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Sep. 30th, 2010
Reaction [October]
Sep. 30th, 2010 02:06 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sl4irl.livejournal.com "I hope nobody kills you, Snaggle."
Dominic had been dead for some time now.
He remembered the news. The ultimate outcome to a grudge which had been blistering through this community for longer than he'd been a member of it. The two greatest threats, one unwanted, one by obligation, both collapsing in each others arms. Dourif: devourer of a fae's heart. Who claimed still to be with Autumn, when Autumn disagreed. Who had been ousted from the Court, but ultimately kept no secret of his intention remaining unchanged. That aim he'd spoken of last September, in the ceremony where Snaggle had joined his Season. To return to There & slay all he could. No, he wasn't leading an army. But he was heading there with a head-full of Autumn secrets, & Snaggle didn't lift a finger to stop him. Dominic went, though. As you'd expect. He was practically obliged, what with the crowd he'd sworn to.
And so they wiped each other out. A story pieced together, a picture flickering of a collision fantasised over endlessly finally taking place.
Then the pair of them gone. The greatest threats to his existence he'd brushed up against, the sources of the prolonged knot of fear which had bound itself tightly to his core, snuffed out together. A weight eased from his ribcage. He had endured his fear, and with the aid of time; it had been overcome.
But there was still the motley.
***
She said it earnestly.
For a moment he found that hard to take in. A threat, perhaps? An insinuation? He was well versed in them, by now. But no, that was it: her face fixed intently on him, if anything a sight of misery. He assured her that unless they possessed a plan, their desires were futile. He didn't add that he'd rather not have known. That there could well be a plan, kept well away from the eyes of the like of Rosalba.
His training was stepped up. That had seemed impossible, but room was made. All manner of means explored to hone himself. All manner of poisons illicitly quaffed, slips made while training with Lorica he knew would leave him lacerated or impaled. Healed up afterwards, of course, but not until after he had toughened. He collected tokens, hurled javelins, did all he could do. Still for the Traitors, he told himself, but encountering them in combat was not what he feared. It was not what drove him, for those months.
The death of Dominic had simplified things, but not solved them. The threats on his life didn't let up until the very end. He was sat there as it happened, told not to join them.
"Flea-bitten thug-hound", was how he'd put it. The incessant attempts to inspire fear in him made it so had to recall the occasion his life had been saved by him. The Harvester, which had collapsed its home around them as it was slain. His legs were locked up from the touch of one of its children, he was unable to run as the place collapsed across his skull. Pulled from the rubble. It was so hard to remember. "Getting another one could be arranged." Said snidely, the antithesis of the earlier memory. He'd made a point that the constant threats of death from Switchyard rang somewhat hollow, now: to strike him down would be to doom the Freehold. The response made it clear that the matter had been well considered, and ways around what he pointed out mooted.
And Mort. The good one. The only of that motley worth a moment of his time, the only he'd met away from gatherings or missions (once, to read out emails & ask for his reply), the only which seemed more to him than a strutting construct of macho & resentment, the one that refrained from spitting death threats, the one of warmth & of strength, true strength, and the one who comforted & chided. He to was a threat. Pledged to be a threat. To join with his thug brothers, to turn that wife-club upon his own kind.
If it came to that. Which it would. Which his comrades proclaimed so often that it had to.
He imagined the being of brawn & bluntness could be felled easily enough. But as yet another contribution to the melee he could prove decisive. Another body of weight to the offensive, another weapon aimed at his person. He was a source of fear. No matter how softly spoken he was, no matter how many loved him.
They were both struck down. He tried to fight back the sense of relief at the news, failed. A lone lunatic was left, a puffed up fantasy-addled child the sole remnant of what he had once devoted so much attention to. His life of fear was at an end. In the face of so great a shift, he felt a moment of wonder over how to fill the new-found chasm of space...
***
He was with his motleymate, on Hatfield's soil, the sky was bright.
It was early July. The next day his Freehold would hold the largest event it had done yet, with the visitors gathering in remembrance for the fallen. He would do his best to keep away from discussing his memories, so that the war effort would not be undermined. A sense of pride ran through him, as such unpleasant thoughts were eclipsed by his memories of the Stalwart Guard's humble beginnings. As he ran through the progress made, over how far they'd come.
A ring of fire arose about them, thorns ablaze attempting to push the pair of them apart.
For a moment he forced through them; tried to stick with his motleymate, his Monarch, imagining an assassination attempt. Stupid: a bullet ripped through his right-leg, burrowing his kneecap. What sort of a wretch would want Lorica dead?
The bullets kept coming, from nowhere. Two to the thighs, two to the knees. One in each. His limp form was bundled over Lorica now, the scent of seared flesh & smouldering fur slapping his nostrils as he passed out, mumbling.
He was to live in fear, again.
Dominic had been dead for some time now.
He remembered the news. The ultimate outcome to a grudge which had been blistering through this community for longer than he'd been a member of it. The two greatest threats, one unwanted, one by obligation, both collapsing in each others arms. Dourif: devourer of a fae's heart. Who claimed still to be with Autumn, when Autumn disagreed. Who had been ousted from the Court, but ultimately kept no secret of his intention remaining unchanged. That aim he'd spoken of last September, in the ceremony where Snaggle had joined his Season. To return to There & slay all he could. No, he wasn't leading an army. But he was heading there with a head-full of Autumn secrets, & Snaggle didn't lift a finger to stop him. Dominic went, though. As you'd expect. He was practically obliged, what with the crowd he'd sworn to.
And so they wiped each other out. A story pieced together, a picture flickering of a collision fantasised over endlessly finally taking place.
Then the pair of them gone. The greatest threats to his existence he'd brushed up against, the sources of the prolonged knot of fear which had bound itself tightly to his core, snuffed out together. A weight eased from his ribcage. He had endured his fear, and with the aid of time; it had been overcome.
But there was still the motley.
***
She said it earnestly.
For a moment he found that hard to take in. A threat, perhaps? An insinuation? He was well versed in them, by now. But no, that was it: her face fixed intently on him, if anything a sight of misery. He assured her that unless they possessed a plan, their desires were futile. He didn't add that he'd rather not have known. That there could well be a plan, kept well away from the eyes of the like of Rosalba.
His training was stepped up. That had seemed impossible, but room was made. All manner of means explored to hone himself. All manner of poisons illicitly quaffed, slips made while training with Lorica he knew would leave him lacerated or impaled. Healed up afterwards, of course, but not until after he had toughened. He collected tokens, hurled javelins, did all he could do. Still for the Traitors, he told himself, but encountering them in combat was not what he feared. It was not what drove him, for those months.
The death of Dominic had simplified things, but not solved them. The threats on his life didn't let up until the very end. He was sat there as it happened, told not to join them.
"Flea-bitten thug-hound", was how he'd put it. The incessant attempts to inspire fear in him made it so had to recall the occasion his life had been saved by him. The Harvester, which had collapsed its home around them as it was slain. His legs were locked up from the touch of one of its children, he was unable to run as the place collapsed across his skull. Pulled from the rubble. It was so hard to remember. "Getting another one could be arranged." Said snidely, the antithesis of the earlier memory. He'd made a point that the constant threats of death from Switchyard rang somewhat hollow, now: to strike him down would be to doom the Freehold. The response made it clear that the matter had been well considered, and ways around what he pointed out mooted.
And Mort. The good one. The only of that motley worth a moment of his time, the only he'd met away from gatherings or missions (once, to read out emails & ask for his reply), the only which seemed more to him than a strutting construct of macho & resentment, the one that refrained from spitting death threats, the one of warmth & of strength, true strength, and the one who comforted & chided. He to was a threat. Pledged to be a threat. To join with his thug brothers, to turn that wife-club upon his own kind.
If it came to that. Which it would. Which his comrades proclaimed so often that it had to.
He imagined the being of brawn & bluntness could be felled easily enough. But as yet another contribution to the melee he could prove decisive. Another body of weight to the offensive, another weapon aimed at his person. He was a source of fear. No matter how softly spoken he was, no matter how many loved him.
They were both struck down. He tried to fight back the sense of relief at the news, failed. A lone lunatic was left, a puffed up fantasy-addled child the sole remnant of what he had once devoted so much attention to. His life of fear was at an end. In the face of so great a shift, he felt a moment of wonder over how to fill the new-found chasm of space...
***
He was with his motleymate, on Hatfield's soil, the sky was bright.
It was early July. The next day his Freehold would hold the largest event it had done yet, with the visitors gathering in remembrance for the fallen. He would do his best to keep away from discussing his memories, so that the war effort would not be undermined. A sense of pride ran through him, as such unpleasant thoughts were eclipsed by his memories of the Stalwart Guard's humble beginnings. As he ran through the progress made, over how far they'd come.
A ring of fire arose about them, thorns ablaze attempting to push the pair of them apart.
For a moment he forced through them; tried to stick with his motleymate, his Monarch, imagining an assassination attempt. Stupid: a bullet ripped through his right-leg, burrowing his kneecap. What sort of a wretch would want Lorica dead?
The bullets kept coming, from nowhere. Two to the thighs, two to the knees. One in each. His limp form was bundled over Lorica now, the scent of seared flesh & smouldering fur slapping his nostrils as he passed out, mumbling.
He was to live in fear, again.
The ties that bind
Sep. 30th, 2010 02:31 pmseph-hazard.livejournal.comI actually wrote this and the one that comes after it a month or so back, but never got round to posting them. This one in particular is not, I think, very good, but it may still be of interest to some of you ;-)
( Eliza Chance is having a Bad Day. )
( Eliza Chance is having a Bad Day. )
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