Post by journeycat on Apr 21, 2010 14:44:47 GMT 10
Title: Hallowed Waters
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,694
Summary: Thom reflects on his brother's death and his own silent rage, and realizes he must be the change he wishes to see. Set within my The Last Conté universe.
-----
The open air was cool and heavy with sea salt, and Thom of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau breathed deeply the scent of the ocean. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the sky roiled with dark clouds. The storm would be arriving in about an hour. He would have enough time to complete his mission and if he succeeded, it would be a precious piece of information to feed his father, to give them all hope.
He left his boots in the sand and took his first step into the water. It was like icy little needles stabbing his foot, but he took a breath and continued. His robe billowed up like a dress as he waded forward and made it difficult to walk. The salt seared a burn on his leg, but he steadfastly ignored it, although pain was not something with which he came into daily contact. After all, he was just a mage. A highly Gifted one, perhaps, but still just a mage.
Or so said Tusaine.
Just the thought of them made the muscles in his belly clench in nauseous anger. Murderers, he thought viciously, and slapped at the water ineffectually. His palm smarted. Slaughterers, butchers, invaders.
Lightening zigged on the horizon. The wind picked up a little, sweeping through his red curls. Thom brushed a lock out of his face and did his best to push his brother from his mind. Alan was dead and he could not help him—
(“Mother,” he said, his voice carefully bland, “did Uncle Thom keep any record of his spells?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Alanna replied, glancing at him. “Why?”
He looked away, and made the mistake at eyeing the picture of Alan hanging in her study. “No reason.”
Shockingly, unexpectedly, she had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him roughly down to her. Her violet eyes flashed when she hissed, “Don’t you dare. I miss Alan just as much as you do, but don’t you even think about messing with the dead. Leave them in peace, Thom, let your brother rest.”)
—but maybe he could help those still living. He reached into a fold in his robe and pulled out his mother’s scrying mirror, quietly purloined from her chambers. It had taken him a decade to finally figure out the proper spell for this, ten long years of Tusaine’s reign and a dead brother. Now, almost twelve years after the siege, he was finally putting it in play.
Sentiment, he thought, tracing the roses etched in the back of the mirror, a gift from so long ago that seemed so foolish now. Power. Necessity. Loyalty. I know what I need now to make this spell work. And I think I have it.
Thom wondered if Numair Salmalin had understood he had used a double-edged sword. The master mage had set an intricate and unbreakable spell on Princess Lianokami before she disappeared, and while it prevented all enemy mages to scry her, it also prevented anyone from scrying her. Essentially, truly, the princess and her keepers had vanished without a trace. It was a spell too powerful for anyone to break, even for Numair himself.
Until now.
He rolled his shoulders, letting the tendons gently pop, and shoved his sleeves up. The water was almost to his chest, the air humming with tension. He was standing in the middle of nature at its finest, its rawest, and he was going to take advantage of it.
Thom whispered a word.
Just like that, the world went still.
Nature was listening to him.
That was the trick, he had learned in an epiphany. While others sought to break the spell, to harness power and crush it and undo its secrets, Thom realized he must ally with the power. It was the key, to coax and cajole until the power, the nature allowed him passage.
“Show me Lianokami.”
And suddenly sound came rushing back full force. It was the howling winds and the deafening crack of thunder; lightning struck him, but it wasn’t really lightning as much as it was pure light, and his very bones sang with pain. There was fire in his lungs and sand in his eyes and he was dying—
—he was drowning, because the water had pulled away from him to form a tower that curled over him, and now it was crashing down on top of him. He lost his footing and was effortlessly swept away in the current. It battered his broken body and pulled his limbs from their sockets and he was tossed every which way like a dolly. Down into the depths he went, clawing upwards the whole time to no avail. An invisible hand was pulling him down, down—it was strange to think he had been able to stand in the water at all when now it seemed as though there was no end to this abyss.
I can’t hold my breath anymore, Thom thought desperately, squeezing his eyes shut. I failed, damn it, the spell failed and I was wrong. Alan, I’m sorry—
He opened his mouth, and breathed.
And breathed again.
And again.
His eyes popped open, and he screamed. Bubbled streamed out of his mouth. All around him, up and down and on all sides, was empty blackness. He was surrounded in water, he could feel it as he moved his hands, but it did not choke him. This was not what he expected, oh was this ever wrong—the word had been wrong, nature had rejected him.
His fingers touched something solid floating near him. Instinctively, Thom snatched it and pulled it up to his face. His eyes could see nothing in the dark, and so he traced its shape with his fingers. With a jolt, he realized, The mirror.
And just like that, there was light.
It was the lightning that was not lightning but some kind of pure light, like sunshine. It was radiating from the mirror, and Thom gripped the handle with both hands, afraid it would somehow fly from him. The light was somehow behind the reflective glass, casting a glow all around him, and to his surprise, his reflection appeared in the mirror—wide-eyed, frightened, and clear as day.
Then, it dissolved.
The picture changed.
Thom brought the mirror close to his face. Shapes fused and separated, sharpening and solidifying until he saw the scene before him as though he was there.
No, he thought. It can’t be...
Lianokami.
The spell had worked.
He had not seen her since she was a toddling girl, but he would recognize her anywhere. She was hanging precariously out of a broken-shuttered window, her face tilted up to the sunlight and staring straight at him. She would be—he quickly counted—ten now, perhaps, and her heritage was beginning to show. He could see it in her firm mouth and chin, in large eyes and broad brow; that was Roald, true as an arrow. Her coloring belied her Yamani heritage—fair skin, limpid eyes and sleek black hair she wore in a braid. She was too thin, and her eyes had seen too much, but she was, like no other he had seen, an unadulterated Conté princess.
A figure joined her at the window, draping arms over the sill and leaning out. It was dark Faleron of King’s Reach, looking the worse for wear. He was gaunt and had lost his courtly luster, but he, like Liano, was alive. He looked to be querying her—Thom couldn’t hear any sound from them—and he was even smiling a little. Liano glanced up at Faleron, and when she spoke, he could see she used the word Da.
“You’re alive,” Thom breathed, tears stinging his eyes. “Princess.”
Faleron was already turning to leave, but at his voice, Liano looked up, startled. Her eyes seemed to delve into his like daggers, and Thom held his breath. After a moment, she simply shrugged, and ducked back into the dark room. The window slammed shut.
The light went out. He inhaled water.
“Goddess,” he choked as something came up beneath him, hurtling him up and up and up through the water at the speed of light. His ears popped, his heart hammered violently in his chest, and he suddenly doubted that he would make it out alive to tell what he saw.
And then, suddenly, like an answered prayer, his head broke through the surface of the water. Thom gasped for breath, sputtering and coughing, splashing stupidly. The thick salt on his tongue made him gag. Oddly, his feet found sand and he was standing perfectly, the water only to his chest. A light drizzle pattered on his face as he glanced up at the dark clouds, with the wind whistling through his hair. He still held the mirror.
“Goddess,” he repeated for no reason, looking around.
There was nothing to suggest anything extraordinary had just occurred. It was stormy, and that was all. Thom glanced down at the mirror in his hand, and did a double-take. For a moment—no, it was impossible. It was a trick of the mind; he was, after all, absolutely exhausted.
It just seemed—he almost thought the face in the reflection had been younger, blonder, firmer...
It had looked like Alan.
But now it only showed his own white face with its dilated eyes and wet hair plastered to his head. It was only Thom, alive and well.
He tucked the mirror back in his robes, and started his slow trudge back to shore. He didn’t bother putting his shoes back on. He swept his gaze around one last time, staring out at the horizon, out at this deceptive water. This beach was a sacred place, and all this time he had had no idea.
“Thank you,” Thom said quietly, and only hoped whatever it was could hear him.
And as he turned to depart for Pirate’s Swoop and its echoing halls, its homelike feel, he heard it: a mere whisper that was barely audible over the roar of the waves, but it was, to him, clear as a bell.
You’re welcome, brother.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,694
Summary: Thom reflects on his brother's death and his own silent rage, and realizes he must be the change he wishes to see. Set within my The Last Conté universe.
-----
The open air was cool and heavy with sea salt, and Thom of Pirate’s Swoop and Olau breathed deeply the scent of the ocean. In the distance, thunder rumbled ominously and the sky roiled with dark clouds. The storm would be arriving in about an hour. He would have enough time to complete his mission and if he succeeded, it would be a precious piece of information to feed his father, to give them all hope.
He left his boots in the sand and took his first step into the water. It was like icy little needles stabbing his foot, but he took a breath and continued. His robe billowed up like a dress as he waded forward and made it difficult to walk. The salt seared a burn on his leg, but he steadfastly ignored it, although pain was not something with which he came into daily contact. After all, he was just a mage. A highly Gifted one, perhaps, but still just a mage.
Or so said Tusaine.
Just the thought of them made the muscles in his belly clench in nauseous anger. Murderers, he thought viciously, and slapped at the water ineffectually. His palm smarted. Slaughterers, butchers, invaders.
Lightening zigged on the horizon. The wind picked up a little, sweeping through his red curls. Thom brushed a lock out of his face and did his best to push his brother from his mind. Alan was dead and he could not help him—
(“Mother,” he said, his voice carefully bland, “did Uncle Thom keep any record of his spells?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Alanna replied, glancing at him. “Why?”
He looked away, and made the mistake at eyeing the picture of Alan hanging in her study. “No reason.”
Shockingly, unexpectedly, she had grabbed him by the collar and pulled him roughly down to her. Her violet eyes flashed when she hissed, “Don’t you dare. I miss Alan just as much as you do, but don’t you even think about messing with the dead. Leave them in peace, Thom, let your brother rest.”)
—but maybe he could help those still living. He reached into a fold in his robe and pulled out his mother’s scrying mirror, quietly purloined from her chambers. It had taken him a decade to finally figure out the proper spell for this, ten long years of Tusaine’s reign and a dead brother. Now, almost twelve years after the siege, he was finally putting it in play.
Sentiment, he thought, tracing the roses etched in the back of the mirror, a gift from so long ago that seemed so foolish now. Power. Necessity. Loyalty. I know what I need now to make this spell work. And I think I have it.
Thom wondered if Numair Salmalin had understood he had used a double-edged sword. The master mage had set an intricate and unbreakable spell on Princess Lianokami before she disappeared, and while it prevented all enemy mages to scry her, it also prevented anyone from scrying her. Essentially, truly, the princess and her keepers had vanished without a trace. It was a spell too powerful for anyone to break, even for Numair himself.
Until now.
He rolled his shoulders, letting the tendons gently pop, and shoved his sleeves up. The water was almost to his chest, the air humming with tension. He was standing in the middle of nature at its finest, its rawest, and he was going to take advantage of it.
Thom whispered a word.
Just like that, the world went still.
Nature was listening to him.
That was the trick, he had learned in an epiphany. While others sought to break the spell, to harness power and crush it and undo its secrets, Thom realized he must ally with the power. It was the key, to coax and cajole until the power, the nature allowed him passage.
“Show me Lianokami.”
And suddenly sound came rushing back full force. It was the howling winds and the deafening crack of thunder; lightning struck him, but it wasn’t really lightning as much as it was pure light, and his very bones sang with pain. There was fire in his lungs and sand in his eyes and he was dying—
—he was drowning, because the water had pulled away from him to form a tower that curled over him, and now it was crashing down on top of him. He lost his footing and was effortlessly swept away in the current. It battered his broken body and pulled his limbs from their sockets and he was tossed every which way like a dolly. Down into the depths he went, clawing upwards the whole time to no avail. An invisible hand was pulling him down, down—it was strange to think he had been able to stand in the water at all when now it seemed as though there was no end to this abyss.
I can’t hold my breath anymore, Thom thought desperately, squeezing his eyes shut. I failed, damn it, the spell failed and I was wrong. Alan, I’m sorry—
He opened his mouth, and breathed.
And breathed again.
And again.
His eyes popped open, and he screamed. Bubbled streamed out of his mouth. All around him, up and down and on all sides, was empty blackness. He was surrounded in water, he could feel it as he moved his hands, but it did not choke him. This was not what he expected, oh was this ever wrong—the word had been wrong, nature had rejected him.
His fingers touched something solid floating near him. Instinctively, Thom snatched it and pulled it up to his face. His eyes could see nothing in the dark, and so he traced its shape with his fingers. With a jolt, he realized, The mirror.
And just like that, there was light.
It was the lightning that was not lightning but some kind of pure light, like sunshine. It was radiating from the mirror, and Thom gripped the handle with both hands, afraid it would somehow fly from him. The light was somehow behind the reflective glass, casting a glow all around him, and to his surprise, his reflection appeared in the mirror—wide-eyed, frightened, and clear as day.
Then, it dissolved.
The picture changed.
Thom brought the mirror close to his face. Shapes fused and separated, sharpening and solidifying until he saw the scene before him as though he was there.
No, he thought. It can’t be...
Lianokami.
The spell had worked.
He had not seen her since she was a toddling girl, but he would recognize her anywhere. She was hanging precariously out of a broken-shuttered window, her face tilted up to the sunlight and staring straight at him. She would be—he quickly counted—ten now, perhaps, and her heritage was beginning to show. He could see it in her firm mouth and chin, in large eyes and broad brow; that was Roald, true as an arrow. Her coloring belied her Yamani heritage—fair skin, limpid eyes and sleek black hair she wore in a braid. She was too thin, and her eyes had seen too much, but she was, like no other he had seen, an unadulterated Conté princess.
A figure joined her at the window, draping arms over the sill and leaning out. It was dark Faleron of King’s Reach, looking the worse for wear. He was gaunt and had lost his courtly luster, but he, like Liano, was alive. He looked to be querying her—Thom couldn’t hear any sound from them—and he was even smiling a little. Liano glanced up at Faleron, and when she spoke, he could see she used the word Da.
“You’re alive,” Thom breathed, tears stinging his eyes. “Princess.”
Faleron was already turning to leave, but at his voice, Liano looked up, startled. Her eyes seemed to delve into his like daggers, and Thom held his breath. After a moment, she simply shrugged, and ducked back into the dark room. The window slammed shut.
The light went out. He inhaled water.
“Goddess,” he choked as something came up beneath him, hurtling him up and up and up through the water at the speed of light. His ears popped, his heart hammered violently in his chest, and he suddenly doubted that he would make it out alive to tell what he saw.
And then, suddenly, like an answered prayer, his head broke through the surface of the water. Thom gasped for breath, sputtering and coughing, splashing stupidly. The thick salt on his tongue made him gag. Oddly, his feet found sand and he was standing perfectly, the water only to his chest. A light drizzle pattered on his face as he glanced up at the dark clouds, with the wind whistling through his hair. He still held the mirror.
“Goddess,” he repeated for no reason, looking around.
There was nothing to suggest anything extraordinary had just occurred. It was stormy, and that was all. Thom glanced down at the mirror in his hand, and did a double-take. For a moment—no, it was impossible. It was a trick of the mind; he was, after all, absolutely exhausted.
It just seemed—he almost thought the face in the reflection had been younger, blonder, firmer...
It had looked like Alan.
But now it only showed his own white face with its dilated eyes and wet hair plastered to his head. It was only Thom, alive and well.
He tucked the mirror back in his robes, and started his slow trudge back to shore. He didn’t bother putting his shoes back on. He swept his gaze around one last time, staring out at the horizon, out at this deceptive water. This beach was a sacred place, and all this time he had had no idea.
“Thank you,” Thom said quietly, and only hoped whatever it was could hear him.
And as he turned to depart for Pirate’s Swoop and its echoing halls, its homelike feel, he heard it: a mere whisper that was barely audible over the roar of the waves, but it was, to him, clear as a bell.
You’re welcome, brother.