Here is the first chapter of a novel I am writing. I am 15, and have written several fantasy stories in the far past, but normally I write plays. Anyways, this came to me while sitting in latin class, and I wrote it out and liked it. So please comment and tell me what you think.
Chapter One:
The times were simple. To the east lay the great sea, and to the west the great mountains. The thought that their greatness might merely be relative did not cross the people's minds. It was a fair time. Fair people, golden haired and pale. Fair art, singers and painters and writers were welcome in all places. God was stuck in the churches, and the people lived free and happy lives. Beauty was a gift all took for granted.
Of all that was beautiful in those times, the most beautiful was the palace of Theodore the Kind-hearted. He was not a king, but merely a governor by title, and yet effectively he ruled all the lands from the southern river northward, and nothing marked his northern border except the barbaric icy moors, which few cared for or wandered to. His palace lay in Yurem, a rich, green valley. No city surrounded it, only beautiful forests and gardens for miles.
The palace itself was remarkable. It shone in the sun both white and gold, giving it the name 'Hara 'le Ura' or, 'The palace of light'. It was a dwelling place, not a fortress, yet one single white tower rose from it, and the watchers sat atop it, and saw far over the lands, so that no enemy could approach unnoticed. Under the golden archway and through the gate stood a great hall, and in the day the sun streamed through windows and food was ate, and at night the fireplaces were lit, and a thousand golden lanterns hung from the arching ceiling, and there was dance and song, and theatre if a company was present. There were many bedrooms as well, gorgeous pinnacles of comfort, with soft beds and golden beams that crisscrossed above the sleeping head, and a window placed so that come the strike of nine golden beams would wake the sleeper alive and well rested. Then of course there were the corridors. Long, marvelous hallways which did not lead anywhere in particular, but were filled with life and art, so that one simply would walk and look at the beauty around them and be contented for hours.
In the center of the palace rose a grand cathedral. Beyond the inner courtyard rose another gate, two large wooden doors with images of the creation carved upon them. The room beyond those doors was the largest known to man. Sunlight streamed through gigantic stained glass windows, and reflected off the alter on the center of the room, which shone silver, although it was made of gems of every color. Crimson, Sapphire, and emerald green all filled the room, creating a whirlwind of color that melted together to shine the light of god into all, which even the most skeptical were moved by. Voices also echoed throughout the hall, and the effect was that one felt among all the heavenly peoples. Loved ones and Angels, Gods and spirits, all were present, just out of reach beyond the curtain of tangibility. It was here, in this room that, by the hands of monks, Victor, son of Theodore, son of Hassoroff, son of John, son of John, son of Juven, son of Iuus the first king of the land, was born.
***
On the night of Victor's birth, four prophesies were made.
The first was in the palace itself. A nun threw back her head and screamed, “The Lord's great enemy hath been born!” The woman then fell silent and did not speak ever again. Her sisters comforted her, and cooled her head with a wet cloth, and brought news of her words to the governor in the morning.
The second occurred in the city of Larus, the closest to the Yurem valley, and was made by a common fortune teller. She was an old lady, the typical street-witch. She prostituted her black craft to the common people, and took eager young people into her clutches, giving them hints of the future, that they clung to until it consumed their lives. This one's particular craft was blood-reading, an art outlawed in the city for over a century, and she was a good one. She took the clients into her tent, and with a small incision in their shoulder, calves, or breasts she would suck from the wound for a few seconds and swallow the blood, only to be taken by a great spirit and spew words of omen. That night the woman was practicing the blackest sin of all; to suck ones own blood. The witch was alone, and she took the silver knife from the tabletop and ran it across her leg, creating a deep incision. The woman threw back her head and grinned, her tongue flicking around like a snake's, and then she brought her old, wrinkled head down to the cut and sucked. The hot blood ran through her mouth, in-between her teeth, over her parched tongue, and down into her throat. She removed her mouth and licked her lips, getting every last drop. Then, a fit so powerful overtook her that she could nor control it. She ran from her tent and into the street, screaming, “The babe of this night is great, far greater than any of his line, and his mark shall be the mark of the spider, and the spider shall take him and spin him in his web!”. She then fell onto the hard cobbled stones, spasms overtaking her. It was clear from her cut what she had done, and she was taken and hung the following morning.
The third was a renowned Oracle, greatly respected and known from mountain to ocean. His dwelling was a stone tower atop a grey hill 200 miles from the birth. It looked out over icy wastelands, and was not oft ventured to. He had lived a long time. His skin was wrinkled, and his fingernails were long. He sat in a seat in the middle of a large, circular hall. Stone carvings of the great lords of the land were around him. The floor was of marble, and sitting upon it were scribes and monks, eager to hear his every word. He himself sat upon a large stone seat, with his long grey robes draped around it, and reaching the floor. In his mouth was a short, wooden pipe. He wore a simple belt, and a simple brooch. His only sign of wealth was a silver ring he wore upon the middle finger of his right hand, and upon it was set a ruby red as blood, which light seemed to come from, rather than reflect off of. When the spirit came to him he did not struggle, for he knew the spirit well, and often it had inhabited his old body. His head flew back and his mouth fell open. The pipe fell from his lips and broke upon the ground, smoke curling up to the domed ceiling. He then spoke in verse, in a high, nasally tone. His pupils were wide and white.
The borned boy doth receive great gifts
of silver, gemstone, word, and sword,
A blackened mark upon his chest,
Will claim him for great deeds untold.
When sin raped goodness on great mount,
the people borreth forth and lived,
Such birthed are we, such birthed is he,
to overcome and nulleth break.
Then the old man fell back and his eyes rolled in their sockets. The scribes scrambled to finish writing. When they were done, they waved it high in the air, and it was snatched by messengers who scrambled to their horses to bring word to the governor Then they noticed the old man was dead.
The fourth and final prophesy was the simplest of all. As the last wave of pain fell over her and the eternal darkness claimed her she shouted, “A good man! I have birthed a good man!” Then the baby came forth out of her womb and she fell back, bloody, wet, and dead.
***
The mother was not mourned much. The baby was alive, and that was, after all, her only purpose. Later on Theodore would look back on her as his favorite wife, but the joy of having a son was the only thing on his mind at the time. He took him from the arms of the monks, and held him close.
“A son” He whispered, “I have a son!” Tears of joy ran down his face. The naked dirty boy extended his hand up, and touched his father's wet cheek. The moment of happiness was broken however, when the governor noticed, upon the child's naked chest, a repulsive birthmark. A dark spot, with eight long arms reaching from it, so it resembled a spider. The father was struck with terror and hate.
“Get it away!” He cried, and a monk who had been washing fluids from himself in a basin of water near the bed-boards, rushed forward to relieve him. The baby leaned forward in the old Monk's arms, and put his mouth around the man's bare nipple. Thus his first suck gave no nourishment, and the anguish at this angered the young boy, and he fell into his first sleep crying with discontent.
“My lord, are you well?” The monk asked.
“I had a passing vision,” replied the governor, “of a spider, demon-like in appearance, in my arms instead of my son. I have been too long awake, it has passed now, but I do need rest. Keep the boy, and look after him for now. I shall have to send to Larus to find a nursing mother to provide milk for him. If he needs it, find a goat for him to suck from. I must get sleep.” And with that the weary ruler stumbled off. A memory of the terror was still in his bones, but he was feeling better, and the happiness of fatherhood peeked forth in his heart again. 'The birth went well.' he thought.
***
The news of the prophesies came the following day, along with a ruby ring. From that day forth the governor did not touch nor cuddle his son, and he even began to fear the child, for he was a ruler, and all rulers, no matter how good and kind, wish to be greater than all others, and followed by their children, not overcame by them. The prophesies suggested greatness, and the king's power-lust and greed began to work in his heart and gut, even against his own son.
The nursing mother came the day after that. Her name was Cornelia Dubos, and she brought her newlyborn son Pierre.
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