World building fic Light & Dark
Jun. 2nd, 2004 11:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessA brief out take - this is canon but future canon, kinda.
Basically, while working through world building I hit some snags. Namely the courts.
Exactly what constitutes Seelie, in this world? What about Unseelie? I know what they are, and the details are there, but they defy me. I have the shape, but no real outlines and the colour's all blurred, and the whole things driving me mad.
I kinda understand... but then I don't. Ilatheril and Sitharensor will be going on fine, and I'm happy to hand out the Seelie and Unseelie labels. Then suddenly Sitharensor turns round and does/says something that amkes me think 'whoa! You're the Seelie one!' Alright, some of this is character quirks (he can't live to party line all the time) but some of the time Ilatheril does the exact opposite and both insist it's in keeping with their courts.
So, I've decided the best way to try and pin it down, for myself if nothing else, is discourses. Basically, I'm going to let them argue a particular element, theory, position or philosophy and see where they stand (and hopefully, therefore, where their courts stand. In theory). So the discourses will be a series of world building fics, happening at some undisclosed point in the storyline which stand besides the general faerie guides for the whole fic.
First is an easy one, which was pretty much a no brainer (though the EXTREMISM on both sides caught me).
Sitharensor sighed, turning slightly to avert his gaze. The small movement jerked Ilatheril away from his idle observation of the humans wandering by them where they sat, cloaked in glamour, at the foot of the war memorial.
“Problem, Sith?”
“The station.” The train station loomed on the other side of the road. A large building of red brick and grey stone with ugly plastic and functional glass. “It saddens me.”
Ilatheril looked at the building. “It’s hideous, yeah, but looks like pretty standard 60s architecture to me. I always thought everyone was so stoned that they never realised how bad all the buildings they were making were.”
Sitharensor spared a half smile for the joke, letting his eyes slide past the station, only to be met with the ruins of the old theatre next door, being pulled down. His heart dropped a little further. “It is not a 60s building. It is Victorian.”
Ilatheril blinked. “I’m not expert, but it doesn’t look Victorian to me. That design’s purely functional - boring and sterile as they come, an utter eyesore. Definitely 60s, maybe 50s or 70s.”
Sitharensor didn’t answer, merely standing and walking towards the pelican crossing. Ilatheril followed him across the road, under the shadows of the taxi rank that made up part of the first two storeys outside the station entrance, the rest of the building being built up on the shelter’s roof. He suppressed a brief shudder. It wasn't a place that fae were usually comfortable - the ugly, boring and mundane was the antithesis of everything it meant to BE fae. “Why are we...” his voice trailed off as they entered the station.
The ceiling was high, arched and vaulting; seemingly made from a delicate combination of stone and glass. It was crisscrossed by wrought struts all moulded into intricate scrollwork, set among occasional casts of the heads of people who were involved in the construction. The whole edifice was held aloft by towering stone pillars, but even these would be more appropriate in some grand cathedral, their flowing lines and near-sculpture chasing all the way to the ceiling. The floor was a tiled wealth of colourful mosaics, all blending together and moving into each other perfectly so that the eye was naturally pulled into the central mosaic of surpassing beauty. The walls were fake marble, flecked with colour and touched with gentle embellishment that made the glass windows of waiting rooms, cafes and shops seem a natural part of it. The clock above the sorely out of place modern diesel trains was a celebration of time in flowing curves of black iron and gothic numbers.
The whole effect was stunning. The humans who made this had had a touch of genius about them; a genius unconcerned with cost or mere functionality - a genius who had a perfect vision and was willing to sweat blood to force it into an imperfect world.
“It’s beautiful...” the Unseelie whispered. He couldn’t stop himself, it seemed to call him, he let his magic, his glamour gently touch the nearest wall. He winced at the feel of iron, a red hot blade across his skin, piercing his mind and heart, promising agony beyond knowing. A cold chill that screamed across his very soul... but there, beneath it... glamour. Human glamour... one of those rare moments of creation when a human can instil their art with glamour that is all but faerie. Only Sitharensor’s hand stopped him dropping to his knees... there was a time when fae would protect such places to their deaths and in them as if they were holy ground.
“Yes, it is beautiful. Raised during the Victorian era by a man of true vision. Never has it failed to touch me. And then, in the 60s, under demand for more space, someone built that monstrosity over its elaborate facade. A facade that easily matched the interior for beauty.”
Ilatheril paused, incredulity dancing on his face. They had built over something like that? It took him a couple of seconds to regain his balance. Finally he shrugged. “Change happens, got to accept it.”
Sitharensor gave the Unseelie and openly disgusted look. “Change? We should tolerate this corruption?”
“It’s called progress.”
“Call it what you will, but it is destruction and degeneration with good... what’s the quaint term you use? With good public relations.”
“We need change, Sith. Everything must go, everything must die, be destroyed, be brought down. Good or bad, it has to happen - we must let it happens, sometimes we even have to make it happen. Stasis is the ultimate death.”
“Nay! We must preserve and protect what we have. What comes with change? Destruction, death, loss and chaos. We need it not, Ilatheril, we do not want it.”
“No, we need it. And we want it - or should. It hurts? Well, change does, and that’s good too. Even this,” he waved one hand expressively around the station, a few heads turned before, eyes glazed, their minds glossed over the unusual action. “Will be destroyed one day. Even this MUST fall one day. Even if we need destroy it ourselves.”
For a second, a brief second, there was a flash of glowing violet in the depths of the brown that the glamour had masked over the Seelie’s eyes. The air seemed to hum slightly... and a slight, nearly feral growl, escaped his lips. “No. This will not fall. Not while I breathe and still have power within me. You would destroy the greatest work of art in the world on the vague hope that the fragments may randomly fall in a pleasing pattern!”
Ilatheril moved warily, but held his ground. “Yes, I would. Readily. It would hurt. I wouldn’t like it. But I would do it! Perhaps those patterns will be greater than ever the art was. Who knows what great things it could bring?”
“Or terrible!”
“Or terrible, yes. But we will never know unless we embrace change and drive it forward, and even the terrible can carry lessons, beauty and wonder. Grasp the nettle firmly, dance among the rubble, see the sky fall and laugh as the dust rises and the light dims!”
“Madness! Whether it is beautiful, wonderful, brilliant or perfect, you would see it fall, even help it fall, for an unknown future?”
“Yes! And you in your sanity would have time itself stand still to hold back any chance of the daemon of change! Progress would stand still! We’d all be back in the dark ages hitting each other with swords for all of you Seelie.”
“And where are we now? In the blessed progressive future where people no longer hit each other with swords but use guns instead, and bombs, and weapons that lay waste to cities and feed thousands, nay, millions, into the gaping maw of honourless wars.”
“Yes, and those wars, those atrocities have lead people to see the cost of war. People have LEARNED because they have CHANGED. Because of PROGRESS. And so the future holds not the empty, hypocritical bonds of honour, but the real and desperate fear of it ever happening again - a fear on which peace can build. Peace through respect, love and grief.”
“A dream! A peace bought by the blood of untold millions. A peace that you could never have predicted while hailing the human’s change as they killed more and more. A peace that is STILL nigh impossible to predict.”
“But a peace that is possible BECAUSE of change!”
“At what cost? What price will you have the world pay for a vague, unseen possibility?”
“Any price and all price! And at that it is still less than the cost the world would pay to remain in unchanging stasis, with no hope for better and all dreams forever trapped in the sleeping world, never daring to cross to the waking.”
“Unseelie madness.”
“Seelie lunacy.”
The tension sang. The station stood near empty as near oblivious mortals instinctively sought the exits. Finally Sitharensor sighed. “On this issue, the courts will never be of one mind, husband.”
“True, but I think that’s probably a good thing.”
“Until it changes?” Sitharensor asked, a tiny smile on his face.
“Of course.” Ilatheril grinned back and turned to leave the station, the Seelie following.
Basically, while working through world building I hit some snags. Namely the courts.
Exactly what constitutes Seelie, in this world? What about Unseelie? I know what they are, and the details are there, but they defy me. I have the shape, but no real outlines and the colour's all blurred, and the whole things driving me mad.
I kinda understand... but then I don't. Ilatheril and Sitharensor will be going on fine, and I'm happy to hand out the Seelie and Unseelie labels. Then suddenly Sitharensor turns round and does/says something that amkes me think 'whoa! You're the Seelie one!' Alright, some of this is character quirks (he can't live to party line all the time) but some of the time Ilatheril does the exact opposite and both insist it's in keeping with their courts.
So, I've decided the best way to try and pin it down, for myself if nothing else, is discourses. Basically, I'm going to let them argue a particular element, theory, position or philosophy and see where they stand (and hopefully, therefore, where their courts stand. In theory). So the discourses will be a series of world building fics, happening at some undisclosed point in the storyline which stand besides the general faerie guides for the whole fic.
First is an easy one, which was pretty much a no brainer (though the EXTREMISM on both sides caught me).
Sitharensor sighed, turning slightly to avert his gaze. The small movement jerked Ilatheril away from his idle observation of the humans wandering by them where they sat, cloaked in glamour, at the foot of the war memorial.
“Problem, Sith?”
“The station.” The train station loomed on the other side of the road. A large building of red brick and grey stone with ugly plastic and functional glass. “It saddens me.”
Ilatheril looked at the building. “It’s hideous, yeah, but looks like pretty standard 60s architecture to me. I always thought everyone was so stoned that they never realised how bad all the buildings they were making were.”
Sitharensor spared a half smile for the joke, letting his eyes slide past the station, only to be met with the ruins of the old theatre next door, being pulled down. His heart dropped a little further. “It is not a 60s building. It is Victorian.”
Ilatheril blinked. “I’m not expert, but it doesn’t look Victorian to me. That design’s purely functional - boring and sterile as they come, an utter eyesore. Definitely 60s, maybe 50s or 70s.”
Sitharensor didn’t answer, merely standing and walking towards the pelican crossing. Ilatheril followed him across the road, under the shadows of the taxi rank that made up part of the first two storeys outside the station entrance, the rest of the building being built up on the shelter’s roof. He suppressed a brief shudder. It wasn't a place that fae were usually comfortable - the ugly, boring and mundane was the antithesis of everything it meant to BE fae. “Why are we...” his voice trailed off as they entered the station.
The ceiling was high, arched and vaulting; seemingly made from a delicate combination of stone and glass. It was crisscrossed by wrought struts all moulded into intricate scrollwork, set among occasional casts of the heads of people who were involved in the construction. The whole edifice was held aloft by towering stone pillars, but even these would be more appropriate in some grand cathedral, their flowing lines and near-sculpture chasing all the way to the ceiling. The floor was a tiled wealth of colourful mosaics, all blending together and moving into each other perfectly so that the eye was naturally pulled into the central mosaic of surpassing beauty. The walls were fake marble, flecked with colour and touched with gentle embellishment that made the glass windows of waiting rooms, cafes and shops seem a natural part of it. The clock above the sorely out of place modern diesel trains was a celebration of time in flowing curves of black iron and gothic numbers.
The whole effect was stunning. The humans who made this had had a touch of genius about them; a genius unconcerned with cost or mere functionality - a genius who had a perfect vision and was willing to sweat blood to force it into an imperfect world.
“It’s beautiful...” the Unseelie whispered. He couldn’t stop himself, it seemed to call him, he let his magic, his glamour gently touch the nearest wall. He winced at the feel of iron, a red hot blade across his skin, piercing his mind and heart, promising agony beyond knowing. A cold chill that screamed across his very soul... but there, beneath it... glamour. Human glamour... one of those rare moments of creation when a human can instil their art with glamour that is all but faerie. Only Sitharensor’s hand stopped him dropping to his knees... there was a time when fae would protect such places to their deaths and in them as if they were holy ground.
“Yes, it is beautiful. Raised during the Victorian era by a man of true vision. Never has it failed to touch me. And then, in the 60s, under demand for more space, someone built that monstrosity over its elaborate facade. A facade that easily matched the interior for beauty.”
Ilatheril paused, incredulity dancing on his face. They had built over something like that? It took him a couple of seconds to regain his balance. Finally he shrugged. “Change happens, got to accept it.”
Sitharensor gave the Unseelie and openly disgusted look. “Change? We should tolerate this corruption?”
“It’s called progress.”
“Call it what you will, but it is destruction and degeneration with good... what’s the quaint term you use? With good public relations.”
“We need change, Sith. Everything must go, everything must die, be destroyed, be brought down. Good or bad, it has to happen - we must let it happens, sometimes we even have to make it happen. Stasis is the ultimate death.”
“Nay! We must preserve and protect what we have. What comes with change? Destruction, death, loss and chaos. We need it not, Ilatheril, we do not want it.”
“No, we need it. And we want it - or should. It hurts? Well, change does, and that’s good too. Even this,” he waved one hand expressively around the station, a few heads turned before, eyes glazed, their minds glossed over the unusual action. “Will be destroyed one day. Even this MUST fall one day. Even if we need destroy it ourselves.”
For a second, a brief second, there was a flash of glowing violet in the depths of the brown that the glamour had masked over the Seelie’s eyes. The air seemed to hum slightly... and a slight, nearly feral growl, escaped his lips. “No. This will not fall. Not while I breathe and still have power within me. You would destroy the greatest work of art in the world on the vague hope that the fragments may randomly fall in a pleasing pattern!”
Ilatheril moved warily, but held his ground. “Yes, I would. Readily. It would hurt. I wouldn’t like it. But I would do it! Perhaps those patterns will be greater than ever the art was. Who knows what great things it could bring?”
“Or terrible!”
“Or terrible, yes. But we will never know unless we embrace change and drive it forward, and even the terrible can carry lessons, beauty and wonder. Grasp the nettle firmly, dance among the rubble, see the sky fall and laugh as the dust rises and the light dims!”
“Madness! Whether it is beautiful, wonderful, brilliant or perfect, you would see it fall, even help it fall, for an unknown future?”
“Yes! And you in your sanity would have time itself stand still to hold back any chance of the daemon of change! Progress would stand still! We’d all be back in the dark ages hitting each other with swords for all of you Seelie.”
“And where are we now? In the blessed progressive future where people no longer hit each other with swords but use guns instead, and bombs, and weapons that lay waste to cities and feed thousands, nay, millions, into the gaping maw of honourless wars.”
“Yes, and those wars, those atrocities have lead people to see the cost of war. People have LEARNED because they have CHANGED. Because of PROGRESS. And so the future holds not the empty, hypocritical bonds of honour, but the real and desperate fear of it ever happening again - a fear on which peace can build. Peace through respect, love and grief.”
“A dream! A peace bought by the blood of untold millions. A peace that you could never have predicted while hailing the human’s change as they killed more and more. A peace that is STILL nigh impossible to predict.”
“But a peace that is possible BECAUSE of change!”
“At what cost? What price will you have the world pay for a vague, unseen possibility?”
“Any price and all price! And at that it is still less than the cost the world would pay to remain in unchanging stasis, with no hope for better and all dreams forever trapped in the sleeping world, never daring to cross to the waking.”
“Unseelie madness.”
“Seelie lunacy.”
The tension sang. The station stood near empty as near oblivious mortals instinctively sought the exits. Finally Sitharensor sighed. “On this issue, the courts will never be of one mind, husband.”
“True, but I think that’s probably a good thing.”
“Until it changes?” Sitharensor asked, a tiny smile on his face.
“Of course.” Ilatheril grinned back and turned to leave the station, the Seelie following.
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(no subject)
Date: 2004-06-03 08:46 am (UTC)