Post by nealnotdom on Nov 21, 2010 0:03:50 GMT 10
Title: The Last Court
Rating: G
Summary: Mithros speaks for warriors in the Black God's Court. But Wyldon needs to speak for himself.
A/N: I'm not sure about this. What do you think?
And this can be read with Be Careful What You Wish For and Writer's Coice, because there are hints to them here. But it stands on its own.
*****
Already life was a fading memory. The rooms of Cavall, Queenscove’s name, Vivenne’s smile, even the horse he had given to his squire. If he reached for them they faded, overcome by that which lay ahead. But not duty. Duty could not be forgotten like the shoes he wore as a child. For a moment he was tempted, no he wanted to return, to continue to serve his king. But he stayed, driven by that same sense that enticed him to leave. The realm had no need of him anymore.
His name was called, a deep nothing voice vibrating through his soul.
“Wyldon of Cavall.”
And he entered the great chamber that formed the Court. He knelt, bowing his head to the greater powers that resided here, and listened for his judgment.
The voices burned in his ears, mind and spirit. They roared and could not be understood yet burned all the same, for he was but a spark to their flame, consumed, not understanding. There was a whisper that cut across the roar of a fire, the silence of eternal peace, a quiet that deafened him more than the loudest of the noise. The Black God. Wyldon heard him then, calling for any who wished to speak for him. Calling him away from Tortall to a new realm, vast and mysterious. Ad his brother, bright Mithros stepped forward also. His voice, swords on shields and the burning sun pressed on Wyldon’s ears. Only occasional words could be understood. “Man of honour,” he made out. And wanted to deny them. No honourable man could do as he had done. None would call down a war. None would begin a letter to crush a dream. He wanted to shout, to deny the words that pounded on his ears, to make them see the truth.
And by the gods who stood present now, were he Keladry of Mindelan he would have. But she was honourable and noble and courageous, taking what was right and what she was due, not what she wanted. And if he possessed a drop of the honour she embodied, he would step forward. But he was not she, did not possess her rigid belief of honour. And he stayed silent, head bowed, no longer out of respect but shame.
Fingers, burning, painful forced his head up.
“You may speak here, Wyldon of Cavall.”
Those words triggered the sense of duty he had left with his body, now being prepared for the ground. The acceptance that came when one chose the path that was irrevocably right filled him. Had she felt this way, talking her way to Traitor’s Hill?
He raised his head, fighting the glare, the urge to bow once more, as the divine forms watched him.
And there, before the Black God’s Court, before Mithros himself, Wyldon spoke.
Rating: G
Summary: Mithros speaks for warriors in the Black God's Court. But Wyldon needs to speak for himself.
A/N: I'm not sure about this. What do you think?
And this can be read with Be Careful What You Wish For and Writer's Coice, because there are hints to them here. But it stands on its own.
*****
Already life was a fading memory. The rooms of Cavall, Queenscove’s name, Vivenne’s smile, even the horse he had given to his squire. If he reached for them they faded, overcome by that which lay ahead. But not duty. Duty could not be forgotten like the shoes he wore as a child. For a moment he was tempted, no he wanted to return, to continue to serve his king. But he stayed, driven by that same sense that enticed him to leave. The realm had no need of him anymore.
His name was called, a deep nothing voice vibrating through his soul.
“Wyldon of Cavall.”
And he entered the great chamber that formed the Court. He knelt, bowing his head to the greater powers that resided here, and listened for his judgment.
The voices burned in his ears, mind and spirit. They roared and could not be understood yet burned all the same, for he was but a spark to their flame, consumed, not understanding. There was a whisper that cut across the roar of a fire, the silence of eternal peace, a quiet that deafened him more than the loudest of the noise. The Black God. Wyldon heard him then, calling for any who wished to speak for him. Calling him away from Tortall to a new realm, vast and mysterious. Ad his brother, bright Mithros stepped forward also. His voice, swords on shields and the burning sun pressed on Wyldon’s ears. Only occasional words could be understood. “Man of honour,” he made out. And wanted to deny them. No honourable man could do as he had done. None would call down a war. None would begin a letter to crush a dream. He wanted to shout, to deny the words that pounded on his ears, to make them see the truth.
And by the gods who stood present now, were he Keladry of Mindelan he would have. But she was honourable and noble and courageous, taking what was right and what she was due, not what she wanted. And if he possessed a drop of the honour she embodied, he would step forward. But he was not she, did not possess her rigid belief of honour. And he stayed silent, head bowed, no longer out of respect but shame.
Fingers, burning, painful forced his head up.
“You may speak here, Wyldon of Cavall.”
Those words triggered the sense of duty he had left with his body, now being prepared for the ground. The acceptance that came when one chose the path that was irrevocably right filled him. Had she felt this way, talking her way to Traitor’s Hill?
He raised his head, fighting the glare, the urge to bow once more, as the divine forms watched him.
And there, before the Black God’s Court, before Mithros himself, Wyldon spoke.