(no subject)
Feb. 4th, 2004 09:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hathycolFirstly, I come bearing an offering of a Mary-Sue. I'm on a theme - Abusive!Father + Sue fics. I actually went to find a HP one first, and I found this horror. Tomorrow? Evil!Thranduil.
So, I finished my English homework. Huzzah! Went for the fantasy in the end - despite my lack of anthology, I found that it was suprisingly easy to put in a website: http://www.infinityplus.com I will have to mention this in ym commentary, but that isn't due to aaaagggeeessss, so I will survive.
For those that care, the unbeta-ed and not-checked-by-anyone version is here. Because I like showing off my fiction. Because it is what I do.
Tale For The Father
Carden had buried his eldest son last week.
His wife Fionn had cried at the graveside, but Carden had merely held onto her, arthritic fingers squeezing her rough shawl. He didn’t cry, nor say a word about the unfairness of having to bury the fair and strong Bryant. Lads were sent off to fight for the glory of Cardolan, and those that returned were few. You did not dispute this. It was for the greater good, the good of Lord Brego. And, of course, for the good of Tuathal, god of labours, god of farmers, god of the soldiers.
Once, Carden had disputed, but now Carden was silent.
Cold. It had become much colder recently, and especially since Bryant had been bought back by two grim-faced men, carrying Carden’s eldest son his long shield. Carden knew better than to ask why they had been able to bring the body back at all. The heralds had told them, once, that the war was far away in distant lands. No one asked about the distant clanging of steel on steel that could be heard on the still nights. No, instead it was safer to continue with your work, to continue serving Lord Brego and harvest your hand. But with this new chill, that could be hard. The crops were spoiling in the field, and little wonder with Carden, Fionn and their only daughter Raelin left on the farm. There were no boys left in the village to help, and no one from nearby farms would give up their own livelihood – all they had left – to help each other. Whatever spirit had been left in Cardolan died as their lads did. They were alone.
Fionn didn’t believe they were alone. She used to pray to Tuathal every day, thanking Him for all that was provided. Carden has used to pray with her, but now Fionn prayed alone. Carden’s son had died, and his other two were dying, and Tuathal was silent. His crops, sown by his own hands, were spoiling in the field, and Tuathal was silent. When Fionn cried out in uncomprehending pain and fear, Tuathal was silent. He was silent for Raelin’s muffled sobs, and He was silent when the widows were forced to sell what little they had left just to stay alive to struggle for another season. What use was there wasting time talking to someone who no longer cared?
Old legs pottered through the third field, finding the sure path through the towering wheat. It was Carden’s prise to see them grow so strong and tall, even though no one remained to harvest it. He had bought a scythe here today to try and gather enough to keep his family with bread over the approaching winter, although it was nigh on impossible that Carden’s old arms would allow him to carry a large amount back to the farm. He allowed himself a small grin at his own stubbornness. He could have asked Raelin to help, of course, but he had not seen her all morning and he did not wish to disturb her slumber. Besides, someone needed to help Fionn in the house. His smile faded. Fionn now spent all of her time down in the small shrine set up to honour the Cardolan’s primary god, and someone – certainly not Carden – needed to keep the house in order.
Carden leant down to swipe away the first cache of wheat from the massive field, his hands expertly, if stiffly, grasping onto the wheat shaft as the blade whistled through the air. He had done this three, maybe four, times when a strange light glinting off his scythe caught his attention. Moaning slightly at the unnatural clicks made by his spine, he stood up straight and peered across the field to the lane that ran alongside it. Spurred by curiosity – after all, he had all day to harvest enough wheat – he walked over to the wall that separated his land from the outside world, using his scythe as an aid. As he approached the wall, a fleeing woman paused for long enough to give him a glance. She was Aislinn, the youngest daughter of Keir who had farmed the adjoining land until his death two winters ago.
“Aislinn! What is happening?” He fancied that he could hear the gruff sound of young men singing, something that had not been heard in his village for over a year. On the wind, faint now but growing stronger, was the smell of burning thatches.
The young woman turned to him, her eyes red-rimmed. “Flee, Carden!” she cried, picking up her rough skirts to run once more.
“Why do the thatches burn? Have you seen Fionn or Raelin? Tell me, Aislinn, for your father’s memory if nothing more!”
Aislinn looked at him strangely. “Do you not know where Raelin is?”
“I am asking you, Aislinn!”
Aislinn’s words were jumbled, her normally fair voice marred by panic and fear. “She left… she left last night, taking her brothers sword… I am sorry…”
Carden suddenly moved faster than he thought he could, grasping on her arm with his free hand. “You lie!” he hissed, fear twisting his old heart. “She would stay, and do her duty to her mother! Her family!”
“She said that she would be better dying for the honour of Cardolan than at home! And she is right! They come! They… they are here, in the village, setting alight the thatches with their bright steel!” Her voice took on a new urgency. “Let me go Carden!”
With that, she squirmed out of his grip and ran down the road once more. Alarmed at Aislinn’s words, Carden moved at as much speed as his old legs could give him through the fields of wheat and barley until he saw the sight of his own house, the ivy crawling over the East side. It was quiet here, and nothing burned. Cautiously, Carden approached the house of his family, as always achingly aware that it was too empty. Ghost whispers of children laughing, playing, shouting, himself laughing with them -
“Ada!”
Carden, a younger man with no grey in his beard, leaned down to pick up Bryant. The boy giggled. “Ada, you tickle!”
“Surely that should not worry a young warrior as yourself?” said Carden seriously, a glint sparkling in his eye. “Besides, I will tickle my own son until he is old enough to torment his own father!”
That was when Bryant was four. By the time 12 summers had passed from that day, Bryant could comfortably pick up Carden, who had never been a large man. Bryant was well named, although neither he nor Fionn has realised the significance of this until Bryant decided to –
“Father, I must leave.”
No more childish Ada now. He was Father to all his children, except Raelin who sometimes slipped and referred to her father in the more familiar manner. Life was different now. Boys were leaving in all villages, and Lord Brego’s men seemed to be waiting everywhere…”Bryant, you do not. Not yet. Stay with your mother and I, for another season at least.”
“One of our family must uphold the honour of Cardolan!” snapped Bryant, and Carden stepped back as if struck.
“Drunken words in the tavern, Bryant!” cried Carden. “I have been punished, you do not need to do it again!”
Bryant had left anyway, taking only the long shield he had fashioned himself -
Carden pulled himself out of the uncomfortable memory as the scars on his back began to twitch in long forgotten pain. He had disputed the Cardolan way of life, and he had paid. Bryant, a firm believer in the honour of Cardolan, had never forgiven his father. His other children, who idolised the handsome and heroic Bryant, had quickly picked up on his lead.
Grasping onto his scythe ever more tightly, Carden entered his house through the kitchen, which was cool and still. “Raelin?” he called out. “Raelin, where are you?”
No one answered him. Unnerved now by the unnatural silence pervading his home, he went up the wooden stairs, comforted by their familiar creak. “Raelin? Fionn?”
No one answered him, and he turned into his daughter’s room. Her bed was folded perfectly, and Carden pressed his old hands against the family bedspread. It had not been slept in. Looking around, he could see now that small items were missing, markedly her small mug and cloak that had formally hung neatly from the door. She had left no other trace of her absence, yet Aislinn had known. How?
Shaking, and still holding onto his scythe like it would be salvation from the events, Carden made his way to the shrine for Tuathal where he knew he would find his wife bent in prayer.
The shrine was eerily silent as Carden entered the room. He wife was there in front of the rough carving that represented Tuathal, her head bent unusually low. “Fionn?” he asked softly, knowing she did not like to be disturbed. “Fionn, where is Raelin?”
She did not reply. Fear hardening his heart once more, he leant forward to touch his wife’s shoulder –
“I will never marry,” declared Raelin firmly.
“Really, lass?” laughed Carden. “Why is this?”
“If I marry, I will have to become a wife. And then I will have to have children, and I will have to work all day and all night.”
“Well, child, that is not so bad a fate!” said Fionn, entering the room and standing by Carden. “I do not work all the time, and I love you and your Ada very much…” Fionn leaned and kissed Carden firmly on the cheek. He promptly blushed, and Raelin made noises of disapproval.
“Oh, mama! Ada!”
And Carden had laughed –
As Carden touched his wife’s shoulder, she fell to the side, her eyes open and staring at something in an expression of divine ecstasy. Carden stepped away, horrified, before staggering downstairs, his scythe dropping onto the floor with a loud clatter. He sat down once more in the cool kitchen, and his head dropped into his hands. No tears would come. Carden no longer cried at anything, but his heart was tightening in sorrow, in pain, and in fear.
“Oh, Ada, you need not worry.” Flynn, his second son, smiled gently. “We will collect the harvest. We always do!”
His sons collected around the table, alternately promising personal valour in the harvesting, or at least the valour of those who could help. “I know, lads,” said Carden with a small smile. “I worry every year for naught!”
“Go on, sit down!” said Fionn sternly. “Stop worrying your Ada!”
She began to serve the warm stew, taken from the rabbits collected earlier that week -
Carden, head buried in his hands, did not hear the stealthy entry of a soldier, dressed in resplendent armour, bright sword in his hands -
by Bryant, who displayed considerably skill with arms, but better skill as a hunter. He would make a good husband soon to a lucky maid from the village, most likely Keir’s eldest from the way Bryant spoke.
“Ada?” Raelin tugged on Carden’s tunic, her round face screwed up in the beginning of tears. “I cannot reach.”
“No, you cannot!” laughed Carden, who got off his chair and crouched down to his daughter’s level. “Shall I help -
and followed by three others. The leader motioned for quiet as two of them left to search upstairs, whilst he and an ungainly comrade carried on-
“you?” He picked up his daughter and swung her to a chair. Looking around at his family, Carden smiled.
“You will never leave me, will you? I want my family to stay a family.”
His family smiled and nodded in acquiesce. “Good, then,” said Carden satisfied, and settled down to eat his wife’s stew. “I will be happy when we are all -
towards Carden’s prone figure. He raised the sword somewhat higher, and still Carden did not turn around. He shrugged, and brought the sword down over Carden. Carden still made no resistance, but smiled as the blade connected with his old skull –
“together.”
I'm not quite happy with the ending - strikes me as melodramatic - but there we are. That was the best I could do in about three hours, and all things considered it's not too bad.
Not much actually happened today. Went to college, and I came home. The only notes that I can remember were me and Liz, once again, boring the arse of the media class and trying to decapitate someone for dissing LOTR fans. Bastard. Oh, and my politics teacher actually jumping in the air when we all, as one, shouted "PLURALISM!" as a reason for taxpayers to fund electorla parties. She's obsessed with the word. It's quite worrying.
Oh, and we're finally onto something interesting in English. Who knows, I may be bribed into actually enjoying it again! (Since Susie's leaving me and all... *wailweepwhinge*)
And now I really don't have anything to say, other than to re-pimp my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
deleterius post and my story thing.
Yeah. Going now.
~Hathy_Col~
So, I finished my English homework. Huzzah! Went for the fantasy in the end - despite my lack of anthology, I found that it was suprisingly easy to put in a website: http://www.infinityplus.com I will have to mention this in ym commentary, but that isn't due to aaaagggeeessss, so I will survive.
For those that care, the unbeta-ed and not-checked-by-anyone version is here. Because I like showing off my fiction. Because it is what I do.
Tale For The Father
Carden had buried his eldest son last week.
His wife Fionn had cried at the graveside, but Carden had merely held onto her, arthritic fingers squeezing her rough shawl. He didn’t cry, nor say a word about the unfairness of having to bury the fair and strong Bryant. Lads were sent off to fight for the glory of Cardolan, and those that returned were few. You did not dispute this. It was for the greater good, the good of Lord Brego. And, of course, for the good of Tuathal, god of labours, god of farmers, god of the soldiers.
Once, Carden had disputed, but now Carden was silent.
Cold. It had become much colder recently, and especially since Bryant had been bought back by two grim-faced men, carrying Carden’s eldest son his long shield. Carden knew better than to ask why they had been able to bring the body back at all. The heralds had told them, once, that the war was far away in distant lands. No one asked about the distant clanging of steel on steel that could be heard on the still nights. No, instead it was safer to continue with your work, to continue serving Lord Brego and harvest your hand. But with this new chill, that could be hard. The crops were spoiling in the field, and little wonder with Carden, Fionn and their only daughter Raelin left on the farm. There were no boys left in the village to help, and no one from nearby farms would give up their own livelihood – all they had left – to help each other. Whatever spirit had been left in Cardolan died as their lads did. They were alone.
Fionn didn’t believe they were alone. She used to pray to Tuathal every day, thanking Him for all that was provided. Carden has used to pray with her, but now Fionn prayed alone. Carden’s son had died, and his other two were dying, and Tuathal was silent. His crops, sown by his own hands, were spoiling in the field, and Tuathal was silent. When Fionn cried out in uncomprehending pain and fear, Tuathal was silent. He was silent for Raelin’s muffled sobs, and He was silent when the widows were forced to sell what little they had left just to stay alive to struggle for another season. What use was there wasting time talking to someone who no longer cared?
Old legs pottered through the third field, finding the sure path through the towering wheat. It was Carden’s prise to see them grow so strong and tall, even though no one remained to harvest it. He had bought a scythe here today to try and gather enough to keep his family with bread over the approaching winter, although it was nigh on impossible that Carden’s old arms would allow him to carry a large amount back to the farm. He allowed himself a small grin at his own stubbornness. He could have asked Raelin to help, of course, but he had not seen her all morning and he did not wish to disturb her slumber. Besides, someone needed to help Fionn in the house. His smile faded. Fionn now spent all of her time down in the small shrine set up to honour the Cardolan’s primary god, and someone – certainly not Carden – needed to keep the house in order.
Carden leant down to swipe away the first cache of wheat from the massive field, his hands expertly, if stiffly, grasping onto the wheat shaft as the blade whistled through the air. He had done this three, maybe four, times when a strange light glinting off his scythe caught his attention. Moaning slightly at the unnatural clicks made by his spine, he stood up straight and peered across the field to the lane that ran alongside it. Spurred by curiosity – after all, he had all day to harvest enough wheat – he walked over to the wall that separated his land from the outside world, using his scythe as an aid. As he approached the wall, a fleeing woman paused for long enough to give him a glance. She was Aislinn, the youngest daughter of Keir who had farmed the adjoining land until his death two winters ago.
“Aislinn! What is happening?” He fancied that he could hear the gruff sound of young men singing, something that had not been heard in his village for over a year. On the wind, faint now but growing stronger, was the smell of burning thatches.
The young woman turned to him, her eyes red-rimmed. “Flee, Carden!” she cried, picking up her rough skirts to run once more.
“Why do the thatches burn? Have you seen Fionn or Raelin? Tell me, Aislinn, for your father’s memory if nothing more!”
Aislinn looked at him strangely. “Do you not know where Raelin is?”
“I am asking you, Aislinn!”
Aislinn’s words were jumbled, her normally fair voice marred by panic and fear. “She left… she left last night, taking her brothers sword… I am sorry…”
Carden suddenly moved faster than he thought he could, grasping on her arm with his free hand. “You lie!” he hissed, fear twisting his old heart. “She would stay, and do her duty to her mother! Her family!”
“She said that she would be better dying for the honour of Cardolan than at home! And she is right! They come! They… they are here, in the village, setting alight the thatches with their bright steel!” Her voice took on a new urgency. “Let me go Carden!”
With that, she squirmed out of his grip and ran down the road once more. Alarmed at Aislinn’s words, Carden moved at as much speed as his old legs could give him through the fields of wheat and barley until he saw the sight of his own house, the ivy crawling over the East side. It was quiet here, and nothing burned. Cautiously, Carden approached the house of his family, as always achingly aware that it was too empty. Ghost whispers of children laughing, playing, shouting, himself laughing with them -
“Ada!”
Carden, a younger man with no grey in his beard, leaned down to pick up Bryant. The boy giggled. “Ada, you tickle!”
“Surely that should not worry a young warrior as yourself?” said Carden seriously, a glint sparkling in his eye. “Besides, I will tickle my own son until he is old enough to torment his own father!”
That was when Bryant was four. By the time 12 summers had passed from that day, Bryant could comfortably pick up Carden, who had never been a large man. Bryant was well named, although neither he nor Fionn has realised the significance of this until Bryant decided to –
“Father, I must leave.”
No more childish Ada now. He was Father to all his children, except Raelin who sometimes slipped and referred to her father in the more familiar manner. Life was different now. Boys were leaving in all villages, and Lord Brego’s men seemed to be waiting everywhere…”Bryant, you do not. Not yet. Stay with your mother and I, for another season at least.”
“One of our family must uphold the honour of Cardolan!” snapped Bryant, and Carden stepped back as if struck.
“Drunken words in the tavern, Bryant!” cried Carden. “I have been punished, you do not need to do it again!”
Bryant had left anyway, taking only the long shield he had fashioned himself -
Carden pulled himself out of the uncomfortable memory as the scars on his back began to twitch in long forgotten pain. He had disputed the Cardolan way of life, and he had paid. Bryant, a firm believer in the honour of Cardolan, had never forgiven his father. His other children, who idolised the handsome and heroic Bryant, had quickly picked up on his lead.
Grasping onto his scythe ever more tightly, Carden entered his house through the kitchen, which was cool and still. “Raelin?” he called out. “Raelin, where are you?”
No one answered him. Unnerved now by the unnatural silence pervading his home, he went up the wooden stairs, comforted by their familiar creak. “Raelin? Fionn?”
No one answered him, and he turned into his daughter’s room. Her bed was folded perfectly, and Carden pressed his old hands against the family bedspread. It had not been slept in. Looking around, he could see now that small items were missing, markedly her small mug and cloak that had formally hung neatly from the door. She had left no other trace of her absence, yet Aislinn had known. How?
Shaking, and still holding onto his scythe like it would be salvation from the events, Carden made his way to the shrine for Tuathal where he knew he would find his wife bent in prayer.
The shrine was eerily silent as Carden entered the room. He wife was there in front of the rough carving that represented Tuathal, her head bent unusually low. “Fionn?” he asked softly, knowing she did not like to be disturbed. “Fionn, where is Raelin?”
She did not reply. Fear hardening his heart once more, he leant forward to touch his wife’s shoulder –
“I will never marry,” declared Raelin firmly.
“Really, lass?” laughed Carden. “Why is this?”
“If I marry, I will have to become a wife. And then I will have to have children, and I will have to work all day and all night.”
“Well, child, that is not so bad a fate!” said Fionn, entering the room and standing by Carden. “I do not work all the time, and I love you and your Ada very much…” Fionn leaned and kissed Carden firmly on the cheek. He promptly blushed, and Raelin made noises of disapproval.
“Oh, mama! Ada!”
And Carden had laughed –
As Carden touched his wife’s shoulder, she fell to the side, her eyes open and staring at something in an expression of divine ecstasy. Carden stepped away, horrified, before staggering downstairs, his scythe dropping onto the floor with a loud clatter. He sat down once more in the cool kitchen, and his head dropped into his hands. No tears would come. Carden no longer cried at anything, but his heart was tightening in sorrow, in pain, and in fear.
“Oh, Ada, you need not worry.” Flynn, his second son, smiled gently. “We will collect the harvest. We always do!”
His sons collected around the table, alternately promising personal valour in the harvesting, or at least the valour of those who could help. “I know, lads,” said Carden with a small smile. “I worry every year for naught!”
“Go on, sit down!” said Fionn sternly. “Stop worrying your Ada!”
She began to serve the warm stew, taken from the rabbits collected earlier that week -
Carden, head buried in his hands, did not hear the stealthy entry of a soldier, dressed in resplendent armour, bright sword in his hands -
by Bryant, who displayed considerably skill with arms, but better skill as a hunter. He would make a good husband soon to a lucky maid from the village, most likely Keir’s eldest from the way Bryant spoke.
“Ada?” Raelin tugged on Carden’s tunic, her round face screwed up in the beginning of tears. “I cannot reach.”
“No, you cannot!” laughed Carden, who got off his chair and crouched down to his daughter’s level. “Shall I help -
and followed by three others. The leader motioned for quiet as two of them left to search upstairs, whilst he and an ungainly comrade carried on-
“you?” He picked up his daughter and swung her to a chair. Looking around at his family, Carden smiled.
“You will never leave me, will you? I want my family to stay a family.”
His family smiled and nodded in acquiesce. “Good, then,” said Carden satisfied, and settled down to eat his wife’s stew. “I will be happy when we are all -
towards Carden’s prone figure. He raised the sword somewhat higher, and still Carden did not turn around. He shrugged, and brought the sword down over Carden. Carden still made no resistance, but smiled as the blade connected with his old skull –
“together.”
I'm not quite happy with the ending - strikes me as melodramatic - but there we are. That was the best I could do in about three hours, and all things considered it's not too bad.
Not much actually happened today. Went to college, and I came home. The only notes that I can remember were me and Liz, once again, boring the arse of the media class and trying to decapitate someone for dissing LOTR fans. Bastard. Oh, and my politics teacher actually jumping in the air when we all, as one, shouted "PLURALISM!" as a reason for taxpayers to fund electorla parties. She's obsessed with the word. It's quite worrying.
Oh, and we're finally onto something interesting in English. Who knows, I may be bribed into actually enjoying it again! (Since Susie's leaving me and all... *wailweepwhinge*)
And now I really don't have anything to say, other than to re-pimp my
deleterius post and my story thing.Yeah. Going now.
~Hathy_Col~
