Post by wordy on Jan 19, 2011 11:11:53 GMT 10
Title: Rosethorn Was Dead, To Begin With
Rating: G
Warnings: Character death?
Summary: An Emelan version of A Christmas Carol
A/N: I started this sometime before Christmas and was planning on writing the whole thing, but there’s no point in kidding myself – it’d just stay on my laptop, forever doomed to be a WIP. So I thought I’d post it, since it can stand alone well enough.
Dedicate Crane closed the door and turned the key in the lock, allowing the invisible symbols for silence and protection to spring into place. He turned and surveyed his dark chambers with a sigh, walking over to his bedside table to light a solitary candle.
The Longnight ceremony had finished a little past midnight and his entire body was overcome with fatigue. It took all of his focus to keep his eyes open as he hung up his yellow habit and changed into his nightclothes. The gentle flickering of the candlelight made his shadow dance on the wall, making a mocking silhouette of his long limbs and lean body. At the base of the wall stood a row of potted plants that took on the appearance of a small, dark jungle in the candlelit room.
He snuffed out the candle and was just slipping into bed when he heard a sound. Sitting up, he squinted at the door. It was impossible for any outside noises, apart from the Hub bell, to penetrate his room: he had supervised the laying of the spells himself, and they had been renewed quite recently. But, despite all impossibilities, he heard the noise again. It sounded like the steady clip clip clip of pruning shears.
The noise came closer and closer, as if approaching the other side of his door. He was watching the door now with a dreadful sense of anticipation, his blankets pulled up almost to his chin.
Just when he thought that he could not take the suspense any longer, the clip clip clip sound gradually growing louder and louder, the noise stopped. And then she stepped right through his bedroom door.
Crane let out a strangled cry of terror, squeezing his eyes shut and raising his arms defensively over his head.
When he opened them, she was bent over laughing, the pruning shears in her hand. “You should have seen yourself,” she said between her cackling. “I scared you half to death!”
Lowering his arms slowly, Crane looked at the woman standing before him. Well, he didn’t look at her, he looked through her. “Ro - Rosethorn?” he stammered, confusion written across his long face. “But you’re dead...?” It had been the blue pox, only a few months ago: they had been too late to save her.
Rosethorn let the last of her laughter die away, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That I am, Crane.”
“But - how -”
She waved the pruning shears dismissively. “Oh, well, I’ve just come to see you, that’s all. I’m probably the only friend you’ve got, and I’m not even alive! Is that about right?”
Crane didn’t know what to say.
“I thought so,” she said, answering her own question. “That’s why I’m here, Crane.”
“I don’t understand...”
“You don’t understand?” Rosethorn let out a bark of a laugh. “Of course you don’t understand! You never listen, do you? Always with your nose in the air, oblivious to anything except your own selfish devices!”
“That’s not true,” he started. The apparition of Rosethorn gave him a look. Not completely true, in any case, he told himself.
“So, that’s why I’m here,” she continued, propping her hands on her hips. “I’ve come to warn you that you still have a chance to escape this awful fate, Isas Crane.”
“What awful fate?”
“Death, you fool.”
“Death?” Crane let out a cry. “You mean I’m going to die?”
“Well, yes,” said Rosethorn. “But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is, I’ve come to show you that there’s still time to reverse your fate. So you won’t follow the same path that I did.”
His brow furrowed. “You did not die because of, because of selfishness, though?”
“Perhaps I did, in part,” she said. A soft look came over her face, and not for the first time, Crane wondered what exactly had transpired on that day when those four children had failed to save her.
“Anyway,” she said, back to her usual, sharp self. “Now you’re going to be haunted.”
“Haunted?” said Crane, his face screwing up in distaste. “And I am supposed to thank you for that?”
“Yes, you are, you horse-faced idiot,” said Rosethorn. “Because therein lies your only hope of redemption!”
Crane hesitated. “You know, I think I’d rather not. I’ll take my chances.”
The apparition of Rosethorn scowled and walked right up to his bed, standing so close to him that he could feel the coldness radiating from her transparent form. “You will be visited by three spirits,” she said sternly, pointing her pruning shears at his face. “And you will change your ways, Isas, or I swear I’ll come back and haunt you myself!”
With that, she was suddenly gone. Crane sat up and glanced about the darkened room, an unhappy scowl on his face. Then he got up and went to check that the door was still locked (it was) while he muttered under his breath.
“You will be haunted,” he said mockingly, getting back into bed. “What nonsense.”
Rating: G
Warnings: Character death?
Summary: An Emelan version of A Christmas Carol
A/N: I started this sometime before Christmas and was planning on writing the whole thing, but there’s no point in kidding myself – it’d just stay on my laptop, forever doomed to be a WIP. So I thought I’d post it, since it can stand alone well enough.
Dedicate Crane closed the door and turned the key in the lock, allowing the invisible symbols for silence and protection to spring into place. He turned and surveyed his dark chambers with a sigh, walking over to his bedside table to light a solitary candle.
The Longnight ceremony had finished a little past midnight and his entire body was overcome with fatigue. It took all of his focus to keep his eyes open as he hung up his yellow habit and changed into his nightclothes. The gentle flickering of the candlelight made his shadow dance on the wall, making a mocking silhouette of his long limbs and lean body. At the base of the wall stood a row of potted plants that took on the appearance of a small, dark jungle in the candlelit room.
He snuffed out the candle and was just slipping into bed when he heard a sound. Sitting up, he squinted at the door. It was impossible for any outside noises, apart from the Hub bell, to penetrate his room: he had supervised the laying of the spells himself, and they had been renewed quite recently. But, despite all impossibilities, he heard the noise again. It sounded like the steady clip clip clip of pruning shears.
The noise came closer and closer, as if approaching the other side of his door. He was watching the door now with a dreadful sense of anticipation, his blankets pulled up almost to his chin.
Just when he thought that he could not take the suspense any longer, the clip clip clip sound gradually growing louder and louder, the noise stopped. And then she stepped right through his bedroom door.
Crane let out a strangled cry of terror, squeezing his eyes shut and raising his arms defensively over his head.
When he opened them, she was bent over laughing, the pruning shears in her hand. “You should have seen yourself,” she said between her cackling. “I scared you half to death!”
Lowering his arms slowly, Crane looked at the woman standing before him. Well, he didn’t look at her, he looked through her. “Ro - Rosethorn?” he stammered, confusion written across his long face. “But you’re dead...?” It had been the blue pox, only a few months ago: they had been too late to save her.
Rosethorn let the last of her laughter die away, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That I am, Crane.”
“But - how -”
She waved the pruning shears dismissively. “Oh, well, I’ve just come to see you, that’s all. I’m probably the only friend you’ve got, and I’m not even alive! Is that about right?”
Crane didn’t know what to say.
“I thought so,” she said, answering her own question. “That’s why I’m here, Crane.”
“I don’t understand...”
“You don’t understand?” Rosethorn let out a bark of a laugh. “Of course you don’t understand! You never listen, do you? Always with your nose in the air, oblivious to anything except your own selfish devices!”
“That’s not true,” he started. The apparition of Rosethorn gave him a look. Not completely true, in any case, he told himself.
“So, that’s why I’m here,” she continued, propping her hands on her hips. “I’ve come to warn you that you still have a chance to escape this awful fate, Isas Crane.”
“What awful fate?”
“Death, you fool.”
“Death?” Crane let out a cry. “You mean I’m going to die?”
“Well, yes,” said Rosethorn. “But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is, I’ve come to show you that there’s still time to reverse your fate. So you won’t follow the same path that I did.”
His brow furrowed. “You did not die because of, because of selfishness, though?”
“Perhaps I did, in part,” she said. A soft look came over her face, and not for the first time, Crane wondered what exactly had transpired on that day when those four children had failed to save her.
“Anyway,” she said, back to her usual, sharp self. “Now you’re going to be haunted.”
“Haunted?” said Crane, his face screwing up in distaste. “And I am supposed to thank you for that?”
“Yes, you are, you horse-faced idiot,” said Rosethorn. “Because therein lies your only hope of redemption!”
Crane hesitated. “You know, I think I’d rather not. I’ll take my chances.”
The apparition of Rosethorn scowled and walked right up to his bed, standing so close to him that he could feel the coldness radiating from her transparent form. “You will be visited by three spirits,” she said sternly, pointing her pruning shears at his face. “And you will change your ways, Isas, or I swear I’ll come back and haunt you myself!”
With that, she was suddenly gone. Crane sat up and glanced about the darkened room, an unhappy scowl on his face. Then he got up and went to check that the door was still locked (it was) while he muttered under his breath.
“You will be haunted,” he said mockingly, getting back into bed. “What nonsense.”
