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rainbowfic2015-03-20 03:04 am
crossfortune) wrote in rainbowfic2015-03-20 03:04 am
Entry tags:
of little talks
Name: Mischa
Story: i never promised you a rose garden
Colors: octarine (There were a few seconds of total silence as everyone waited to see what would happen next.), white opal (castles in the sky), verdigris (rot)
Supplies and Styles: None
Word Count: 758
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed, I think?
Summary: "Observations tell us only so much about the man." In the midst of an unfortunate detour, two friends have a somewhat uncomfortable talk about a mutual problem.
Notes: This is a favorite fragment of a scene from a much longer draft (twenty pages) that I originally wrote for a creative writing class. I need to rework a fair bit of it before I post that draft here, first, but I liked this bit nearly as it was, so here it is.
Mircea laughs, lightly, as his fingers trail across the strings of his harp - no song, as of yet, just formless arpeggios, chords with no melody. No more than that, here, in Romnia where vocal music is nothing more than heresy for its associations with Elegy, and Aysel is almost amused by the irony. A nation so scarred by the ghosts of the Sundering that it still has an unhealing wound at its heart, an unstable tear between flesh and spirit, and yet it rejects everything that could save it - the catfolk driven out, songs silenced, their few, unlucky thaumaturges hooded and chained and struck from all family records, unable to use their powers freely or to be people, seers blinded and unable to see anything but their visions. Given time and the ability to walk and work freely, she and her brother could heal it; given time and refinement, Mircea could cauterize that wound, though none of that was given them, but despite everything, an Elegist and two catfolk walk hidden through Romnia with no one the wiser.
Humans.
“What did you learn?” she asks, again, one ear pressing back against her head irritably, tail lashing beneath the layers of illusions.
“Romnia is considering allying with Oradea,” Mircea says, spinning a more complicated melody beneath his fingers.
“They’re so afraid of the Sultanate that they’d do that?” Aysel asks, almost disbelieving, and Mircea turns his hand palm-up.
“It seems so, unbelievable as that decision is.” he says, before he goes back to playing, and she purses her lips.
“Speaking of Oradea,” she says, entirely too bluntly, “We all know our trail is leading there, and some of us don’t know enough about the voivode of voivodes. Tell me about him,” she prompts, after a moment, and perhaps that was the wrong way to ask, as the melody of Mircea’s harp dies in a sudden dissonant chord, his fingers shaking on the strings. Aysel manages not to wince at the harsh burst of sound, though her sensitive ears ring with the echoes of it.
After a moment, Mircea’s hand settles over the strings, stilling the sound, and he’s silent, delicate lips pressed together into a thin line. It’s not an expression he wears often, mouth bent into something other than a smile. “What can I say that hasn’t already been observed?” he finally asks, slender shoulder lifting into a shrug. “The Sultana has her eyes-and-ears everywhere - we’re proof of that - even in the midst of his court.”
“Observations,” she says, sharply, too sharply, “Tell us only so much about the man. Especially since those eyes-and-ears go out of their way to not interact with him at all.”
Mircea doesn’t say anything for a moment: his muscles tense, and Aysel’s afraid that he’ll jump up and run: it’s not as if she wouldn’t be able to catch him if he tried, even if she can’t risk stepping through shadows here, but it’d definitely mean the conversation was closed. He runs: it’s what he’s done to survive and be free this long, and Aysel isn’t certain that, friends or no, that he wouldn’t run from her, too.
Finally, Mircea settles, though his posture is still tense and wary, but no longer a bird poised moments from flight. “The most important thing to remember about Razvan, dear one,” he says, glancing away from her. “Is that he will let no obstacle stand in his way - not person, place, nation, or even morality or the gods. His goal is to unite the East by any means necessary - bring order and peace, stop the feuds of the clans and principalities. A noble goal if one doesn’t look at anything else- in that way, he and the Sultana are not much different, I suppose. Dreaming of something better for their people - but other than that, they are far different. Her Radiant Majesty has lines that she will not cross in pursuit of that goal and there is nothing Razvan would not do if his goal demanded it - he would consort with demons, has a knight in his service who sold his soul, sell his own integrity if it came to it. And not for power for its own sake - but because he believes rule beneath a mailed fist is the only way to bring lasting peace, that anything kinder or gentler will ultimately fail, and that he is the only one willing to make those sacrifices to ensure that future. ” He’s quieter when next he speaks, head lowered and his eyes obscured even more by long white bangs. “...and sometimes, I can’t even say that he’s entirely wrong about that.”
Story: i never promised you a rose garden
Colors: octarine (There were a few seconds of total silence as everyone waited to see what would happen next.), white opal (castles in the sky), verdigris (rot)
Supplies and Styles: None
Word Count: 758
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None needed, I think?
Summary: "Observations tell us only so much about the man." In the midst of an unfortunate detour, two friends have a somewhat uncomfortable talk about a mutual problem.
Notes: This is a favorite fragment of a scene from a much longer draft (twenty pages) that I originally wrote for a creative writing class. I need to rework a fair bit of it before I post that draft here, first, but I liked this bit nearly as it was, so here it is.
Mircea laughs, lightly, as his fingers trail across the strings of his harp - no song, as of yet, just formless arpeggios, chords with no melody. No more than that, here, in Romnia where vocal music is nothing more than heresy for its associations with Elegy, and Aysel is almost amused by the irony. A nation so scarred by the ghosts of the Sundering that it still has an unhealing wound at its heart, an unstable tear between flesh and spirit, and yet it rejects everything that could save it - the catfolk driven out, songs silenced, their few, unlucky thaumaturges hooded and chained and struck from all family records, unable to use their powers freely or to be people, seers blinded and unable to see anything but their visions. Given time and the ability to walk and work freely, she and her brother could heal it; given time and refinement, Mircea could cauterize that wound, though none of that was given them, but despite everything, an Elegist and two catfolk walk hidden through Romnia with no one the wiser.
Humans.
“What did you learn?” she asks, again, one ear pressing back against her head irritably, tail lashing beneath the layers of illusions.
“Romnia is considering allying with Oradea,” Mircea says, spinning a more complicated melody beneath his fingers.
“They’re so afraid of the Sultanate that they’d do that?” Aysel asks, almost disbelieving, and Mircea turns his hand palm-up.
“It seems so, unbelievable as that decision is.” he says, before he goes back to playing, and she purses her lips.
“Speaking of Oradea,” she says, entirely too bluntly, “We all know our trail is leading there, and some of us don’t know enough about the voivode of voivodes. Tell me about him,” she prompts, after a moment, and perhaps that was the wrong way to ask, as the melody of Mircea’s harp dies in a sudden dissonant chord, his fingers shaking on the strings. Aysel manages not to wince at the harsh burst of sound, though her sensitive ears ring with the echoes of it.
After a moment, Mircea’s hand settles over the strings, stilling the sound, and he’s silent, delicate lips pressed together into a thin line. It’s not an expression he wears often, mouth bent into something other than a smile. “What can I say that hasn’t already been observed?” he finally asks, slender shoulder lifting into a shrug. “The Sultana has her eyes-and-ears everywhere - we’re proof of that - even in the midst of his court.”
“Observations,” she says, sharply, too sharply, “Tell us only so much about the man. Especially since those eyes-and-ears go out of their way to not interact with him at all.”
Mircea doesn’t say anything for a moment: his muscles tense, and Aysel’s afraid that he’ll jump up and run: it’s not as if she wouldn’t be able to catch him if he tried, even if she can’t risk stepping through shadows here, but it’d definitely mean the conversation was closed. He runs: it’s what he’s done to survive and be free this long, and Aysel isn’t certain that, friends or no, that he wouldn’t run from her, too.
Finally, Mircea settles, though his posture is still tense and wary, but no longer a bird poised moments from flight. “The most important thing to remember about Razvan, dear one,” he says, glancing away from her. “Is that he will let no obstacle stand in his way - not person, place, nation, or even morality or the gods. His goal is to unite the East by any means necessary - bring order and peace, stop the feuds of the clans and principalities. A noble goal if one doesn’t look at anything else- in that way, he and the Sultana are not much different, I suppose. Dreaming of something better for their people - but other than that, they are far different. Her Radiant Majesty has lines that she will not cross in pursuit of that goal and there is nothing Razvan would not do if his goal demanded it - he would consort with demons, has a knight in his service who sold his soul, sell his own integrity if it came to it. And not for power for its own sake - but because he believes rule beneath a mailed fist is the only way to bring lasting peace, that anything kinder or gentler will ultimately fail, and that he is the only one willing to make those sacrifices to ensure that future. ” He’s quieter when next he speaks, head lowered and his eyes obscured even more by long white bangs. “...and sometimes, I can’t even say that he’s entirely wrong about that.”
no subject
Really intriguing excerpt!
no subject
Thank you.
no subject
Power ends up being a slave to itself so often. I'm really interested in seeing more of this.
no subject
And it's very true, about power. And there will definitely be more.
no subject
OK, I love your use of telling details here, and your mood and please tell me what I must do to persuade you to share the whole thing when it is finished.
no subject
Thank you. I was actually planning to share the whole thing when I'd originally finished it last year, but I held off because there's a lot of missing context there (about Mircea's backstory, and the six-year gap between when he fled Razvan's service and ended up in the service of the Sultana of Cezayir to the 'now' of the story and what he's doing), so I'll probably work on finishing it again while I fill in more context.
no subject
no subject
That last paragraph was actually my favorite part of the scene (and it is definitely...chilling in implication).