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 Posted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 8:15 am
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Posted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 8:47 am
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Title: Quest to the North
Author: Me again.
Transcribing completion: Unknown - initial writing in progress (Prologue - 1/5 pages)
Disclaimer: N/A
Series: N/A
Pairing: Original Characters
Warnings: Reliance on high fantasy tropes, focus on plot more than romance, no proof-reading.
Notes: When a possibly somewhat spoiled youngest son of a noble family hears about the impending invasion of the kingdom's allies, he takes it into his own hands to warn them. Along the way, he recruits a friendly neighbourhood dragon and a sometimes sarcastic young huntsman.
They fight crime!
Predicted to be the longest thing I'll have written so far in my life, which sounds impressive but right now sums to a 5 A4 page prologue, a 2.5 page epilogue and two marooned paragraphs.
Violates the rule of "show, don't tell" at times. Particularly egregious example in the first paragraph, doncha know.
This is a prologue:
There was once a young man, living in the capital of a vast kingdom, who was on the border of adolescence and true adulthood. He was proud, impetuous and wilful, partly because of how he was raised, but he had a heart devoted to noble principles. Which, contrary to the name, are not always found amongst the higher classes of any given kingdom.
On a day when every one of the important families in the land were gathered to speak with the Prince, his parents cast him loose to wander in the castle while they attended to matters arguably more important than the welfare of their youngest son.
"You are not yet old enough to join your brothers, ourselves and the rest of us in these chambers," they said dismissively, while he glanced at the banquet which was laid on before them.
"So make yourself busy elsewhere. If all you want is food, you know where to find it."
So, that said, and he could hardly disobey despite his loud protestations, he walked quietly out into the corridors, which he had been though infrequently and so somewhat knew, but evidently not well enough. For when he rounded a corridor to find himself in a dark passage with no windows connecting it to the outside, with low-burning torches affixed to the walls, he was thoroughly lost.
Being - as previously said - quite impetuous, he barely stopped to think before grabbing a torch and dashing down the shadowy hallway, filled with curiousity.
Now, in some varieties of story this would serve him quite badly, to say the least, but this is not that kind of story, much to his good fortune.
(On indefinate hiatus due to being busy, not having the will to write it and stuff.)
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Posted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 1:16 pm
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Title: Dragon Hunters
Author: Yours truly
Transcribing completion: 6/6 - complete!
Disclaimer: N/A
Series: N/A
Pairing: Original Characters
Warnings: Profanity, References to sex (and violence), questionable characterisation and an unhealthy relationship. I mean, dysfunction junction relationship-wise.
Notes: One's a deeply scarred obsessive hunter, the other's an easily-bored manslut former guardsman. They hunt dragons!
ALSO this is Dysfunction Juntion, yo. Just in case you didn't already twig that.
More a character point-of-view piece than a true short story.
There's a horse called Nathaniel - a side character who I want to incorporate into everything, ever.
This is more practice than anything, so it could be a bit clunky and disjointed. And sort of weird. And very unpolished. In other words - it's not terribly good writing. Kind of embarrassing, really.
Here follows a short story:
He treats that damn horse better than me some times, I swear.
And, as if on cue, I hear Nathaniel whinney up ahead. What kind of a name is that for a horse, I asked him. He just gave me that one-eyed, thousand mile stare of his.
Although, I suppose I can take care of myself, while the horse can't.
But really, it's that easy for me to get jealous? I know I can't trust myself in a relationship, but applying it that failure to him to such a degree is just... Really damn odd.
I think of his glance, his hands, words and mouth, pinning me down. Him threatening to cut out my tongue if I'm unfaithful, in an erratic display of passion.
How unhealthy. Even I can see it. But maybe that's what I need, someone to pin me down like a prize butterfly, albeit in a slightly less lethal manner.
But what am I even thinking? That's messed up as ******** - everyone's always spouting inane phrases like "trust and respect for boundries are the foundation of a healthy relationship." Or something. But where did that get me? A string of serial one night stands in no-hope little hamlets, with hero-worshipping idiots who don't catch on that while the town's been saved, they've been abandoned.
What a surprise to find myself getting hot under the collar, worked up, whatever, at some hissed words of almost poisonous possessiveness. I guess that's what's missing from all those so-considerate relationships - nobody who cares enough, no, who's paranoid enough to threaten me with physical violence if I should disobey.
He glances back. I smirk, holding tightly to the reins of my horse. In return I get the faintest smile, one of those things no-one else sees; when it's business, meeting with mayors or chiefs or desperate families, he puts on one of those poilte, charming masks of expression he seems to hold in reserve.
I wonder where a former guardsman like myself learned those kind of deceits. But whatever, he rounds the corner, a convenient gust of wind or just air displaced from his movements blowing aside that ridiculous flow of hair that hangs down the right side of his face.
Stretched-looking, shiny scar tissue from the just below his right eye to the middle of one side of his neck. It's unsightly, I guess, but just one of the hazards of hunting giant lizards that are brick-stupid but lethal as hell and just as capable of belching flames. In any case, in a way it's something of mine, too, just like those rare smiles.
One of those things seen when he's caught unaware, when he ties it back for our hunts, when I brush it back from his face to look into both of his eyes, when we kiss beyond a stupid peck on the side of the lips, when we screw.
I see him, feel him wince when we kiss deeply. It's painful as only one of those scars being stretched can be, and I wonder how he does it. Maybe he's after building up a resistance to the pain after all these years, or maybe he gets off on it. I'd ask, but then he'd probably go red in the face and not so much as touch me, never mind sleep with me, for a week or even a whole damn fortnight.
The more I think about it, the more I wonder where or what his, my, our no-go area is. There's a good chance of us screwing tonight. I'm not fussy about who tops.
He's in a good mood, there's nothing serious, important or life-threatening happening. And the chances are low of him pushing me away with a weirdly gentle look and the words "It's a firedrake we're killing tomorrow, not a rabid chicken", or something equally reasonable but unsatisfying. Bloody dragons. Godawful, foul, evil beasts and a cause of cockblocking, to boot.
Fin.
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Posted: Sat Oct 09, 2010 1:19 pm
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Title: First Hunt
Author: Yours truly
Transcribing completion: Complete at 2198 words.
Disclaimer: N/A
Series: N/A
Pairing: Idris and Cadfael (Original Characters)
Warnings: Profanity, Implied sex, somewhat dysfunctional characters and a daft relationship. Dragon slaying! (Therefore lots of blood.)
Notes: Set in the same storyline as before, but actually a bit earlier. Idris thinks back not on where the whole dragon slaying thing began, really, but where it really got underway.
ALSO proportionally more travel and killin' dragons than m/m, because maybe I have been obsessed with dragons for about half my life but slash for only a fifth. Dragons win out every time.
Natter: I couldn't write this in third person, because it would be too embarrassing. Idris' voice carries it along, to be honest, and if it weren't him there wouldn't be as much swearing in the narration. (I usually don't swear.) It also makes it longer than it would be in third person, because of tangents of thought. He can also be a little annoying. (Stop whining, Idris!) And simulataneously more intelligent and more dense than I thought.
In case you don't know what a halberd is, here are some. Dat medieval weaponry, hrrng.
No ye olde fantasy-medieval europe narration style because I am lazy. Also they have terrible dangerous stupid plans when it comes to how to hunt dragons.
Here is a longer story, yo:
Goddamn nothing unnerves me now. Regularly dodging teeth and claws twice the size of your head in the line of work will do that to a man. To think back, though, to the first time, I was lucky that shaking, unsteady hands aren't one of my tells of being absurdly terrified. We would have been toast, fried corpses the both of us, before you could say "Holy hell, I can't do this." Or maybe even horribly eviscerated. Dead, dead, deader than dead. Or I'd be alive and shouldering more guilt than I could sanely bear. I'm not made for dealing with that s**t; I just cruise through life, casual as you like.
Anyway, going back along, back, back, there I was, having thrown away a relatively cosy and blameless life slouching around looking fierce in the king's name, all in favour of who knows what. A bit of coin, some adventure, and tagging along with an enigmatic, taciturn man about whom I really didn't know anything.
For reasons I could hardly fathom, half of which really didn't involve conscious thought at all, if you know what I mean, and the other half which were overshadowed by a lingering illogical feeling of responsibility for his facial disfiguration. I mean, a lizard did it. I just failed to prevent that happening. It was kind of an awful time for my conscience to finally act up - it made it so much easier to give the finger to being a guardsman.
So, it was a month of two - it's after getting a bit hazy - after he, Cadfael, respectfully tendered his resignation and walked out of the post he had just been promoted to, all in order to pursue the dragon hunting destiny he had apparently just remembered. We found our first job.
The place must have been a bustling market settlement before half the buildings were unceremoniously razes to the ground; several soot-streaked stone structures still stood intact in the midst of the sorry-looking charred remains of the rest. I expected that the fortunate ones would quickly find the fee that'd spare them the same fate. They did, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
We stopped in the central square, looking around in an assured way at our surroundings. The old biddies, weary housewives and curious children common to almost all tragedy-striken towns peered out warily at us from thier houses. Nathaniel, who had excellent timing for a horse, whinnied loudly. That first time, it was all a bit unsettling, to say the least; deserted streets all around, but the feeling you were being stared at by hundreds of pairs of unseen eyes. Well, someone sent word, despite not a sould leaving their front door, and the mayor plodded out to meet us.
One sorrow-filled meeting on, we were assured a room in the one operating inn to store our travelling gear, stabling for the horses and a rich reward should we succeed. Which we undoubtably did, seeing as I'm here today, but at that moment I was having more doubts than someone who'd just been told that a snake hatched from a chicken's egg.
Not of him; over the last month he'd pored over that notebook full of dragon lore more times than he'd eaten, and had practiced specialised sword strokes until he couldn't hold up his arms. He seemed to be animated by some unearthly inner fire that was beyond my comprehension.
No, they were of my own skills. I decided on a halberd, a familiar weapon which was sturdy enough and could cause considerable damage, but of a length to keep danger away. In practice, I'd slid the wickedly-sharpened point through the gap in the scales of countless imaginary beasts. The method was a little different from that of using it against a mounted knight, but I thought it should do. I'd heard the plan related an infinite number of times from the ones of us who know what he was doing. The problem was, I'd already ******** up once - I felt like a bad-luck charm.
We rode out the next morning, as the sky was beginning to brighten after false dawn. It would have been arduous on foot, but on horseback it was still a bone-juddering, unpalatable journey. Being pissed off about it took the biting edge off my nerves, though. I still don't get what it's always the hills, caves and mountains where these things lurk. They seem to have an attraction to the lonely places. Personally, being that far away from a real place, and not journeying towards one, makes me feel a bit sick.
The whole area smelt of gone-bad eggs and decay. Jagged spars of rock jutted upwards and rubble haphazardly littered the ground. Surprisingly, it was a lair laid open to the sky; no fumbling around in caverns ur under vast outcroppings of stone or any of that nonsense. It was just lying there, an obsidian lump drooling corrosively onto the ground. The horses were well-trained enough to leave back along the trail. Cadfael crept into position - behind a large chunk of grey stone, he hid, waiting to give the signal.
A smile and a nod. I saw, and let out a breath I didn't recall holding. Hefted my halberd, took a deep breath and shouted, verbally hurling any words that came to mind at its sleeping bulk. Its massive snake-like eyes cracked open, and it gasped out a cloud of smoke, dragging itself to its feet. So far so goog. The being bait part was disquieting, but at least I knew that the competent one of us would be bailing me out. I turned the air blue with obscenities to keep the thing's attention. It didn't really matter what I said, but hey. It was easy to find the words to curse something that ugly.
It crashed towards me step by earthjuddering step and I retreated slowly. I watched out Cadfael and still shouted as loudly as I could. Good thing dragons are thick as mud. I saw saw him suddenly dash out to sneak between its from legs, and I was damn sure to be a distracting as humanly possible. I made passes at its jaws, nostrils and eyes, feinting away from snapping fangs.
Out of nowhere, it roared with agony, about to swing its head around to fend off the one who had stabbed its heart. That, that was the moment. I jammed the head of my weapon into the area between its neck and skull, between the protection of scales and hard plating. Putting my whole strength behind it, the point sliced in messily, and I was spattered by a gush of gore that felt almost boiling hot.
I stood there, still holding my place, while he hacked out the heart as a trophy to bring back, in order to claim the reward. The beast screeched out a death rattle, powerless to prevent Cadfael's progress. To stand as I did was awkward, and my arms started to ache. A sense of calm had replaced my terror, but I couldn't stay in place much longer, and the peculiar stench of the dead creature, which I had previous ignored, made me want to retch. The blood was soaking into my clothes, and I was starting to get irritated at the agonising wait. At that point, he emerged from under the dragon's bulk, which was for the moment still borne up by its tree tunk thick legs, even in death.
He held a large sack in one hand, guess what that contained, and his claymore in the other. Was drenched from head to toe in blackish-crimson blood, and had the widest grin I'd ever seen on anyone's face. The widest and most completely alarming grin, that is. If his mood before was strangely ebullient, this had gone gone right through to a frightening mercurial joy. I couldn't really comprehend it - all I felt was weariness and relief.
In short, I froze up, and when he dropped his load and sauntered over, I felt like a man-shaped statue. I'll admit I briefly even feared for my own life, despite the fact that his blade was lying on the ground. But it was because, if I honestly didn't know half an ounce about him before, now I felt at the mercy of a complete stranger. He prised my fingers from around the shaft of the halberd, pushed me out of the way and wrenched the head of it from where it was imbeded, jumping back when the dead beast's head crashed to the ground. He sighed with satisfaction.
Afterwards, he turned around abruptly, and gave me an appraising but still dementedly cheerful look. Seized the front of my jerkin and the part of my cloak which fell around my neck, then dragged me closer. I could barely look him in the eye at that close distance, his scar unavoidable. Shame flooded me and replaced the baffled fear his actions and mood were causing me. I raised a hand placatingly and opened my mouth to speak, but was silenced prematurely as his lips met mine. The first impression I had was that the kiss tasted metallic; there was blood spattered all over both our faces, even his lips.
There was an urgency to it, a sense of neediness. I responded in kind, deepening the kiss. This, at least, was something I could understand without difficulty. I tangled my fingers in his sticky, gore-soaked hair. I mean, ********, whatever about weird moods... He made a muted sound of pleasure. Unfortunately, it was then I realised I was running out of breath.
And I broke away. Realised that there was an awful iron taste in my mouth; I spat onto the ground right there. Then I realised what I did. Started to apologise and explain, before noticing the amusement on his face, as he picked up what he dropped earlier. Was still there when he brought the horses. My mortification at myself must have been as visible as his good cheer. He waved away anything I was about to say, and with an enigmatic smile swung himself up onto his horse's saddle. The horse seemed to be almost laughing at me. I can't stand that horse.
So we collected the reward, and a rich one it was. Taking advantage of desperation to earn money seems cruel, but we're not community service. In my case, I thought that in the evening we'd probably, well, you know... Nevermind our weariness. But it was as if his mood was a coin that had gotten flipped right back over. He was back to measured impassivity again. And when I brought up what he had done earlier, Cadfael just dismissed it as an impulsive, spur of the moment action. Sparingly, as if there was some word shortage.
After that I thought that still, maybe, give him a while and he'd make his mind up. It wasn't until eventually the gold had nearly run out and we'd finally caught wind of some other settlement being terrorised. Until we'd slain that creature, too, and the locals had paid up.
He was cheefully distracted, and could hardly keep still. Back there in our room of the inn, he paced impatiently, as if he could have gone out and slain another hundred of those things. For my part, I laid back and lazily observed his movements.
I wasn't alarmed, though; somewhere along the way I seemed to have acquired a slightly weaker dose of that same dragon killing desire that filled and motivated him. He glanced my way, and a very particular look passed between us. For once we were on the same page; as if there was a savage song we heard that no-one else did. I saw it, he saw it, and what happened next was a bit of a blur. Albeit a highly enjoyable one, that left me with scratches and love-bites, and a deep sense of satisfaction.
After that, the dynamic between us changed, subtly or otherwise. From time to time, I'd touch his arm or his face, a question. And he'd either pull away, shaking his head, or lean in closer, a different kind of fire kindling in his eyes. Or, always in private, I'd sit and suddenly feel a sighed warm breath from over my shoulder. Then either infuriatingly be told that I should be more aware of my surroundings, or hear my name quietly hissed under his breath, and feel a kiss pressed to the side of my neck, my jaw or my mouth when I'd turn to look.
As time passes, it's ever more often the latter of both rather than the former. I'm not exactly qualified to judge whether there's more that ties us together than lust and a common purpose. Perhaps time will change that, or perhaps not. Either way I'm perfectly pleased to continue the way I do with my life. Danger, excitement, and an enigmatic but driven companion whom I understand better the longer we travel together. It beats the hell out of standing around at a city gate all day, that's for sure.
Fin.
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Posted: Sun Dec 26, 2010 8:22 am
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Title: Aint Too Proud (To Beg)
Author: Yours truly
Transcribing completion: Complete at 2428 words.
Disclaimer: N/A
Series: N/A
Pairing: The Hero and the Prince of Blood (Original Characters)
Warnings: N/A (Or: Lots of fantasy tropes, some subverted and some played straight. Side characters. And a Bad End.)
Notes: A tale of heroics, lust, and trying your hardest to kill your former lover because he's now an affable but rather evil blood mage with a somewhat silly title.
Written in the third person present tense with titles for the characters instead of names for goodness knows what reason.
The endings are both equally valid, dependant on the reader's taste. Despite my wrangling with Alternate Ending A, it remains slightly less polished than I'd wish.
Here you go:
It's late, oh so very late, but none of them can sleep, even though the ward around the camp means there's no need for a watch. The fire crackles low, casting dim light on faces pensively staring at either the distant coldness of the stars or at the flames.
It is the last night before their hour of do or die. The healer frets, the fighter meditates and the mage staves of hysteria in his own nervous ways. The Hero is occupied with his own thoughts, inscrutable as he gazes off into the far distance of the sky. The silence is almost palpable, both inviting and oppressing any thoughts of conversation.
The mage is the one who always tries hardest to put people at their ease - especially when he himself is more jittery than a new-born foal - tonight is no exception. However, it's also no exception to the face that he really doesn't have any skills to speak of in that area. Mages tend to be good at magically exploding things and bad at small talk.
"So, this 'Prince of Blood'…" He looks around nervously, as if the forest can hear him.
"You said that you knew him before." The Hero blinks and turns to look at him, and the curious faces of the other two, as if waking from a daze.
"Hmm? Oh. Yes. Years Ago. We were friends. Once." He could see their shock. The truth was that they had been friends and then, later, more than just friends. Back then, driven closer by shared tragedy, they had taken solace in each other's words and bodies. Made plans and promises of revenge. But their paths, one of forgiveness and one of vengeance, had diverged as surely as the rising of the sun every morning.
"So he wasn't always that kind of person…?" The kind who dealt in unclean magic and suffering.
"What was he like before?" The healer's curiosity about people is endless, often leading to conversations with baffled bystanders about the details of their life, from animal husbandry to calculating compound interest.
"What was he like…" The Hero's voice is almost wistful, a fact of which the fighter takes note.
"Back when I knew him, he was determined but kind. Even if he could barely forgive or compromise at the best of times. Followed in his parents' footsteps by helping anyone who needed it." He speaks to the sky, as if giving tribute to the deceased instead of answering a question.
"What I remember best, though, is how peaceful his smile was. But that was long time ago." He frowns on that last note, his expression growing serious.
"What exactly was the nature of-"
"It sounds like maybe he'd understand if we just talked to him." The mage interrupts the fighter, brightening as the possibility of an easier way.
"I wouldn't bother trying. That was years ago. Why do you think he's called the Prince of Blood now? Did you forget the stories of what he's done to the towns in the north?" The Hero is resolute, giving no chance to argue. He turns away to try to catch a last few hours of rest and the others follow suit.
---
The climb through the forest is deceptively steep, but eventually the trail opens out into a small rocky clearing. This is where the tower stands, inspiration for many a tale to frighten a naughty child. In reality, it's squat and not all that impressive, a grey watchtower exactly like the others scattered far and wide across the kingdom save for the nature of its inhabitant.
A single figure stands at the base of the tower, back turned to the group and looking up at the sky. Everything but the vaguest detail of shape is obscured by a dark hooded cloak. If you were to look closer, it could be seen that although the fabric is pitch black, it is threaded-over with vein-like ruby embroidery.
They step forward, and it turns around. The face is hidden in deep shadow, but the arms are open in a gesture of welcome.
"You've come to dispose of me, I assume."
They were never going to have the element of surprise, but still quietly curse at the complete obviousness of their approach.
"I will give you one warning. If you persist in trying to attack, I will defend myself in whatever manner I see fit."
As a reply, the Hero draws his sword and rushes forward, while the rest of the group spring into action. The healer begins to pray an incantation for the favour of the gods, and the fighter moves to attack from the side. The mage looks around for a source of energy to draw his attack from.
Dodging the Hero's reckless charge, which continues right past him, the Prince of Blood makes a simple gesture aimed at the healer. She clutches at her throat, falling to her knees and coughing. A sharp blow to his forearm makes the Prince flinch.
The healer breathes deeply again and resumes her prayer, as the Prince whirls around to see the fighter throw another punch. He throws a hand up to block it, palm open. The fighter grins viciously before she realises the air itself is blocking the blow.
The Hero has stopped a few feet away. Recovered his balance. Carefully, this time, he tries to sneak back into the fray. He's about to strike when he is sent staggering from a painful attack. He spins around to see – but there's nothing there. Looks back – the fighter is attempting to pummel an invisible wall while the hooded figure looks right at him, face shrouded in shadow. He picks up a fistful of earth and throws it at where the eyes should be. The Prince quickly tries to clear the dirt away, temporarily blinded and leaving himself wide open.
The fighter lands a punch on his stomach, and the terror of the north doubles over in pain. The Hero and fighter go in for another blow, but are stopped by another invisible wall, created by the Prince's two blindly outstretched palms. The hands make a grabbing and flinging motion, and the two attackers are thrown across the clearing. The Prince stands up straight again, and once more targets the healer, choking her from afar, halting her chant of protection. Her lips begin to turn blue as she struggles.
The mage, overlooked in the clash between the others, is safely hidden between the branches of a tree. He had scurried out of sight when the Hero first attacked, and is finally ready to launch his counteroffensive.
The earth rumbles beneath the Prince of Blood's feet, taking him by surprise. He had forgotten the fourth person, and now he pays the price for his carelessness, as the ground splits open. Jagged pillars of stone stab up at him, and the tremors prevent him from running. He strikes off the sharp tips of the pillars, but stumbles when manoeuvring backwards towards his tower. An outcropping suddenly rises from the earth beneath him and grows to a great height, before retracting into the ground just as unceremoniously as it had erupted. He falls down to the earth, ragdoll-like.
---
The group, these questers on this quest to rid the north of its scourge, can almost taste their victory.
The Hero, patched up by the healer's finally completed prayer, strides to where the cloaked prone form lies. The Prince of Blood, lying spread-eagled on the ground beneath him, comes to with a ragged cough. The Hero brings the point of his sword down to draw back the cloak's hood, his curiosity raging. What would his former friend and lover look like now, after all these years and after treading the path of darkness?
The fabric falls back to reveal a familiar shock of blond hair, pure and bright in contrast to the Hero's sandy shade. His face looks exactly like it did those years before, save for the normal marks left by time. The Hero's hand begins to tremble as he moves his blade to rest over his old friend's neck.
The Prince of Blood cranes his neck back to look at the Hero's face properly, while the Hero refuses to meet his eyes.
"It's good to see you again after all these years," the Prince of Blood whispers.
"Are you going to kill me now?" His question, delivered for all to hear, is matter of fact, and the smile he shows is more peaceful than even the ones from his youth.
The Hero stands like a man turned to stone, no past or present save for this one moment on which everything seems to rest. The group stands behind with bated breath.
The Prince of Blood, however, is perfectly relaxed. He knows now that the Hero can no more kill him in these tense minutes than he could have back then. Who could have known before that memories and lingering affection could so triumph over the conscious will? He remembered, though, that the Hero had always been a man ruled by emotion, both his strength and his downfall.
"This is a fine blade you have. I'm glad to see you've gone up in the world." So saying, he runs his one free hand down its side in almost an affectionate gesture, and observes the blood running from the wound.
"What are you-" The fighter starts unsurely towards them.
"Sorry to say this is the last use of it you'll ever see," the Prince breathes, and swiftly makes an intricate gesture with his bloodied hand.
He watches, calm as ever, as the Hero and his companions simply stagger to the side and collapse.
---
When the Hero returns to consciousness he's still lying in the clearing, but his sword is nowhere to be found. Stretched out on ground, he can barely move, limbs weak as if he had been sick for days. He glances frantically around for the rest of the group, but can only catch a glimpse of the fighter's unmoving body.
He hears slow, deliberate footsteps crunch across the stone.
"What have you done with them?" His weariness and despair come though in his voice.
"Suffice to say they won't be bothering us from now on." With that familiar voice, the same cloaked figure enters his vision, but this time holding his sword, blade stained crimson. The Hero feels any vain hope he had vanish, to be replaced by a crushing sense of his own failure, even as he drags himself up onto his elbows.
"You're going the kill me, aren't you?" His heart is beating crazily, as if in a rhythm that knows it's close to death. The Prince of Blood comes to a halt right in front of him and the hem of the cloak brushes his knuckles, but there's no reply.
"Please. Don't." He grabs a handful of the fabric, staring at his own hand as he speaks.
"Don't kill me." He tries to look up to see the other man's reaction, but is at too awkward of an angle.
"I'm sorry for not listening back then. For breaking our promise. To get revenge together. I was young, and couldn't believe you'd go to those lengths. I'm sorry." The desperation is his own voice shocks him.
"Let me live. At least for the sake of our friendship before. Out of respect for the love that was between us." He has his other fist balled in the material of the cloak now, and feels his cheek wet with tears of fear.
"I'll do anything. Anything. Whatever you want. Just, please. I don't want to die."
The Prince of Blood, his hood down, reaches to pry the Hero's hands from his robe, before kneeling and tenderly wiping the tears from the face of the other man, who is still in a pose of supplication.
"I never asked you to beg, you know." He comfortingly strokes his hair with one hand, and lifts his chin so that they're looking eye to eye with his other hand. The Hero's face flushes slightly, as the other man smiles serenely at him.
His erstwhile lover leans down to him, and he momentarily forget that they ever parted, that they went down drastically different paths, that shortly beforehand he was begging for his life.
The Hero is kissed, and it's a familiar comfort, one he missed those last few lonely years. It grows more and more insistent, until he can feel himself weakening, his strength draining away. He struggles, but only weakly, his will nearly gone, before giving in and relaxing, his life slipping away. His eyes slide shut for the last time, his limbs go limp.
The Prince of Blood devours the last of the Hero's soul with his last breath, then gently cradles his beloved's empty shell of a body in his arms.
"Now you can never leave me ever again." He smiles, perhaps a touch sadly.
Alternate Ending A.
(To be read from "The Hero's face flushes slightly, as the other man smiles serenely at him.")
"I meant it. I'll do anything, if only you'll let me live. Anything." His voice is earnest, knowing what's at stake. He speaks as if to both the man before him now and to the one he knew those years before.
The Prince looks at the Hero for a long moment, contemplative, his usual smile absent.
"Renew the promises we made. To get revenge together."
"I… That's what you want? I don't know if I can-"
"You did just say that you would do anything." His tone is reasonable.
"And you so very rarely go back on your word."
At that, a flicker of guilt passes over the Hero's face.
"Yes, I swore I'd do whatever you wanted." He bows his head.
"So you agree?" He coaxes the Hero up from his former position to a kneeling one mirroring his own, their faces a mere breath away.
"I agree, and I swear..." He hesitates, caught in the other's expectant gaze.
"To renew every promise we made before. That we will take our revenge together." A wry smile plays about his lips, as if he still can't believe his own words. He focuses his gaze on the other man's eyes, a sea-green colour he knows better than his own.
"And that I will never leave you again." That last addition is delivered with steely resolution.
"As it should be." The Prince laces his fingers into the other man's sandy blond hair, contentment written across his face.
"But…" He pauses for a moment before whispering low into his ear.
"We should seal the deal with a kiss, don't you think?"
A suggestion to which the Hero swiftly complies, bridging the last gap between himself and the Prince of Blood. He kisses hungrily, sating a desire he had long ignored, until they break apart, gasping for air. The Prince of Blood gently caresses the back of the Hero's neck, while looking over his shoulder at the corpses of the Hero's former group. His customary calm smile graces his lips.
Fin.
Supplimentary materials:
Rule Number 1, or "Heroes don't have midlife crises", in which we go back a little in time to take a look at our hero's mentality prior to "Ain't Too Proud", plus a little bit of worldbuilding.
Transcribing completion: Complete at 816 words.
Here we are, then:
Pure enthusiasm in human form, practically bouncing over to where they’re sitting.
“I just wanted to let you guys know, we just got word that the Mountain King’s been defeated. Isn’t that great?” A bubbly voice and fire-red bob of short hair.
The others turn around, vicarious joy written all over their faces. He looks up from the apparently very serious contemplation of his hands.
“Fantastic!”
“Jolly good show!”
“Awesome! We should have a toast to the heroics of the Eastern Branch!” One of them holds up his empty tankard hopefully.
“Hmm? Oh yes. That’s great. It would have been terrible if they hadn’t…” He trails off, a bit unfocused, as if only vaguely aware of what he’s talking about.
“I just. I thought you’d be glad.” Concern and bafflement flit across her face.
“After all, you were involved in the defeat of one of his generals.”
“I am, I am! It’s great that the princess is home safe and sound. It’s just…” He passes a hand over his face to demonstrate.
“I’m tired, that’s all.”
“Oh.” She gives a sad pout, hands on her hips.
“I hope you get plenty of rest, so!” Cheered by her own advice, she dashes off to spread the happy news to the rest of the Guild.
“Ah, she’s a cute one alright.” Several pairs of slightly inebriated eyes stare dreamily after her. The Northern Branch’s ‘bachelor club’ is in full swing.
“The cutest amongst all the mages, if I’m not mistaken.” The gentleman adventurer offers his opinion, twirling his moustache.
“Amongst all the mages, sure. But that’s only for those of us not man enough to handle a beautiful warrioress.” A southerner, but dressed like a barbarian of the cold steppes. The man’s own affectation, oft mocked behind his back.
“Beautiful? Your last lady had a face like a hatchet!” Raucous laughter.
“What’s your take on the matter, eh?” The classic hero of the group turns to him, flashing his pristine toothed smile. He’s reminded of how he was, several years before.
“Oh. Yeah. Well. Healers aren’t half bad, you know.” He tries not to lie, even when his heart isn’t in the discussion.
“Well than! There you have it! Healers!” The gentleman adventurer orders a round for the lads on his Guild tab.
There’s a slight lull in conversation, as they get to the serious business of drinks.
“She’s cute alright…” The would-be barbarian is already a bit soused.
“But have you heard the whisper that maybe…” He leans forward conspiratorially.
“Maybe she likes to play with fire a bit too much?” A murmur passes through the group, some nodding.
“Greg.” Hero classic has his no-nonsense face on.
“Remember Guild rule number one. No unwholesome rumours about guild-mates or allies. You’re lucky we’re friends, or I might have to report you.” The atmosphere sours.
“Mr Letter-Of-The-Law here can’t help ruining a bit of playful speculation. Glad you’re not like that anymore!” His shoulder is jostled. He looks up from his untouched beer. That had been his kind of act before, but life had taken it out of him. The will to do so.
“I think he has a point. Rule’s for a reason.” Before anyone can disagree, he stands up from his chair.
“Whoever wants that can have it.” He gestures to the drink he’s leaving behind.
“I’m a bit worn out, so… See you tomorrow.”
He strides off, back to his dormitory, lost in his thoughts. The dorms - accommodation for those without their own home outside the Northern Branch.
He can’t really bring himself to feel enthusiastic about the whole hero-ing business anymore. Oh, he could save people and kill things, hell, he was an expert at the killing things part. Even enjoyed it a little. But when everything is resolved, life returns to normal as it always does, his purpose evaporates.
Heroism was supposed to be its own reward, right? Feeling good because you’ve done good. That’s what his family had always said. It left him feeling somehow unfulfilled. Almost as if there was a gaping hole where his satisfaction with his life should be. Like he’d made a wrong choice, a wrong turn along the way.
Well, he could pinpoint that one. He laughs to himself, a trifle darkly. Anyway, he thinks, it’s ridiculous. Heroes don’t have midlife crises. He unlocks the door to his dorm.
Drab but homely. A few tokens of gratitude for his achievements. His sword. Valuable trinkets amassed over time and amulets of protection. The fee simple, the full extent of his life, laid out in front of him. Minus the part he’d left in his hometown years before. The important part.
Maybe, he thinks as he closes the door, he’ll take up the offer of that latest group who’d been nagging him to assist in their quest.
The group about to head off to kill the Prince of Blood.
(*Dramatic pause* The end. OR IS IT?)
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Posted: Thu Jan 13, 2011 9:59 am
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Posted: Thu Jan 13, 2011 2:35 pm
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Oh, no problem ~
Heehee, that's great! I'm glad you like the whole idea. It sort of just happened, aha. It does give a kind of Final Fantasy I type of feel. But I really did want to do something that was a mash-up of RPG quest and BL with a twist. ;D
You know, for some reason when I was writing it, I felt that it was time to be really redundant on that line. I suppose I was being a bit dry/sarcastic. But it does need a bit of re-tooling in some shape or form. I may need to turn it over in my mind a bit.
Alright! Thank you very much. Well, the three secondary party members were a bit cut-outy, I think, but I'm glad you really did enjoy it overall. I want to make interesting, complex characters, but the scope of the story (plus my journeyman writing skills) sort of limits it. I think the Hero and Prince of Blood (what a silly title) have a lot of potential, 'cept one of them's dead.
I might do backstory.
Actually, since you have that looked over (did you read "Rule Number 1"? The itty bit of an extra thing slotted in non-chronologically at the end) would you mind terribly giving me an assessment of Dragon Hunters:First Hunt. Not the drabble, that thing's sort of awful. (And by sort of I mean "what is this.")
Oh, and which ending of Ain't Too Proud did you prefer?
You know, I really wonder what central idea the next sory should have. (Since Dragon Hunters is basically BL + Badassery & Bloodshed, and this was RPG staples + the Hero's failure and begging and delicious bad end.) Any suggestions?
Prompt me, bby.
Ah jay, I'm blathering. Goodnight~
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Reply
"Seriousness is the refuge of the shallow."
