Post by Seek on Sept 2, 2013 2:47:19 GMT 10
Title: Annwn
Rating: PG
Category: Emelan >1000 words
Length: 1257 words
Original and Subsequent Haunts: Goldenlake
Summary: A quasi-mythological take on the end of Briar's book. Warning for major character death.
Notes: Written for the Goldenlake Olympics.
-
The pale waters lap gently at the shore. Briar stands at the very edge of the barely-smoothened pebble path. Don’t touch the water, he knows, though his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. For a moment, he’s back at Discipline and he smells one of Rosethorn’s morning blends, redolent with spices and rosehips. The tea warms him, but he can’t see her face—
—and he’s back at the water’s edge, river flowing endlessly in each direction. Don’t linger. The plump sweetmelon-sized tangle of green magic tells him his destination lies farther still, beyond that river. He casts about for a crossing. There is a crude wooden platform constructed of planking hammered together and the river washes unceasingly below; he can see through the slats in the platform, but can’t hear more than a gentle murmur against his ears.
A dark boat bobs up and down along the moving waters; a boatman sits there, feet dangling carelessly a few inches above the waterline. Apple? the boatman asks, casually, before Briar can open his mouth. Briar blinks, catches sight of the apple in the boatman’s callused hand. Bright tomato-vivid red, the fruit is a splash of colour down here; the single crushed leaf on broken stem a point of sharp contrast.
Do not tarry. Do not take what they offer.
He breathes, thin-bladed nose inhaling the apple-fragrance, redolent with autumnal promises of blue skies and fiery leaves crunching underfoot, but burnt-umber at the edges all things fading towards the inevitable decline of winter. No.
“No, thanks,” Briar says. “I need to cross the river, please.” The boatman’s features are barely discernable between the gloom and the shade of his wide-brimmed hat. But his eyes are dark and watchful and he shrugs and bites into the apple.
Suit yourself, he says. I’ve rowed many across the river—
—clear as frosted glass—
—screaming, pleading, weeping, shouting, all of them you can think of and more, some so withered and withdrawn they sat numb in my boat it’s all the same to me as to whether they know they’ve crossed the river, the river flows only one way and I only ever make one crossing, boy, and this is the journey no one returns from so why are you here I haven’t seen one of the living here in centuries maybe millenia time passes strangely here but it’s all the same to me, we’ve got all the time in the world now that time’s stopped for us.
“Someone’s waiting for me,” Briar says. He hefts the ball of magic, feels it send verdant needles of life into his cold fingers. “I’m taking her back. She doesn’t belong here.”
The boatman laughs, and tosses the apple core, pips and all into the river. I row only those who are supposed to be here across the river, if she’s there she belongs there and there is nothing left for her up there in the sunlit lands. He stares right at Briar, gives him a long hard look. You’re not the first of the living I’ve had here storming down asking me to take them across the river but if you cross the river you belong there I can’t let people back across the river, it can’t be done and the living don’t belong down there with the dead.
“Then I’ll find another way,” Briar snaps. “Bet there’s another way out without crossing your precious river twice.”
The boatman shrugs. They all say that when they want to cross the river but I’m not inclined to do so today, or tomorrow but maybe that’s up for discussion if you want to settle this in a civilised fashion but only tell me this and perhaps I’ll help you who was she to you, that I should ferry you across the river to the deadlands? I’ve seen enough of the living and enough of the dead pleading boy and they all say the same thing in the end regrets things left undone mistakes they want to make things right they don’t deserve this they want to leave but maybe you’re different and if you are I’ll help you
So tell me, boy, or if you’re a man because you’ve come here and I see there’s no hound on your trail so you’ve tricked him have you or mislaid him and that’s a deed worthy of a man—
What have you known of loss
That makes you different from other men?
“What does that matter to you?” Briar asks, crossly.
I’m an old boatman easily bored I’ve seen enough of all of you to last lifetimes and heard all the stories that can be told if you want me to row you across the river then you must tell me of something that will ease the journey perhaps tell me of what you know of loss and then I’ll decide.
“I made it here."
Others have come before, I told you you are not the first of the living to come down to the grey iron river because of someone on the other shore the shades of the dead sometimes come here and stretch out their hands in longing for the opposite side but no one swims.
Do not touch the water, Briar thinks and anyway when he eyes it, he’s not so sure if touching that is a good idea. He reaches out and through his magic, he can’t sense anything at all. What kind of river doesn’t have any sort of plants anyway?
That river. The one from which there’s no return.
He feels the tangle of summer storms spun thread and forge heat at his back, steadying him, blazing where they burn lines through his core, anchoring him to life.
“Tell me,” he says, “You’ve never rowed anyone living across that river.”
The boatman falls silent, so silent that Briar’s instincts scream.
There was a man, he says, A poet who played the sweetest music you have to have seen him to believe it music dripped from his fingers like thick golden honey and all sharp and clear like crystal he was like you perhaps so bright the waters couldn’t leech the life from him I saw him wade in and thought what a pity for him to die so soon but he wasn’t ready to live in a world she had gone from and so I waded in and fished him out it’s my river you understand I don’t own it but I’ve plyed it for so long I know every turn and eddy and it can’t hurt me so I fished him out and rowed him across and he came back alone and without her.
You can’t take them with you, the boatman continues. I know what you’re carrying and only you can cross their life is too strong but you, you’re already willing to plunge into the underlands and you’re the only one that can make the crossing everything else has to be left behind.
Briar stares down at the spooled ball of green magic in his hands. Already, the shades and hues are growing less vibrant, his hands pale against the greys of his clothing, but he’s got to go on.
“Sorry,” he says aloud, a moment before he severs the connection. The girls would fight him on this, always would but it’s too late for them and the moment of realisation sends a rush of anger-worry-fear along their connection but he strikes hard and fast. It snaps, and he staggers a little from whiplash.
The boatman is waiting.
Rating: PG
Category: Emelan >1000 words
Length: 1257 words
Original and Subsequent Haunts: Goldenlake
Summary: A quasi-mythological take on the end of Briar's book. Warning for major character death.
Notes: Written for the Goldenlake Olympics.
-
The pale waters lap gently at the shore. Briar stands at the very edge of the barely-smoothened pebble path. Don’t touch the water, he knows, though his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth. For a moment, he’s back at Discipline and he smells one of Rosethorn’s morning blends, redolent with spices and rosehips. The tea warms him, but he can’t see her face—
—and he’s back at the water’s edge, river flowing endlessly in each direction. Don’t linger. The plump sweetmelon-sized tangle of green magic tells him his destination lies farther still, beyond that river. He casts about for a crossing. There is a crude wooden platform constructed of planking hammered together and the river washes unceasingly below; he can see through the slats in the platform, but can’t hear more than a gentle murmur against his ears.
A dark boat bobs up and down along the moving waters; a boatman sits there, feet dangling carelessly a few inches above the waterline. Apple? the boatman asks, casually, before Briar can open his mouth. Briar blinks, catches sight of the apple in the boatman’s callused hand. Bright tomato-vivid red, the fruit is a splash of colour down here; the single crushed leaf on broken stem a point of sharp contrast.
Do not tarry. Do not take what they offer.
He breathes, thin-bladed nose inhaling the apple-fragrance, redolent with autumnal promises of blue skies and fiery leaves crunching underfoot, but burnt-umber at the edges all things fading towards the inevitable decline of winter. No.
“No, thanks,” Briar says. “I need to cross the river, please.” The boatman’s features are barely discernable between the gloom and the shade of his wide-brimmed hat. But his eyes are dark and watchful and he shrugs and bites into the apple.
Suit yourself, he says. I’ve rowed many across the river—
—clear as frosted glass—
—screaming, pleading, weeping, shouting, all of them you can think of and more, some so withered and withdrawn they sat numb in my boat it’s all the same to me as to whether they know they’ve crossed the river, the river flows only one way and I only ever make one crossing, boy, and this is the journey no one returns from so why are you here I haven’t seen one of the living here in centuries maybe millenia time passes strangely here but it’s all the same to me, we’ve got all the time in the world now that time’s stopped for us.
“Someone’s waiting for me,” Briar says. He hefts the ball of magic, feels it send verdant needles of life into his cold fingers. “I’m taking her back. She doesn’t belong here.”
The boatman laughs, and tosses the apple core, pips and all into the river. I row only those who are supposed to be here across the river, if she’s there she belongs there and there is nothing left for her up there in the sunlit lands. He stares right at Briar, gives him a long hard look. You’re not the first of the living I’ve had here storming down asking me to take them across the river but if you cross the river you belong there I can’t let people back across the river, it can’t be done and the living don’t belong down there with the dead.
“Then I’ll find another way,” Briar snaps. “Bet there’s another way out without crossing your precious river twice.”
The boatman shrugs. They all say that when they want to cross the river but I’m not inclined to do so today, or tomorrow but maybe that’s up for discussion if you want to settle this in a civilised fashion but only tell me this and perhaps I’ll help you who was she to you, that I should ferry you across the river to the deadlands? I’ve seen enough of the living and enough of the dead pleading boy and they all say the same thing in the end regrets things left undone mistakes they want to make things right they don’t deserve this they want to leave but maybe you’re different and if you are I’ll help you
So tell me, boy, or if you’re a man because you’ve come here and I see there’s no hound on your trail so you’ve tricked him have you or mislaid him and that’s a deed worthy of a man—
What have you known of loss
That makes you different from other men?
“What does that matter to you?” Briar asks, crossly.
I’m an old boatman easily bored I’ve seen enough of all of you to last lifetimes and heard all the stories that can be told if you want me to row you across the river then you must tell me of something that will ease the journey perhaps tell me of what you know of loss and then I’ll decide.
“I made it here."
Others have come before, I told you you are not the first of the living to come down to the grey iron river because of someone on the other shore the shades of the dead sometimes come here and stretch out their hands in longing for the opposite side but no one swims.
Do not touch the water, Briar thinks and anyway when he eyes it, he’s not so sure if touching that is a good idea. He reaches out and through his magic, he can’t sense anything at all. What kind of river doesn’t have any sort of plants anyway?
That river. The one from which there’s no return.
He feels the tangle of summer storms spun thread and forge heat at his back, steadying him, blazing where they burn lines through his core, anchoring him to life.
“Tell me,” he says, “You’ve never rowed anyone living across that river.”
The boatman falls silent, so silent that Briar’s instincts scream.
There was a man, he says, A poet who played the sweetest music you have to have seen him to believe it music dripped from his fingers like thick golden honey and all sharp and clear like crystal he was like you perhaps so bright the waters couldn’t leech the life from him I saw him wade in and thought what a pity for him to die so soon but he wasn’t ready to live in a world she had gone from and so I waded in and fished him out it’s my river you understand I don’t own it but I’ve plyed it for so long I know every turn and eddy and it can’t hurt me so I fished him out and rowed him across and he came back alone and without her.
You can’t take them with you, the boatman continues. I know what you’re carrying and only you can cross their life is too strong but you, you’re already willing to plunge into the underlands and you’re the only one that can make the crossing everything else has to be left behind.
Briar stares down at the spooled ball of green magic in his hands. Already, the shades and hues are growing less vibrant, his hands pale against the greys of his clothing, but he’s got to go on.
“Sorry,” he says aloud, a moment before he severs the connection. The girls would fight him on this, always would but it’s too late for them and the moment of realisation sends a rush of anger-worry-fear along their connection but he strikes hard and fast. It snaps, and he staggers a little from whiplash.
The boatman is waiting.