

#BlogBattle: Attacked

29 Tuesday Sep 2015

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 25 Comments

Tags

completed stories, doctor who, fantasy, fiction, original work, short stories

Wow, two posts in one day. It must be Tuesday! Because, well, it is. Or, weeeelll, it’s the mean time when I said I’d post this. I’m really in the Time Vortex at the moment, so I could have published it in the 5th Century BC if I wanted. Though they didn’t have internet or computers back then so it would have been rather useless but I could if I wanted to!

My entry to Rachael Ritchey’s #BlogBattle. Genre is fantasy/adventure, and prompt word was “Ride.”

Enjoy!


Attacked

                Gigantic golden wings bore down on them from above, and the boy crouched over the galloping horse’s neck, pressing his face into the pale gray mane. His only hope now was to ride, to trust the horse.

He wasn’t even sure if he was doing the right thing any more. He hoped he was, of course, but he was almost past caring.

He closed his eyes tight and heard a squawk as the hippogriff that was following them had its vision suddenly cut off. It was only a temporary fix, and he and the hippogriff both knew it, even as the massive beast crashed to earth behind them, sending up shock waves that reverberated through the horse’s hooves and up its legs. The trusty animal, however, did not falter. The hippogriff stumbled blindly after them, screaming in a horrible, almost-human voice. He could feel the wind sting his cheeks as it flapped enormous wings in a failed attempt to get back into the air, blind as it was.

By feel alone, he reached down to the knife by his side and drew it out, cutting his palm by accident as he did so. He licked away the excess blood without thinking and then cursed inwardly. It would be twice as difficult to complete the process now. Feeling the razor edge scraping across his skin, he lifted blood from the cut on the knife blade, flicking it downward to join with the earth. The knife shears through a lock of thick gold hair and the hair, sticky at the ends, flies at the sky. Then, praying it would work, he opened his eyes for a millisecond and grabbed the halter from the horse’s head. The knife severed it and the pieces flew from his hands. The hippogriff screeched in rage before vanishing in a burst of hot white light that blazed against the boy’s closed eyelids. With a sigh of relief, the boy finally opened his eyes, the world crashing into him in a blaze of color and light so bright and painful all he could do was blink.

Now all he had to do was bypass the Cadon’s armies, slip through the sentries, and avoid the Furies, and get the vital information he carried to the King before nightfall.

Easier said than done.

Love Is For Children

09 Wednesday Sep 2015

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Story Dynamics, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 20 Comments

Tags

avengers, black widow, completed stories, completely random posts, crossovers, doctor who, fanfiction, marvel, original work, short stories

I don’t know where this came from. Out of the blue, probably.

Anyway, on with the show and hopefully you all like the twist ending!

Love Is For Children

                Love is for children. I owe him a debt.

He’s sitting in her apartment when she opens the door, holding a glass that’s half-full of untouched vodka, just for the look of the thing. She’s never been able to keep him out, not that she ever really tried.

“Rough day?” she asks, setting down her Glock on the table beside the door. He inhales through his nose.

“You should know.” Setting down the glass, he stands and walks to the window. “What a view.”

Natasha sighs and reflects on the fact that she knows barely anything about this man, except for the fact that his story is rather like hers.

Too much like hers. Filled with death and betrayal.

“Is there a reason why you’re in my apartment?” He shakes his head. There never is. The Black Widow doesn’t pursue relationships, but sometimes people ask for an in. He never did and she knows he never will.

For some reason, he seems to like her company—only her company—Natasha Romanoff, the woman who built her own life back up from the rubble she was left with when she walked away from those who stole it from her, she, Natasha, who knows the feeling of dust and ash in her nose and throat, the feeling of blood spilled out onto squelching shoes and the pain of bloody broken fingernails as she claws herself by her own willpower up out of the pit.

They’re survivors, both of them. And both of them are quick to deny the simple truth that they both need anyone—someone.

Though, maybe, not so much tonight.

“I met someone,” he says. “She was special and clever and innocent, but she wasn’t naïve. And… she wouldn’t run. It was nice.”

“So, what happened?” Natasha asks, taking off her leather jacket.

“I lost her.”

Love is for children. Love is for children. Love is for children.

They would be someone else’s children, now.

The record in the background was caught in one track, skipping absurdly on one phrase.

Love is for love is for love is for…

He walked over and lifted the needle.

“I should go.” Natasha gripped his arm as he walked by her.

“Did she love you?”

“She never said.”

“But you could tell.”

“Yes.” He inhaled sharply. “I could tell.”

“And did you love her?”

“Yes.” It came out, and it sounded hollow.

“Stay with the Avengers, Natasha. All of you… you’re all going to be legends. And they’re going to need you.” he said suddenly. Natasha swallowed.

“Do you want anything? Tea?”

“Make it matter,” he said. Natasha took a deep breath.

“Will you be all right?” she asked. He turned halfway to look at her.

“I’m always all right.” Then he was gone again, and Natasha wondered just how much—or how little—she knew the Doctor.

Gallery

Art Dump

03 Friday Apr 2015

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Artwork, Living Life with Passion, Story Dynamics, Tales from Selay'uu, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 24 Comments

Tags

angels' reflections, artwork, avengers, candles, captain america, dragons, fantasy, how to train your dragon, leaves, marvel, novels, original stories, original work, sketch dumps, star wars

This gallery contains 19 photos.

Apparently I have a lot of art I’ve completed over a number of weeks and haven’t uploaded, for some reason. …

Continue reading →

Dawn

03 Saturday Jan 2015

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Living Life with Passion, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 35 Comments

Tags

captain america: the winter soldier, colorblind, completed stories, connor rawleigh, marvel, nat brachevis, novels, original work, short stories, spiderman

A short story, involving characters from Colorblind.

Enjoy!


 

Dawn

                Nat was almost startled to see the young reporter-cum-unwilling assassin sitting on the sofa in the living room, staring absentmindedly at the painting of a calm forest glen, as if he hadn’t moved in hours. Sometimes, Connor was so quiet that Nat would forget he had company, only to be abruptly reminded of it as he ran into a rather surprised Connor, a few minutes later. Connor would sit perfectly still for hours at times, and other times look vaguely reproving as Nat bit back a curse on being startled yet again.

The thing was, the younger man wasn’t doing it intentionally. It just happened.

“Hey,” Nat said. Connor looked up, startled out of his thoughts. He smile, an odd, endearing, childlike half-smile.

“Hey.”

“Do you never make a sound?” Nat teased gently. Connor looked surprised for a moment, then a mischievous look crossed his face. Nat knew that look. It was too adorable for how purely wicked it could be.

“Not all of us are as big as you,” Connor told the powerfully built police officer. Nat snorted.

“Not all of us are mice,” he said, grabbing the younger man in a playful headlock. Connor just laughed and remained still. They both knew that if Connor wanted to get out, he could get out, as Nat’s latest still-healing bruises could attest.

“Tired?” Nat asked. Connor shrugged.

“I haven’t actually been tired in a long time,” he said. “It’s almost as if I have too much energy. I was just thinking.”

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Well, if no one did any thinking, we’d all be going nowhere.”

“If you did less thinking, my friend, less of those places we’re going would crash and burn,” Nat teased. Connor ducked under his arm and shoved him off the sofa. Nat sat on the floor for a moment, inwardly smiling at the progress they had made. After a few months in the safehouse, Connor no longer started at sudden sounds, though he still occasionally would lash out violently, if provoked. Also, Connor was becoming less awkward when it came to human interaction.

“It’s been a long year, hasn’t it,” Nat said thoughtfully. Connor snorted.

“It wasn’t even a full year,” he pointed out. Nat shrugged.

“True enough.” They were silent for a while, comfortable in each other’s company.

“Connor, there’s something I should probably tell you…”

Connor, there’s something I should probably tell you…

                “Connor! Connor, wake up!”

“What?” he grumbled. He felt so strange… He blinked. It was dark, except for a small pool of light puddling around their lantern, with a dim aura from an abandoned street light over head. “Wha—How did I get here?”

Nat blinked at him. “You’ve been here for the past five hours, with me. You came here with me.” Connor blinked. Oh. Right.

“I was asleep?”

“Yup. I have no idea how you manage to sleep during a stakeout, but that’s what happened.” Connor rubbed his face.

“How long?”

“About half an hour. Did I ever tell you you’re too precious when you’re sleeping?”

“Please, just shut up.” Connor groaned. “Dreaming from your point of view. Weird.”

“Well, at least we know one thing from that.”

“And what’s that?” Connor sighed, exhaustedly.

“You’re grumpy when you first wake up.” Connor made a face at him. “There’s still hope that you’re not irreparably broken.”

“And I sleep in the middle of a shootout about to happen.” Connor ran a hand through his hair. “It’s cold out here.”

“It’s three a.m. They turn the heating off when decent people aren’t going to be around.” Connor actually laughed.

“Guess we’re not decent people, then… is there any coffee left?”

“You don’t like coffee.”

“True, but the label on the thermos says it keeps things warm for eight hours.” Nat finished pouring out a cup and handed it to Connor, who choked it down, making a face at the taste. He looked at his watch.

“I just remembered. We missed the new year.”

“Apparently that was three hours ago… was I awake for that?”

“Yes, you silly kid, you were. And you didn’t remark on it.”

“Forgive me for being focused on the mark.” Suddenly, Connor straightened up, his eyes lighting, like a wolfhound catching a scent. “It’s time. They’re coming.” Nat stood, behind him. The smaller, slimmer, younger man was entirely focused on their target, a pale, unpretentious shadow in the darkness.

Seconds later, he dashed across the intervening space at a breakneck pace, using one of the men as a springboard to tackle a second. Nat was using his boxing lessons on the third, while Connor had already disabled a fourth. The kid’s methods were unorthodox, but effective, Nat had to admit. “There are more coming in,” Connor said, barely out of breath. Like a shadow, he was there one moment and gone the next, leaving Nat with the kids.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, softly, consoling the little ones whom they had just saved from a fate similar to Connor’s. “It’s going to be okay.”

 

When Connor came back, he was alone, barely disheveled, not dirty, but he was carrying a Taser, which probably wasn’t his. “We’re done here,” he said, quietly rather than tersely. Nat nodded.

“Okay, we’re good to go.” He picked up one child. The other instinctively turned to Connor, who lifted her, staggering slightly under her weight—the little one was almost as tall as he was, and certainly stouter.

“Oh, that reminds me. Connor, there’s something I should probably tell you…”

END


Yup, just two guys being my lovely boys. Gotta love brotherhood, by spirit if not in blood. 😛

If you were wondering about what it was that Nat (aka Police Sergeant Nathaniel Brachevis) was going to tell Connor, it’s involved with the end of the novel, but if you want a spoiler SPOILER ALERT the two of them are going to be recruited for a search/rescue/destroy program, going after the guys who trained Connor as an assassin and caused him to have amnesia in the first place. END SPOILERS Basically, protecting other people with the same ‘condition’ Connor has (he can see some wavelengths of ultraviolet light.) So yes, it’s sort of a superhero/spy/psychological/thriller novel. But if you asked Connor, I’m pretty sure he’d say he’s not a hero, he’s just a person who likes to know other people are going to be safe. He’s kind of complex like that.

This is why I think Connor is one of my personal favorites: He’s a sweet guy, very gentle, with an earnest and charming personality, adorably awkward, too. However, he has this other side; he’s a very deadly assassin without being aware of it. Someone else is trying to pull the strings, but he won’t let that happen, and he suffers from amnesia as a result. (Yup, he is actually the one at fault for having a basically blank memory.) I wouldn’t say he’s broken, unlike SPOILERS FOR THE WINTER SOLDIER Bucky, post-Hydra; Bucky was pulled out and they didn’t leave any of Bucky in the Winter Soldier, at least, as far as that was possible. On the other hand, they left Connor with his human, civilian persona, as a sort of a cover for him. That’s not to say that he isn’t messed up. It’s just more subtle, and possibly even harder to root out than it will be with Bucky.

Actually, believe it or not, the plot of Colorblind was not actually influenced by The Winter Soldier. I started work on Colorblind before Winter Soldier actually came out, before I even really got into the Marvel fandom at all. So maybe Connor’s character was a fraction influenced by Peter Parker, but really, I had no idea about Winter Soldier when I started writing this. I haven’t seen the Bourne movies either so I don’t really have any idea where the parallels lie, if there are any at all.

The idea for Colorblind came when I was thinking about how sometimes being special makes you vulnerable, and I wanted to explore that. Connor’s “superpower” really isn’t all that useful in a fight (though it might be in detective work,) and he was used, as a pawn, as a result of being “special.” Part of the idea was after seeing a particularly noxious shade of orange, and from there it became what if certain colors could drive people insane and turn them into murdering psychopaths? And from there, you can probably see where the plot went. 😉

Bottom line: Connor is an awesome fighter, but with a softer, gentler side, who is willing to fight so that other people don’t have to suffer through what he did. He’s also naive and kind of innocent, and I just find that endearing. Please tell me what you think of my character in the comments–also, if there’s a sort of character development that I seem to be falling short on, I would appreciate the help with that 🙂 I’d love to discuss it.

Also, I found a couple of people who I think look a little like I imagine Connor–they just look innocent 😉 and that’s a big part of Connor’s character. I’d love to know who you, my readers, think looks more like you imagine Connor.

Asa Butterfield

Eddie Redmayne, actor, 27th August 2008 (Photo by Martin Godwin/Getty Images)

I’m not really sure who this is–does anyone know?–but I frankly think he looks more like I’d imagine Connor to look.

 

Colorblind: Sample Chapter

19 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Story Dynamics, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 40 Comments

Tags

creative writing, editing, fiction, first person point of view, novels, original work, point of view, psychological thriller, sample chapter, science fiction, story dynamics, writing

As requested by Professor V.J. Duke and icedmocha34, here it is. My latest endeavor, and my first attempt at sci-fi/psychological thriller. It’s also my first attempt at first person POV, so don’t expect it to be perfect. This isn’t the whole book, though, and be forewarned: It’s not even a “complete”, coherent short story, just a sample chapter. It will not explain itself. It’s only meant to whet your appetite…

That much said, carry on, brave reader. >:-D


Colorblind

Chapter I

                When you’re an amnesia victim, the only thing that’s certain is that life won’t be easy. Because when you have amnesia, nothing is certain.

For a victim of amnesia, life is full of uncertainties, undecided variables. Do you remember nothing of your past? Fragments? Up to a certain point? Or are you able to remember everything in your past, but are unable to form any new memories?

My past is a blank slate, one that won’t ever be written on. It’s hard when you can’t recall your childhood, when you don’t know who taught you to read, your parents, the little lessons you learned… the skills remain, but you can’t remember learning them. You can’t remember who taught you. Some days, I just stare blankly at the pages filled with my handwriting, which is familiar, and at the same time subtly wrong, as if it should be different, somehow.

There are other people in the support group, people who still have their families, the identities they have built up over the years. They tell me about the strange feeling they get when looking at photographs in the albums, pictures of them at places they can’t remember ever going; they tell me about similar happenings when a casual acquaintance who doesn’t know comes up to them and makes small talk, and their smiles remain frozen on their faces as they try to recall where they have met—and more difficult still, what their names are.

Myself, I can’t rely on any of that. I had to create myself, because when they found me I was alone. They’ve never been able to identify my family. I had nothing on me to tell who or what I was before. The first memory I have after waking up in the hospital is looking down at my personal effects. A polo shirt—a rusty brown color. Faded jeans. A belt. Nothing more. There was nothing in my pockets when I was found, battered and bruised and unconscious after being struck by a hit-and-run driver. They weren’t sure how long I lay there before I was found and rushed to the hospital, but it was long enough that I should not have survived.

Somehow, against the odds, I did survive.

Sometimes, I remember scraps—bits and pieces. A glimpse of color. A smell. The corner of the rain-washed sky, such a vibrant, lovely blue, with brilliant white, fluffy clouds scudding across it. The waving branches of trees. A chalkboard, with one equation written on it, that’s somehow significant, but I don’t know how or why.

Try as I might, I’ve never been able to find that equation elsewhere.

There are things lurking just beyond conscious thought, waiting for me to uncover them.

And then there are the dreams. Sometimes they’re simple flashes, like the memories. Sometimes they are simple words, isolated from both meaning and circumstance, sounding stilted and strange severed from both execution and consequence. “Anomaly” is one that comes back over and over again, with never an explanation. Sometimes they’re complex chains that I can never remember afterwards, though I can remember the impression that they were vivid, and complex. More than once, I have racked my brains and come back with nothing after such a dream. It is the most frustrating thing in the world, to feel that the mystery of your past is finally within your grasp, yet to feel it melting away, not fully comprehended. The second most frightening fate an amnesia victim has to face—every day—is the possibility that they might never remember.

The absolute most frightening is coming to terms with it.

“He forgot his umbrella today.”

The ceiling fans rotated slowly, moving the air around despite the fact that the temperature had dropped just after the downpour started. Outside, things were colored blue and gray and streaming watery, like half-finished watercolors sprinkled with vodka on a tilted canvas, but inside the colors were bright, well-coordinated, dominated by sunny lemon yellow; unusual for a coffee shop, but unsurprising, considering that the building had started life as a small café, before being bought by a different owner.

All eyes turned toward Nell, where she sat in her regular seat at the second of the two tables by the window. She, in turn, was gazing out the full-length windows that faced the sidewalk and street. Kara and Leslie shrugged it off and went back to their earnest conversation at their table in the corner, like the stereotypical pair of checker players in a country store; but Justine, though her expression remained bored and she did not look up from her newspaper, perked up enough to ask, “Who?”

Nell leaned her head sideways against the glass, the better to watch the blurred figure through the storm water streaming down the other side of the glass and the sheets of rain. “That man. He passes by here at exactly five-seventeen each day. I suppose he takes the bus home.” Justine shrugged, apathetically, and went back to her newspaper. Nell stared out the window with a slow sigh.

The figure was of medium height, its only distinguishable feature through the water-hazed glass. His features were a vague, indistinct smear of dark juxtaposed on light. Indeed, Nell had identified him by posture alone. He walked along the sidewalk in exactly the same way each day; now, at the end of summer and beginning of back-to-school madness, he carried the briefcase in one hand, the jacket he had worn in the morning slung across his other arm. He always walked upright, unusually so, giving the illusion that he was taller than he really was. His gait was much brisker than the other people traversing the sidewalk. Nell frowned. There was something vaguely different today, something that could not be attributed to just the rain…

Her train of thought was interrupted as the bell over the door jangled—someone really needs to tune that thing, Nell thought, wincing—and someone entered, accompanied by a gust of wind and veritable sheet of rain. The person had to throw all their weight against the door to close it again, despite the spring-loaded catch. The bell clanged again as the door closed, and the stranger stood inside, dripping on the patterned tile floor.

Before she looked, Nell knew instinctively that the person was the man she had been watching a moment ago. She stared at him, bored out of her mind, and thus interested in the smallest of details. Tousled brown hair plastered close to his head dripped onto his shoulders; his dress shirt was soaked through, the material becoming transparent and clinging to his skin. He was lean, not overly muscular, but looked slightly out-of-place in the formal outfit. The trousers had to be uncomfortable, as wet as they were. His thin, slightly angular face sparkled with water droplets; darkish eyelashes clung together over mild brown eyes.

Realizing that everyone was staring at him, he laughed, self-consciously. “The weather man is proven wrong, yet again,” he said, and walked up to the counter to order a hot chocolate, his shoes squeaking wetly and squishing with each step. All the eyes in the coffee shop followed him, some curiously, others absently. After waiting a few minutes, he received his drink and went to a corner to sit down. The others stared at him for a while longer, rudely, but eventually all of them went back to what they were doing. Nell finally looked away, uncertain as if she should say something or if she should leave the matter alone. At last, she decided to leave it alone. Eventually, the stranger finished his hot chocolate and got up and left the shop as a brief respite from the rain allowed him to exit, still only partly damp.

“How are you doing today, Connor?” Mr. Aglana asked. I sat up very straight in the chair, hands folded on my lap, my postured correct, but guarded and tense. There was something about him that always made me uncomfortable, put me on my guard.

“Very well, sir,” I replied. Perhaps it was the office. The décor had always seemed ostentatious, yet at the same time, depressing to me. The colors were all dark, the upholstery ornate. A huge painting in a gilt frame adorned the wall behind the desk, but I could not distinguish any details. I had never been able to see the painting. It had always been in shadow from the draperies. I tried to keep from glancing around, instead gazing fixedly at a spot a little to the left of Mr. Aglana’s balding head.

“And how was your week?” I fought the urge to fidget or shrug.

“Uneventful,” I said, casually. In the silence, I could distinctly hear every sound in the room. The soft wuff-hiss of the air conditioning. The soft squeaking of Mr. Aglana’s fine office chair as he leaned forward. The dynamic rap-tap-tap as he drummed his fingers lightly on the desk. He eyed me with some asperity.

“You know that won’t do, Connor,” he said.

“The job… is going fine,” I said, haltingly. Somehow, I felt uncomfortable, discussing my life—my private life, what was left of it—with Mr. Aglana. “I began two more articles but for some reason I can’t access the business search engine from the apartment any more. I’ve had to do all my research from the office. Everyone is doing their best to not pressure me too much—thank you for that, sir—” I did owe him that much—“and Mr. Clark said he’d move the deadline back, due to the fact that the Wi-Fi in the apartment is acting up again.”

“What about your personal life?” Mr. Aglana pressed. I shook my head.

“I still haven’t made any friends yet,” I said. Mr. Aglana raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to tell anyone I have amnesia,” I said, unwillingness almost choking me. “I don’t want pity. I want people to interact with me normally. Still, I’m too—too—”

“Socially awkward?” Mr. Aglana put in. I opened my motuh. The words sounded like they should be right, yet they felt so inescapably wrong, as if there was something off, something that I was missing. I wracked my memory for the word I was searching for, then settled for a simple nod when I couldn’t locate it.

Well, it was close enough, anyway.

Seemingly satisfied, Mr. Aglana rose and offered me his hand, and I took it. As always, his grip was not very firm, and his hand was icy. Strangely enough, as my fingers touched his, a chilly current ran through me, like a cold thrill. Something buried deep in my psyche strained for the surface; I grasped desperately at it.

Bright lights in my eyes, making it hard to see. I blinked. Snatches of a conversation, not meant for me or directed at me. “Failed—try one more time—” Pain. I struggled, fighting against unseen demons seeking to drag me down. Something—there was something I needed to see—to hear—to remember. Scraps of a face, bits and bytes incoherently blended, broken apart. Something raked across my memory. I fought. I didn’t fight long. Oblivion.

I blinked, and the flash was gone. Mr. Aglana’s secretary was already escorting me out.


Meh. Why do I always label my chapters with Roman numerals? It’s certainly not intentional, to look classy… hmm.

Who cares, anyway!?

Bound to the Flame, Chapter IV, Part I

29 Thursday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 70 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, original stories, original work, stories in progress

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Erin should not ramble around, trolling other people’s blogs like a zombie, making no sense whatsoever, at nine p.m. her time.

Whew, that’s done with! (I promised Sheikah last night after posting a VERY rambling comment about hoods, animation models, video games, and special effects. Yeah… that’s going to be an INTERESTING conversation… *wince*)

Once again, Erin is back with more Bound to the Flame! Rosalie: Please don’t worry. I am working on Battlefield of the Soul. Slowly but surely. I also have not given up on Shifting Tides in general. This is merely all the stuff for Bound to the Flame I had written already. It’s 30k long–and I haven’t even typed up everything yet!

Warnings: Some violence, emotional distress. It gets a bit intense, but hopefully not too bad.

Bound to the Flame

Chapter IV

Part I

                As he drew nearer to the ancient stone circle, this time Rowan could feel it drawing him in, seeking to ensnare him. This time, though, he was aware of it, and resisted its allure. To be of any help to Adyn, he had to remain conscious, aware. He could feel its power pulling at the edges of his mind, whispering a lisping siren song to all those who could hear it at all. Rowan threw off the cloying tendrils and moved faster.

Reality was warping now. Time bent and creased; might-have-beens played out in memory, flashing in and out of existence. His stomach twisted rebelliously at the vaguely unpleasant, unfamiliar sensation. His life played out, oddly different somehow.

Rowan snapped himself fiercely out of it and gasped softly at the synaptic snap of pain behind his temples and in his sinuses. If Adyn was experiencing this, he didn’t know what he could or should do. The boy was only half-trained!

Rowan moved faster. The strange currents carried him forward more rapidly, drawing him forward, murmuring to him. A pale mist rolled around the edges of his vision, but he had it under control. He wasn’t going to give in. He could feel the currents carrying him away, but he would break or be pulled under. This magic, though, felt strange—untouched, primal, raw, its breath far older—tangy, foreign—than anything Rowan had ever felt before. He shuddered as he felt it course through him. It was odd, and yet somehow familiar. He brushed the feeling off and focused himself, still wary of the curious energy, the strange raw surging of power. It murmured strange words to him, words with no meaning, words that still terrified him. It wanted him, though for what purpose he could not say. Cautiously, Rowan let it pull him towards its source, the nexus of its flow, faster and faster. All answers could be found within that curious ancient circle of standing stones.

Faster. Faster. Over the breast of this low knoll, leaping a stream, breathing steady. He did not grow tired. His leg did not pain him. The miles between him and his object were rapidly eaten up, in this strange dreamlike state where the elder energy bore him on. Speed did not bring exhaustion; movement was thought and done with nothing between the two. Indeed, it felt as if thought was motion. Long miles were not weariness. Time stretched out, and twisted confusingly. Rowan was glad for the fact that he was in control, not only because of his prior vision and the subsequent revelation, but because of the phantasms and wraiths that hovered on the edge of consciousness, waiting for the first slip to close in for the kill. The colorless mist rose slowly up again, clouding his eyes; Rowan fought it back down once more.

Then, suddenly, he was at the edge of the Cremlegged itself, with lightning cracking overhead, under a stormy sky.

Rowan jogged through the stones, weaving in and out between the huge monoliths and tall boulders. The stones pointed, ominous and threatening, toward the black sky. “Adyn? Adyn!” He dared not raise his voice above a low murmur. The stones whispered back, echoing, hollow, mocking. Adyn… Adyn… Adyn… The last dregs of the curious magic were slowly draining away, but as they lasted they bore him up, blocking any pain from his damaged leg. It felt almost euphoric, giddying, like a drug. Rowan did not particularly like—or trust—the feeling. To lose control was to unleash a storm on the world.

As he loped around the stones, their names echoed inside his mind. Courage. Honor. Hope. Premonition. Trial. Sacrifice. Dreaming. Waking. Service. Obedience. Command. Virgin dawn. Drawn-out nightfall. Pain. Freedom. Trust.

The last stone was cleft in two, riven to its base. Its two faces faced two ways: Past and Future. It was more ancient than any of the others; its name, Time. Between the two pillars of the riven stone was an empty space, empty in more than one sense of the word, and yet reverberating with power, the eternal presence, the moment in which men were given to act. Its ordained power was a terrible one, more terrible even than the immutability of the past, more terrible still than the most horrifying, ominous premonition of the future, and Rowan found himself instinctively shying away from the hollow, yawning void in the break of the twin pillars.

At the center of the ring of standing stones was a single, low, flat stone, its top and upper edge polished and worn by passing ages, crusted with lichen, carved with runes, overgrown by grass and moss—and it was stained threateningly dark. It whispered strange words directly into Rowan’s mind. He fell back from it, resisting.

He stumbled against the ancient, moldering gray stone of Trial. His fingers slipped into deep-carven runes, scrabbling against the roughness of the rock. He clung to the stone for support, struggling against the storm. The world seemed to have lost all stability. Rowan felt unmoored, weightless. The thunderous, ominous sky roiled overhead in lightning and clouds. The wind picked up suddenly, reminding him of his nonexistent, illusory control. It was developing into a maelstrom.

Again came the vision of the same precipice, but this time he was not climbing those malevolent, looming rocks alone. Margery was with him. Even as he watched, her foot slipped and she tumbled over the edge, catching herself only in the nick of time by grabbing the edge of the path’s ledge with both hands, and his vision-self was reaching down a hand toward her, calling out words he could not catch. They were carried away by the rising wind. The scene shifted. Margery and he were fighting against overwhelming odds, trying to fend off their enemies’ attacks. Margery fell, injured, and he limped to her side, attempting to turn aside the flood of black crows that crowded in on them. The vision changed again. His father and mother, Rheadwyn, Fortaine, Taryn, and many others belonging to the Ertraian clans were under attack from monstrous black-furred wolves. The wolves piled in on them, bringing them under. Rowan cried out, his voice one with the storm, feeding the gale. A dim figure, its face clouded by mist and shadowed by a dark hood, turned away from Rowan’s reflection in the vision, shunning him. He saw a twisted labyrinth; everyone who touched him fell. Melilana—Halbryn—his two foster brothers—even Adyn and Margery fell as though dead. He heard himself, faintly, as though from a great distance, crying out in denial, screaming in horror. The vision twisted, wrenched, turned inside out. He saw ghostly figures moving through the Cremlegge—some dark cult performing their arcane rituals. A young child was brought forward; Rowan closed his eyes. A beast—or perhaps a man—cried out as it, or he, was struck down. Rowan could not so much as move to interfere. Whatever the creature was, its blood now stained the low, ill-portended stone in the center of the Cremlegge. Rowan reached out, half-entranced, to one of the figures, his hand passing straight through it. Oddly enough, the figure reacted to him as well, flinching away from his touch. The warping threads and currents of power twisted out again and Rowan couldn’t contain his scream. It was ripped from his throat like an animal cry of pain. Now, walking around the other ghosts, who were beginning to withdraw, new ones, faintly outlined in shadow, as transparent as the others had been. Three children, fleeing in terror. Instinctively, Rowan reached out to aid them, but he could do nothing. They were not real—they were not present. Only as present as a dream. The children’s pursuers were already upon them. The youngest—a small girl—screamed. Lightning flew from the turbulent clouds above and smote among their persecutors, striking them down. They faded slowly away. More faded shouts and cries. This time, it was a group of full-grown wizards who sought refuge in the ancient circle of standing stones. However, their attackers were among them, slaying many, smiting them down as if they were no more than beasts. Rowan choked on his tears. A flash of light, and then the Wielders’ tormentors were fleeing in terror, eyes wide with madness. The unseen power of the place twisted and writhed once more, and Rowan was caught in the middle. He gasped at the churning, disorienting motions of the universal fabric. He cried out again. His grip was slipping. He was losing control.

Bound to the Flame, Chapter III, Part II

27 Tuesday May 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Bound to the Flame, Tales of a Wandering Bard

≈ 26 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, insanity, novels, original stories, original work, philosophy, stories in progress, theory

Sorry it has been so long. My life has been busy to the extreme of sanity. But I’m finally posting this again. Enjoy!

Warnings: None for this chapter. A lot of theory is discussed, and Adyn acts up. Nothing special. ;-P

Bound to the Flame

Chapter III

Part II

                Margery met Rowan in the chapel that morning, for prayers. She gave him a sidelong glance. It seemed that he wouldn’t be done for a long while; he was kneeling upright, hands folded demurely, large golden-hazel eyes turned slightly up toward the makeshift altar in the pavilion. The lights cascaded down over him in a golden shower of shifting, glittering dust motes, adding to the home-like atmosphere. Margery slid into a row of pews, kneeling down as she did, and shooting another sideways glance at Rowan. He looked as if he was exhausted, but drawing comfort and strength from this place.

After a long while, Rowan made the sign of the cross and rose. He picked up the stick that was resting against the pew beside him and made his way out of the makeshift chapel, struggling to genuflect. He limped slowly out of the tent and into the open. Margery followed. “I thought you were going to tutor Adyn…” she began.

“I am,” Rowan replied, “but only after we’ve had breakfast, and once we’re well within the woods. We don’t want any trouble. Meet us in the glade by the stream with the two standing rocks once you’ve eaten. That’s where we’ll have our classes.”

“All right. I’ll see you then,” Margery said.

 

Margery ate breakfast with her family and some of the other members of her clan and made her way into the woods as soon as she had finished. This was perfectly normal for her, so no one remarked on it. She followed the stream that ran through the encampment at Cremlegged, instinctively avoiding the forest on the side of the encampment that faced the ancient circle of standing stones in the woods beyond. She didn’t know why, but she dreaded to enter that ancient star wheel. She found her way easily to the glen Rowan had specified. Just as he had said, there was a stream flowing through an open glade with two large gray moss-covered, lichen-encrusted boulders at its head. She perched on one to wait, enjoying the sunny morning in the woods.

She was sitting there, as pre-arranged, on that same stone, when Rowan finally appeared, leaning heavily on his staff and shepherding a reluctant Adyn ahead of him. She rose, quickly. “What took you so long?” she asked.

“Adyn has a ritual of playing hide and go seek before magic lessons,” Rowan replied succinctly, with a little irritation evident in his breathless voice. Adyn grinned, unabashed, then he looked up at Margery with a look of awe.

“Are you a pixie?” he asked, eyes wide. Rowan groaned.

“That’s a marvelous way to start an awkward conversation, Adyn.” he reproved. Almost miraculously, the incorrigible, insufferable grin reappeared on Adyn’s face. Rowan sighed. “You’re impossible, obstreperous, and frustrating, and you’ll likely come to a bad end one of these days.” Rowan sighed and faced round to Margery. “Once in a blue moon, one word in three will get through to him. Not much more than that, though.” He sighed and gestured to the base of a nearby tree. “Shall we begin?” Margery stared at the huge—at least ten feet across—pixie ring that stood a few feet away, under the canopy of a spreading oak.

“Wouldn’t you rather use the pixie ring?” she asked. Rowan shrugged.

“Suit yourself, but you might as well make yourself comfortable,” he said, adding a slight emphasis on the last word. “We’re not doing magic practice today. Only theory. And mystique isn’t really worth much. There’s not much point in exhausting yourself just to sit in a circle of mushrooms.”

“That’s all it is?” Margery asked, disappointed.

“Quite everything,” Rowan replied. “Though some plants are thought to channel magic or have magical properties, mushrooms often just make you hallucinate. They have nothing to do with magic at all. In other words, they’re perfectly normal. There was a rumor, once, about mushrooms that could supposedly block a magic user’s abilities, but that’s just legend, with no substance that I know of. They just started calling those things pixie rings because someone thought that a toadstool would be a nice little place for a pixie to live. I don’t know why they would think that. It might make a nice place to hide under if you got caught outside in a downpour, but it would make a pretty poor seat or house in the long run. I think that pixies would really rather prefer trees, actually.” Feeling rather foolish, Margery sat down on a low stump nearby, and Rowan began the lesson.

“Much of modern magic theory is based on the work of Greek philosophers, such as Empedocles and Aristotle… you remember that much from last time, don’t you, Adyn?” The boy nodded. Rowan continued. “The Aristotelian theory of the elements states that there are not four, as in Empedocles’ theory, but five. The first four, which you probably already know, are earth, air, fire and water. The fifth Aristotle called ‘ether.’ He postulated that it was the material which made up the heavenly bodies, the stars, sun, comets, and planets. Maewyr the Great, whom we consider to be the first of the true Wielders, was the one to come up with the idea that the heavenly bodies were made up of similar materials and elements to Earth itself, and the fifth element, ‘ether’, was in fact, the essence of magic itself. All the work of later Wielders in theory is based off of his.

“According to Maewyr, the two classic elements most akin to magic are fire and air—air, because it is invisible, like magic is; only its effects are commonly seen and felt—and fire, because it is pure energy, just as magic is. Magical manipulation of the elements is a very large part of traditional magic, and more challenging than simple telekinesis or enhancement of the senses. Most people have an affinity for one, or two, but it takes training to effectively wield all five. Magic and fire are the two most difficult to use, as both are pure energy and as such are hard to control, but for the same reason they are the easiest to summon. It takes practice and experience with the elements to control plants and growth, and to learn to bend and summon light, which is considered the highest form of magic.

“Each element has an extension, or a separate form or continuation beyond itself. Some are both. The extension of fire is lightning. Water’s is ice. Earth’s is stone. Air’s continuation is rain.”

“Why rain?” Margery interrupted. Rowan looked at her, half-bewildered at having his discourse thus interjected.

“The air feels moist at times, does it not?” he asked. “And clouds come from the air, and rain comes from clouds. I think there is rain hanging suspended in the air at all times; it only falls occasionally, though.”

“Oh,” Margery said, subdued.

“Elemental storms are the most dangerous form of this kind of magic, especially since they can be so hard to master and remain in control of, and can be so easy to start in some circumstances.” Rowan continued. Adyn’s eyes wandered, following a butterfly across the pixie ring. Rowan sighed, frustrated. “And you’re not hearing a word of this, are you, Adyn?”

“Nope,” the boy said cheerfully. Rowan groaned.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to turn him into the kingdom’s champion,” he confided to Margery. “The little scaramouch.” Margery looked surprised.

“He’s supposed to become the Champion?”

“Well, what did you expect? He’s too scatter-brained to be a Seneschal,” Rowan bemoaned.

“Then… why are you training him? No offense, but you’re just a kid like me. Younger, even. How old, exactly, are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen,” Rowan replied, scuffing in the dirt with the toe of one boot.

“I’m a year older than you, then,” Margery said. She glanced at Rowan, coyly. “I thought you were younger.” Rowan sighed.

“Everyone tells me that,” he said. Margery shrugged.

“So… why are you, of all people, training Adyn, then?” Rowan sighed.

“I think it’s partly because of… the accident… to keep my mind off things. Keep me from brooding.” Margery frowned.

“Accident?” she asked, uncomprehending.

“Your highness, I’m crippled.” Rowan said bluntly. Margery gasped, both her hands going to her mouth. Rowan carried on, ruthlessly. “I’m not so badly crippled that I’m helpless, but one of my legs is weaker than the other, and some days the pain is so bad I can’t even walk at all. Since I can’t always walk and ride, I can’t be a knight in the strict sense, so I teach instead.” He glanced around, to see Adyn attempting to sneak off. With a startling burst of speed, he caught the miscreant by the collar and dragged him back. “Where do you think you’re off to, wretch?” he asked. Adyn struggled helplessly.

“I can’t help it if you’re boring, can I?” he snipped back. Rowan shook him gently.

“You just want to sneak back and see what’s going on at the Gathering, don’t you?” he said, softly. “A Wielder does not seek adventure or excitement for their own sakes!”

“Yeah, well, maybe I don’t want to be a Wielder,” Adyn retorted. Rowan’s eyes widened and he dropped Adyn, taking a step back.

“How can you say such a thing?” he asked, horror-struck.

“I don’t want to spend my life stuck in some moldy old castle in Ertraia! I want to see the world and have fun!”

“Adyn, being a wielder is an honor and an ancient tradition, and you have the potential to be the greatest,” Rowan said. “You can’t just throw that away! You can not disregard the Call like that!”

“It’s my life,” Adyn said obstinately.

“You wouldn’t go back to what you had before my mother took you in,” Rowan pointed out threateningly.

“I was a baby,” Adyn said, his voice whiny, completely ignoring Rowan’s ominous tone. Rowan’s dark eyes flashed.

“How can you be so ungrateful? You have talent, Adyn, talent, and you could be greater if you tried harder, but no! You throw it away the first time you see fool’s gold! There’s a reason why it’s lying by the wayside, Adyn, and that’s because it’s worthless!” Rowan gestured to the stone upon which Adyn had previously been sitting. “Now, sit back down, and we’ll complete the lesson.” Adyn stepped away, shaking his head.

“No. Not anymore. I’m not doing this any more. I’m leaving!” Rowan gripped the staff.

“Adyn!” he called after the boy, but it was too late. Adyn dashed off, ignoring him, vanishing into the surrounding trees in a matter of seconds. Rowan moved to run after him; limping a few steps, he tripped over a tree root and fell, stumbling and falling flat on his face, sprawled across the soft, moist loam. He gasped in pain. “Adyn!” he called again, but Adyn was gone. Margery ran to his side and helped him to his feet. Rowan limped forward, leaning against a tree exhaustedly for a moment, drawing in a slow, painful breath. Margery moved with him, supporting his slender form.

“Rowan…” Margery began.

“No time—I have to find him!” Rowan replied, anxiously.

“No. Wait.” Margery said. “You can’t catch him by your own speed, Rowan. You have to use your wits. And before you can find him, you have to rest.” Rowan groaned.

“I have to find him soon,” he stressed. “You don’t know Adyn as I do. He’s going to try to run away. His response to anything that doesn’t go his way is to run. And here, he could run anywhere.”

“But he won’t run just anywhere,” Margery said. “You know him. You can make an educated guess as to where he’ll go. And I—Right now, I need answers.”

“’Need’ and ‘deserve’ are dangerous words,” Rowan said coldly. “It would be both arrogant and shallow to take your high birth for granted, Your Highness.” Margery dashed his icy words aside as if they were so many annoying insects.

“I may not know Adyn, Rowan, but I do know humankind.” Rowan stiffened.

“And you’re saying that I do not?” he asked dangerously.

“Adyn didn’t really mean everything he said to hurt you,” Margery carried on, brashly ignoring him. “He… well, to be harshly accurate, he feels interest in me, almost fascination. He was showing off in front of me, trying to impress me. You were just an unintended victim caught in the crossfire, nothing more.”

“Do other boys act like this?” Rowan asked.

“Yes, I think it’s part of their natural disposition. Hormones are terrible things.” Rowan groaned.

“Why does Adyn have to pick someone twelve years older than himself to develop an attraction to? Sometimes I swear he’s just doing it all on purpose to give me grief.”

“Haven’t you ever had a crush on someone?” Margery asked. Rowan looked confused. “Puppy love. You know.” Rowan frowned, still confused.

“No, never.”

“Maybe it has something to do with you being so short,” Margery mused. Rowan dismissed the comment as unintelligible, walking slowly off, leaning heavily on his staff. “I’ll help you look for him,” Margery offered, running after him. Rowan paused and turned, a look of relief on his thin, narrow face.

“You will?” he said, tawny dark eyes deeply grateful. “Thank you.”

“Where would he go?” Margery asked, catching up. Rowan looked throughtful.

“When he’s having fun, he generally hides where he thinks I’ll never find him, but when he’s mad or upset, there’s no telling where he’ll go. He might even consciously put himself into danger of some kind, just to spite me.”

Margery nodded. “Where did he come from?” she asked. “I heard you say that your mother took him and his mother in.” Rowan sighed.

“Years ago, his mother came to us. She was a an orphan, and had been chased from her home by accusations of sorcery, though she was not a magic user in actuality. She was about sixteen, then. My mother offered her work in the royal household, and she took care of me when I was little. Eventually, she left us to get married. A few years after that, she came back. Her husband had been murdered by sea raiders. She took care of me, again, after I was injured two years ago. Adyn was a child at the time. He doesn’t remember anything about the sea raiders’ attack, and he doesn’t understand. He’s a volatile child. I’m afraid of what he’ll do when he’s a bit older, old enough to be interested, anyway, and finds out what really happened to his father. But, when he’s upset, he runs to his mother, she’s the only parent he’s ever known…” Suddenly, Rowan froze.

“His mother—that’s it! Margery, he could be in one of two places. One is with his mother. Hurry back to the encampment of Clan Caerlen and ask around for Taryn. If Adyn is there, with her, well and good. If not, tell her I’ll find him.” The determined ring in Rowan’s voice said he would brook no argument. Margery nodded and set off to find the mysterious Taryn. Rowan headed off into the deeper woods—toward the circle of the Cremlegged.

 

Bound to the Flame, Chapter II, Part III

15 Saturday Mar 2014

Posted by erinkenobi2893 in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

bound to the flame, original work, stories in progress

We’re back to Rowan in this one. It might be just a tad disturbing, so proceed with caution.

Oh, and this is the first time we meet Rheadwyn, too! 😀

That much said, enjoy!

Bound to the Flame

Chapter II

Part III

                He was burning up with fever, sweating and shivering at the same time. He tried to move, in order to get into a more comfortable position, but as he did so a terrible pain shot through his leg and up his back. He screamed in agony. White-hot lances ran, tingling painfully, through the broken leg and around his spine. Strong hands pinned him down. Panicking, he struggled, regardless of the pain it caused. Where was he? What was happening? He fought the hands that held him down. Why… why was this happening?

                Shadows coalesced in the angle beyond his mind’s reach, pain splintered the visible spectrum into red and black. Horrible light, too bright and yet unilluminating, pierced his eyes. He cried out, twisting his head away, trying to keep the light from piercing his head. That sent the agonizing spikes up his back again, and he gasped. He was trapped in a long dark hall of jagged shards of red, black, and torment. Slowly, he wandered deep in the shadows, wondering if he could ever return. Dimly, he remembered other things, when pain was only a dark dream, a mere terror of the night to be dispelled in the light of morning. It was his only reality now.

                Could he ever come back?

 

                “Keep him still! Keep him still!” Rheadwyn, a knight and healer, shouted over the racket in the sickroom, as she wrung out a damp cloth that she was using in an attempt to clean the injury. Her assistants pinned down the writhing boy to the pallet as she dabbed at the multiple cuts on Rowan’s broken leg. Rowan was crying out in pain, shouting out things that made no sense in his delirium. His breath came in ragged, shallow, painful gasps; he seemed unable to claim enough oxygen.

                Melilana placed a hand on her son’s forehead, her lips moving in a prayer, then a spell. “Isn’t there something we can do about the pain?” she cried out over the cries of pain and shouts of the healers.

                “We’ve tried willow, motherwort, mint even,” Rheadwyn said. “It’s not working. There’s nothing more we dare do, or we risk poisoning him.” Melilana wiped Rowan’s forehead with a clean, damp cloth, in an attempt to bring down the fever. She dabbed at the cut in his cheek that looked like a cross between a T and a backwards J. The injured child gave a low moan of pain. Melilana had to struggle to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. It pained her to see her much-beloved, only son so broken, so weak and ill.

                Rowan’s tawny dark hazel eyes opened momentarily. They were distant, unfocused. Melilana reached out and found the long, slim, elegant hand, now flaccid and feeble, that was draped like a sad pennon over the side of the bed. Rowan’s large, dark, tawny eyes were limpid, deep, unfocused, undirected, chill pools that led to unknown depths. Rowan drew in a sharp breath and moved restlessly. “Hold him! Keep him still! Don’t let him injure himself further!” Rheadwyn shouted. Melilana gripped her son’s limp hand and gazed him in the eyes. She saw only fear, terror, confusion, pain. While Rowan’s broken body lay in one place, his mind was in another entirely, walking dark avenues where no one else could follow, distant, far away, alone, struggling to comprehend. Rowan gasped out several more prhases and words that didn’t make sense. He writhed in pain, shuddering as if he was enduring more torment than simply that of his injured leg and broken body. Melilana was suddenly, sharply and horribly reminded of the scare stories she had heard from time to time. Mind torture! But of course, that was impossible, beyond imagining. Mind torture came under the label of dark magic, the occult, no matter who exercised it, how, or for what reasons; no matter the circumstances, it was always morally wrong, and as such, it was banned. Melilana banished the unpleasant thought from her mind and returned her attention to her ailing son. She felt for a single, strange moment as if she was drowning in the boy’s eyes—eyes eerily like her own. Melilana pushed the feeling away and turned her full attention and focus toward helping Rowan.

                “My lady,” Rheadwyn murmured, sotto voce, edging a little closer to the queen, “may I have a word, please?”

                “Of course,” Melilana replied, her lips scarcely moving, sensing that Rheadwyn meant a word that was at least reasonably confidential.

                “Please, I want you to feel Rowan’s injury out. I’d rather not rely on simply my own judgment alone in in a matter as grave as this.” Melilana nodded. She lifted her hand above the boy’s ailing body and murmured a spell under her breath. She was hard put to effectively contain and hide both her shock and horror. “It feels as if there’s some sort of dark magic ‘shroud’ that’s repelling our best efforts at healing magic. It’s almost as if the injury itself is resisting our healing.”

                Rheadwyn nodded, grimly. “That’s the sense I was getting, too,” she said. “Now, if only we knew how or why… if this had been a wound I would have almost said he was attacked with a weapon that had had his name tied to it…” Melilana shuddered as she thought of the dark magic ritual, in which the evil magician would call on the name of the Evil One, cursing the weapon to be the bane of their worst enemy, and whispering the enemy’s name to the blade six times to bind the charm. “It seems too directed for a simple curse, generalized curse,” Rheadwyn mused, rubbing her chin. “And yet, from what Julian said, the injury was likely caused by a fall from his horse, and possibly the horse also falling and landing on him, or rolling onto him. I don’t know how a healing-resistant injury could be caused in that fashion.” She glanced down at Rowan. “He’s fortunate that it wasn’t his back that was broken, and it’s a mystery to me how he traveled anywhere on his own in that condition.”

                “Guardian angels,” Melilana said succinctly, eliciting a wan smile from her friend’s face. Even though she was a powerful enchantress, Rheadwyn often confined her active beliefs to what she could see and hear, and though she did believe in the supernatural she didn’t remind herself of the fact very often.

                “Indeed,” the healer, Ranger and knight murmured in reply.

← Older posts

The Teenaged Superhero Society

Proud Member of the Teenaged Superhero Society

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 300 other subscribers
Follow The Upstairs Archives on WordPress.com

Categories

  • Artwork (19)
  • Living Life with Passion (204)
  • Story Dynamics (156)
  • Tales from Selay'uu (36)
  • Tales of a Wandering Bard (229)
    • Bound to the Flame (21)
    • Shifting Tides Series (20)
      • Battlefield of the Soul (5)
      • The Hero's Dream (15)
  • The Brooklyn Project (11)
  • The Music Writing Challenge (5)
  • Uncategorized (231)

Archives

  • March 2018
  • December 2017
  • November 2017
  • October 2017
  • April 2017
  • February 2017
  • December 2016
  • November 2016
  • October 2016
  • September 2016
  • August 2016
  • June 2016
  • May 2016
  • April 2016
  • February 2016
  • January 2016
  • December 2015
  • November 2015
  • October 2015
  • September 2015
  • August 2015
  • July 2015
  • June 2015
  • May 2015
  • April 2015
  • March 2015
  • February 2015
  • January 2015
  • December 2014
  • November 2014
  • October 2014
  • September 2014
  • August 2014
  • July 2014
  • June 2014
  • May 2014
  • April 2014
  • March 2014
  • February 2014
  • January 2014
  • December 2013
  • November 2013
  • October 2013
  • September 2013
  • August 2013

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use.
To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy
  • Follow Following
    • The Upstairs Archives
    • Join 300 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • The Upstairs Archives
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...