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rainbowfic2013-06-14 07:48 pm
kay_brooke) wrote in rainbowfic2013-06-14 07:48 pm
Transparent #4, Yellow Submarine #9
Name: kay_brooke
Story: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Transparent #4 (scent in the air), Yellow Submarine #9 (he’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody)
Styles/Supplies: n/a
Word Count: 1,270
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Jarol receives a strange message.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
The message came for him in the late evening, long after everyone else had cleared out of the library. It was not exams time, so there were no desperate students falling asleep over their books long into the night, and the other scribes had retired to their apartments. Only Jarol was left, surrounded by piles of old, dusty books that had been brought up from the archives. It had been his intent to catalog them and mark which ones were in such poor quality that copies should be made, but he had, typically, gotten engrossed in one of the more ancient volumes, carefully turning its fragile pages, drinking in the faded, archaic language. It was not the most interesting book, being an account of an already well-documented past war, but Jarol suspected it represented one of the oldest pieces about said war, and was therefore of some scholarly value.
Thus he had passed most of the evening, until it was only him, his diminishing candle, and his books casting hulking shadows against the stone walls.
It was very strange, then, that he received such a late message.
The bearer was a silent servant in a black cloak who drifted out of the shadows and handed him a missive. Jarol looked between the paper in his hand and the servant, blinking in confusion. He checked the clock to make sure he had not misread the time.
“What is this?”
The servant shrugged. “I was only bid deliver it. If that is all?”
Jarol waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, you may go.” His attention was taken entirely by the folded message, the flaps held closed by sealing wax stamped with the Academy symbol. There was no writing on the outside and no other indication from whom the message might be. He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Four o’Clock Front Circle, Southern End. Come immediately. was all that was written on the paper.
Jarol scowled and crumpled the paper in his fist. Was this a joke? Four o’Clock Front Circle was the location of the offices of the truly important Academy administration. They dealt only in official Academy affairs and liaisons with the Assembly. They had no time for students nor staff, and especially no time for junior scribes. And it was unthinkable that any one of them would still be in their offices at this hour.
Plus, the location was on the other side of the Academy from him, and the coaches had stopped running hours ago.
Closing his book, realizing that his eyes were getting heavy and he had really spent far more time in the library than his meager wages justified, Jarol debated with himself. Take the message seriously and trek all the way over to Four o’Clock--and likely find everything dark and shuttered, the message merely a stupid prank? Or ignore the message and possibly invite the wrath of his superiors? Jarol knew they didn’t like him, that after he had his student status removed they had only wanted to see the back of him. It had only been because he begged that he had been allowed to stay at the Academy as a scribe. Jarol was certain that the dionosi would toss him out if given even the slightest excuse.
Which meant he should probably go to Four o’Clock, on the chance the message was real.
But even as he packed up his things a part of him railed against the decision. Why should he dance so fearfully to their tune? Why should they have so much say in where he went and what he did? His work spoke for itself; he should be a scribe because he was good at it, not because the smug idiots who had revoked his student status had taken pity on him. He should not live under the daily fear that one small mistake would give them every reason to throw him to the unforgiving streets of Spirathua.
He was tired. He wanted to go to his apartment, to his bed. There was no reason to go traipsing around the Academy in the middle of the night. He would show them he was no longer going to be their whipped dog, to come when they called and obey every whim out of fear. If someone wanted to talk to him, let them wait until morning, after he was rested, when it fit into his schedule.
Even as these thoughts swirled angrily around in his head, his traitorous feet took him not north to Ten o’Clock where his rooms awaited, but south. And then east as he followed the great circle of the Academy around, his footsteps ringing against the streets, deserted except for the occasional sleepless student seeking a brisk walk in the hopes of curing their insomnia. It was yet too early for the cleaners, and too late for everyone else.
Front Circle, the note had said. Southern End. And that was where Jarol eventually found himself, at the very end of a hall that terminated in a thick oak door, a name carved in the door that made Jarol blanch: Dionos Mara.
He had not realized the location was her office. “The Queen Apparent,” she was called, the archaic term the type of joke that wasn’t entirely a joke. The Academy’s head representative in the Assembly, it was said she held nearly as much power there as the Head Assembler himself. Ethilikos had done away with queens and kings centuries ago, but there were whispers that perhaps even the Head Assembler could not stand against Dionos Mara’s power, should she ever find herself in the position of desiring to overrule him.
Jarol had never met the woman. He didn’t know anyone who had. He hadn’t even known she held an office at the Academy; as an Assembly representative she had her own offices in Government Hall. But there it was, and waiting outside it, a servant.
“What is your intention here?” the servant asked, and Jarol realized it wasn’t a servant, but a guard. In the shadows he had not noticed the uniform.
Feeling stupid, sure now this was some prank to get him in trouble, Jarol said, “I received a message.” He drew the crumpled paper out of his tunic pocket, tried his best to uncrumple it, and handed it over.
The guard looked at the paper but did not take it. “What is your name?”
“Jarol Car--” He took a deep breath. “Nilis-Angisini.” Two years since he had been a student, but he was still not used to introducing himself as anything but. His hated last name had been returned to him, and it felt like worms on his tongue, so he tried not to say it at all. But the guard would want formality.
The guard nodded. “You are expected.” He opened the door.
Blinking in surprise, Jarol said, “What for?”
“That is not for me to say,” said the guard. He gestured toward the opening, through which spilled the yellow tones of candlelight. “Please do not keep the dionos waiting.”
“No,” Jarol stuttered. “Of course not.” What could Dionos Mara possibly want with him? Though his first instinct was fear, logic won out: it couldn’t be anything bad. Had he done something wrong, if his scribe assignment was being taken from him, he would not be told by the likes of Dionos Mara. She was far too busy to care or even know about him.
Which meant, possibly, that it was an opportunity. Jarol liked opportunities.
He stepped inside.
kay_brookeStory: The Eighth Saimar
Colors: Transparent #4 (scent in the air), Yellow Submarine #9 (he’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land, making all his nowhere plans for nobody)
Styles/Supplies: n/a
Word Count: 1,270
Rating/Warnings: PG-13; no standard warnings apply.
Summary: Jarol receives a strange message.
Note: Constructive criticism is welcome, either through comments or PM.
The message came for him in the late evening, long after everyone else had cleared out of the library. It was not exams time, so there were no desperate students falling asleep over their books long into the night, and the other scribes had retired to their apartments. Only Jarol was left, surrounded by piles of old, dusty books that had been brought up from the archives. It had been his intent to catalog them and mark which ones were in such poor quality that copies should be made, but he had, typically, gotten engrossed in one of the more ancient volumes, carefully turning its fragile pages, drinking in the faded, archaic language. It was not the most interesting book, being an account of an already well-documented past war, but Jarol suspected it represented one of the oldest pieces about said war, and was therefore of some scholarly value.
Thus he had passed most of the evening, until it was only him, his diminishing candle, and his books casting hulking shadows against the stone walls.
It was very strange, then, that he received such a late message.
The bearer was a silent servant in a black cloak who drifted out of the shadows and handed him a missive. Jarol looked between the paper in his hand and the servant, blinking in confusion. He checked the clock to make sure he had not misread the time.
“What is this?”
The servant shrugged. “I was only bid deliver it. If that is all?”
Jarol waved his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, you may go.” His attention was taken entirely by the folded message, the flaps held closed by sealing wax stamped with the Academy symbol. There was no writing on the outside and no other indication from whom the message might be. He broke the seal and unfolded the paper.
Four o’Clock Front Circle, Southern End. Come immediately. was all that was written on the paper.
Jarol scowled and crumpled the paper in his fist. Was this a joke? Four o’Clock Front Circle was the location of the offices of the truly important Academy administration. They dealt only in official Academy affairs and liaisons with the Assembly. They had no time for students nor staff, and especially no time for junior scribes. And it was unthinkable that any one of them would still be in their offices at this hour.
Plus, the location was on the other side of the Academy from him, and the coaches had stopped running hours ago.
Closing his book, realizing that his eyes were getting heavy and he had really spent far more time in the library than his meager wages justified, Jarol debated with himself. Take the message seriously and trek all the way over to Four o’Clock--and likely find everything dark and shuttered, the message merely a stupid prank? Or ignore the message and possibly invite the wrath of his superiors? Jarol knew they didn’t like him, that after he had his student status removed they had only wanted to see the back of him. It had only been because he begged that he had been allowed to stay at the Academy as a scribe. Jarol was certain that the dionosi would toss him out if given even the slightest excuse.
Which meant he should probably go to Four o’Clock, on the chance the message was real.
But even as he packed up his things a part of him railed against the decision. Why should he dance so fearfully to their tune? Why should they have so much say in where he went and what he did? His work spoke for itself; he should be a scribe because he was good at it, not because the smug idiots who had revoked his student status had taken pity on him. He should not live under the daily fear that one small mistake would give them every reason to throw him to the unforgiving streets of Spirathua.
He was tired. He wanted to go to his apartment, to his bed. There was no reason to go traipsing around the Academy in the middle of the night. He would show them he was no longer going to be their whipped dog, to come when they called and obey every whim out of fear. If someone wanted to talk to him, let them wait until morning, after he was rested, when it fit into his schedule.
Even as these thoughts swirled angrily around in his head, his traitorous feet took him not north to Ten o’Clock where his rooms awaited, but south. And then east as he followed the great circle of the Academy around, his footsteps ringing against the streets, deserted except for the occasional sleepless student seeking a brisk walk in the hopes of curing their insomnia. It was yet too early for the cleaners, and too late for everyone else.
Front Circle, the note had said. Southern End. And that was where Jarol eventually found himself, at the very end of a hall that terminated in a thick oak door, a name carved in the door that made Jarol blanch: Dionos Mara.
He had not realized the location was her office. “The Queen Apparent,” she was called, the archaic term the type of joke that wasn’t entirely a joke. The Academy’s head representative in the Assembly, it was said she held nearly as much power there as the Head Assembler himself. Ethilikos had done away with queens and kings centuries ago, but there were whispers that perhaps even the Head Assembler could not stand against Dionos Mara’s power, should she ever find herself in the position of desiring to overrule him.
Jarol had never met the woman. He didn’t know anyone who had. He hadn’t even known she held an office at the Academy; as an Assembly representative she had her own offices in Government Hall. But there it was, and waiting outside it, a servant.
“What is your intention here?” the servant asked, and Jarol realized it wasn’t a servant, but a guard. In the shadows he had not noticed the uniform.
Feeling stupid, sure now this was some prank to get him in trouble, Jarol said, “I received a message.” He drew the crumpled paper out of his tunic pocket, tried his best to uncrumple it, and handed it over.
The guard looked at the paper but did not take it. “What is your name?”
“Jarol Car--” He took a deep breath. “Nilis-Angisini.” Two years since he had been a student, but he was still not used to introducing himself as anything but. His hated last name had been returned to him, and it felt like worms on his tongue, so he tried not to say it at all. But the guard would want formality.
The guard nodded. “You are expected.” He opened the door.
Blinking in surprise, Jarol said, “What for?”
“That is not for me to say,” said the guard. He gestured toward the opening, through which spilled the yellow tones of candlelight. “Please do not keep the dionos waiting.”
“No,” Jarol stuttered. “Of course not.” What could Dionos Mara possibly want with him? Though his first instinct was fear, logic won out: it couldn’t be anything bad. Had he done something wrong, if his scribe assignment was being taken from him, he would not be told by the likes of Dionos Mara. She was far too busy to care or even know about him.
Which meant, possibly, that it was an opportunity. Jarol liked opportunities.
He stepped inside.