And now for something...
Aug. 20th, 2003 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessNot completely ddifferent, but fsairly different. Waiting for more inspiration to let me gel plot lines with Spark in Darkness, so I'm going to taunt Darren and Rick with other fic until
they get more pro-active.
So here's the second half of light and dark - the first half of which is... um... I aren't sure... um... here: The first half of Light and Dark
It occurs to me, I don't know how to re-name that link so it's less massive and unreadable. As may be guessed, my computer knowledge is limited to "push the pretty button".
edit to add Thanks to Interlock, I can now do the pretty link thingie. See, I can be taught.
The march was interminable, the stairs seemed to be taking him to the very depths of the Earth. His thoughts could not be stilled. They scurried manically in defiance of the ancient calming techniques Sitharensor has mastered since childhood.
The great hall arrives with the finality of death. This is the hall where the sidhe of my family have ruled the fief for millennia. The location has changed, the building has changed, but by the might of our magick, that hall has always been the seat of my family. Here my ancestor Tetheril accepted the fealty of the Scandinavian Trolls. Here my ancestress Mirillia sang songs of mourning for her lost husband, songs so sad that his murderers committed suicide in the face of her grief. Here my ancestress Etharesa held the hall under nearly a century of constant Unseelie siege, killing the general of the attacking force even as the forces overwhelmed her. Here countless ancestors rode forth to defend the land, to the call of the High King, to the glory of all of faerie. And here I meet my betrothed.
I stride into the hall, but a fog lies over my eyes. I don’t see the vaulted ceiling with it’s intricate carving of a thousand great heroes. I don’t see the silken banners in white and gold, blazoned with the vibrant colours of our house and personal symbols of great lords that hang from that far ceiling, some of them too long for even a giant to carry on the battlefield. I don’t see the gold veined white marble walls, the ancient rugs on the milk white floor. My eyes are blind to the hundred tapestries of triumphs and tragedies of centuries. The vast cavernous space is full of faeries of all castes, each in finery more awe inspiring than the last. My eyes slide past them, unseeing, regardless of rank or regalia.
I see only one person. He stands amidst a group of fae, his face is set into a mask of arrogant confidence, but eyes trained to Seelie intrigue can see the awe in his eyes and the set of fear to his mouth. Worse was the tight hold of anger across his shoulders and chest, and the hate riding his brow. He stands as tall of me, with hair equally as long. But while mine is a wave of pure molten gold, this sidhe’s hair was blacker than night, an ebon curtain stretching to his ankles, as if the sidhe had wooed part of the night to follow him into this place of shining light. His skin was pale, but while Sitharensor had the soft, warm paleness of a gentle flower, this stranger’s skin was icy and cold.
There eyes met, Sitharensor’s lilac eyes meeting the deep purple of the stranger’s. Silently he mouthed his name. “Ilatheril.” His betrothed. The stranger smiled, eyes shining with malevolent light. They stood, four paces apart, looking at each other in an ever expanding circle, as the fae stepped back, allowing the prospective lovers to look unimpeded across the gulf between them. The silence stretched, and there was no hiding the awkward tension in the air, and even the most oblivious Redcap could see the strained masks the two reluctant fiances wore.
My father stepped forwards, reluctance screaming in his every step, but never has blatant futility and hypocrisy stopped the ceremonies of sidhe nobility. The forms must be observed, no matter how meaningless they are. His words echo, arrogance and pride resonant in his tone. The words are lies. No, not lies, I would never accuse my father of so high a crime as falsehood - would never accuse any sidhe of so heinous an act. But they are empty, vain hopes and naive assumptions, wilful denial of what is evidently true. Does he truly believe them? Can he possibly do so? Did anyone here believe it was possible? Probably, the sheer charismatic power and awesome beauty possessed by even the weakest of the sidhe is enough to move nations. But such power did little to fool the other sidhe.
The tall dark sidhe behind Ilatheril was staring at my father with ill disguised hate. His gritted teeth screamed his frustrated helplessness. With a gesture he urged his son forwards, and through those clenched jaws he spoke the words he was compelled to utter.
“By my honour, the honour of my House and the honour of my people. By my honour as a Fae, by my honour as an Unseelie, by my honour as a sidhe. I hereby pledge my son to you. I pledge his hand to your son and with this union may there be peace between our peoples. May this union cement alliance between our peoples,” his voice nearly choked on the last. “With this union may all anger and grudges between our peoples end.” That’s it? Are these words to end fifty years of oppression and genocide? Such frail foundations on which to balance the future of the faerie race.
More words follow. Words of grandiose plans of things to come. Words of hope and joy and celebration. Words betrayed by angry eyes, words that ring hollow round the grand hall, their echoes seeming to mock their grand meaning. The collected sidhe gathered to offer their praise, blessing and fealty. Followed by the lesser benedictions of the lower fae, mutters and ceremonies that dragged for hours into incessant buzzing through my ears. My eyes never left those dark purple pools. There I saw the same bored, resigned expression to do what must be done that I am sure was etched across my own face. Almost a mirror. I’m sure my eyes lacked that burning light of resentment and smouldering rage.
The ceremony stuttered at last to an awkward close, amid much shouting of false glee and pathetic pretence at joyous celebration. I had no stomach for a fete where a thousand high ranking fae all pretend that they don’t loathe each other while labouring under a prohibition against lying, and took my leave early. It seems Ilatheril was of a similar opinion, and no sooner did I break my gaze from his, than he moved to follow me out of the chamber, pausing only to let me precede him.
Traditionally it was the duty of the new couple to retire to the crypts of the House’s ancestors and honoured servants, to seek their blessing and approval and present the new keeper of their honour before them. I shudder to think what they would think of this union.
Ilatheril strode confidently behind me, a swaggering shadow now free from the glare of public scrutiny. He eyed the expensive wall hangings and artful statuary like a pawn broker pricing fenced goods, a smirk twisting his beautiful face that easily matched the greatest of the masterpieces we passed.
I lead him down a stairwell, neither of us seemed willing to engage in conversation as we descended far beneath the Earth. The chamber was near as large as the great hall. Vast crypts filled the centre of the hall, each containing the remains of an honoured ancestor of my House, their image was carved to perfection under their personal symbol on the lids of the sarcophagi. To the edge of the grand room rested the lesser nobles of my family, and, beyond them, sometimes placed in carved niches engraved into the very wall itself, rested the graves of lesser fae who had honoured themselves in loyal and faithful service. This was a place of power, far exceeding even that of the great hall, the dusty tomb was resonant with the power of the dead. You could feel their eyes and hear their whispered words rush through the room on gentle breezes. Thick golden light spilled from an unknown source in the ceiling, to cascade into the centre of the room, illuminating one sarcophagus, the first of my line.
It takes me several minutes to realise Ilatheril has not followed me into the ancestral chamber. I turn and see quiet reverence and uncontrolled awe writ large on his face. He shakes slightly, fighting the urge to fall in worship of the power and nobility gathered here, before he sees me watching him. He shakes his head angrily and steels his will. Powerful though the room is, even the serried ranks of my ancestors cannot overwhelm a living sidhe. He resumes his confident stride, albeit not nearly so cockily, and moves to stand close to me, his face scant inches from mine.
“So,” his voice is a quiet hiss that cuts through the sibilant breezes, “that farce is over and we’re stuck with each other. So, I ask myself, who are you, Sitharensor?”,
they get more pro-active.
So here's the second half of light and dark - the first half of which is... um... I aren't sure... um... here: The first half of Light and Dark
It occurs to me, I don't know how to re-name that link so it's less massive and unreadable. As may be guessed, my computer knowledge is limited to "push the pretty button".
edit to add Thanks to Interlock, I can now do the pretty link thingie. See, I can be taught.
The march was interminable, the stairs seemed to be taking him to the very depths of the Earth. His thoughts could not be stilled. They scurried manically in defiance of the ancient calming techniques Sitharensor has mastered since childhood.
The great hall arrives with the finality of death. This is the hall where the sidhe of my family have ruled the fief for millennia. The location has changed, the building has changed, but by the might of our magick, that hall has always been the seat of my family. Here my ancestor Tetheril accepted the fealty of the Scandinavian Trolls. Here my ancestress Mirillia sang songs of mourning for her lost husband, songs so sad that his murderers committed suicide in the face of her grief. Here my ancestress Etharesa held the hall under nearly a century of constant Unseelie siege, killing the general of the attacking force even as the forces overwhelmed her. Here countless ancestors rode forth to defend the land, to the call of the High King, to the glory of all of faerie. And here I meet my betrothed.
I stride into the hall, but a fog lies over my eyes. I don’t see the vaulted ceiling with it’s intricate carving of a thousand great heroes. I don’t see the silken banners in white and gold, blazoned with the vibrant colours of our house and personal symbols of great lords that hang from that far ceiling, some of them too long for even a giant to carry on the battlefield. I don’t see the gold veined white marble walls, the ancient rugs on the milk white floor. My eyes are blind to the hundred tapestries of triumphs and tragedies of centuries. The vast cavernous space is full of faeries of all castes, each in finery more awe inspiring than the last. My eyes slide past them, unseeing, regardless of rank or regalia.
I see only one person. He stands amidst a group of fae, his face is set into a mask of arrogant confidence, but eyes trained to Seelie intrigue can see the awe in his eyes and the set of fear to his mouth. Worse was the tight hold of anger across his shoulders and chest, and the hate riding his brow. He stands as tall of me, with hair equally as long. But while mine is a wave of pure molten gold, this sidhe’s hair was blacker than night, an ebon curtain stretching to his ankles, as if the sidhe had wooed part of the night to follow him into this place of shining light. His skin was pale, but while Sitharensor had the soft, warm paleness of a gentle flower, this stranger’s skin was icy and cold.
There eyes met, Sitharensor’s lilac eyes meeting the deep purple of the stranger’s. Silently he mouthed his name. “Ilatheril.” His betrothed. The stranger smiled, eyes shining with malevolent light. They stood, four paces apart, looking at each other in an ever expanding circle, as the fae stepped back, allowing the prospective lovers to look unimpeded across the gulf between them. The silence stretched, and there was no hiding the awkward tension in the air, and even the most oblivious Redcap could see the strained masks the two reluctant fiances wore.
My father stepped forwards, reluctance screaming in his every step, but never has blatant futility and hypocrisy stopped the ceremonies of sidhe nobility. The forms must be observed, no matter how meaningless they are. His words echo, arrogance and pride resonant in his tone. The words are lies. No, not lies, I would never accuse my father of so high a crime as falsehood - would never accuse any sidhe of so heinous an act. But they are empty, vain hopes and naive assumptions, wilful denial of what is evidently true. Does he truly believe them? Can he possibly do so? Did anyone here believe it was possible? Probably, the sheer charismatic power and awesome beauty possessed by even the weakest of the sidhe is enough to move nations. But such power did little to fool the other sidhe.
The tall dark sidhe behind Ilatheril was staring at my father with ill disguised hate. His gritted teeth screamed his frustrated helplessness. With a gesture he urged his son forwards, and through those clenched jaws he spoke the words he was compelled to utter.
“By my honour, the honour of my House and the honour of my people. By my honour as a Fae, by my honour as an Unseelie, by my honour as a sidhe. I hereby pledge my son to you. I pledge his hand to your son and with this union may there be peace between our peoples. May this union cement alliance between our peoples,” his voice nearly choked on the last. “With this union may all anger and grudges between our peoples end.” That’s it? Are these words to end fifty years of oppression and genocide? Such frail foundations on which to balance the future of the faerie race.
More words follow. Words of grandiose plans of things to come. Words of hope and joy and celebration. Words betrayed by angry eyes, words that ring hollow round the grand hall, their echoes seeming to mock their grand meaning. The collected sidhe gathered to offer their praise, blessing and fealty. Followed by the lesser benedictions of the lower fae, mutters and ceremonies that dragged for hours into incessant buzzing through my ears. My eyes never left those dark purple pools. There I saw the same bored, resigned expression to do what must be done that I am sure was etched across my own face. Almost a mirror. I’m sure my eyes lacked that burning light of resentment and smouldering rage.
The ceremony stuttered at last to an awkward close, amid much shouting of false glee and pathetic pretence at joyous celebration. I had no stomach for a fete where a thousand high ranking fae all pretend that they don’t loathe each other while labouring under a prohibition against lying, and took my leave early. It seems Ilatheril was of a similar opinion, and no sooner did I break my gaze from his, than he moved to follow me out of the chamber, pausing only to let me precede him.
Traditionally it was the duty of the new couple to retire to the crypts of the House’s ancestors and honoured servants, to seek their blessing and approval and present the new keeper of their honour before them. I shudder to think what they would think of this union.
Ilatheril strode confidently behind me, a swaggering shadow now free from the glare of public scrutiny. He eyed the expensive wall hangings and artful statuary like a pawn broker pricing fenced goods, a smirk twisting his beautiful face that easily matched the greatest of the masterpieces we passed.
I lead him down a stairwell, neither of us seemed willing to engage in conversation as we descended far beneath the Earth. The chamber was near as large as the great hall. Vast crypts filled the centre of the hall, each containing the remains of an honoured ancestor of my House, their image was carved to perfection under their personal symbol on the lids of the sarcophagi. To the edge of the grand room rested the lesser nobles of my family, and, beyond them, sometimes placed in carved niches engraved into the very wall itself, rested the graves of lesser fae who had honoured themselves in loyal and faithful service. This was a place of power, far exceeding even that of the great hall, the dusty tomb was resonant with the power of the dead. You could feel their eyes and hear their whispered words rush through the room on gentle breezes. Thick golden light spilled from an unknown source in the ceiling, to cascade into the centre of the room, illuminating one sarcophagus, the first of my line.
It takes me several minutes to realise Ilatheril has not followed me into the ancestral chamber. I turn and see quiet reverence and uncontrolled awe writ large on his face. He shakes slightly, fighting the urge to fall in worship of the power and nobility gathered here, before he sees me watching him. He shakes his head angrily and steels his will. Powerful though the room is, even the serried ranks of my ancestors cannot overwhelm a living sidhe. He resumes his confident stride, albeit not nearly so cockily, and moves to stand close to me, his face scant inches from mine.
“So,” his voice is a quiet hiss that cuts through the sibilant breezes, “that farce is over and we’re stuck with each other. So, I ask myself, who are you, Sitharensor?”,
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Date: 2003-08-21 05:17 pm (UTC)For some reason, it never occured to me to make the fae rural *shrug* Sitharensor's father controls the city and surrounding land, so they CAN be rural, but the court is urban. (Technically Ilatheril's controlled a similar tract of land, but not any more)