new title...woot: Eolenel
Project I am currently working on! YAY! Yes this is all of chapter one, finally. I love the long wee hours at work where I just get to play around on the computer. There is a glossary at the end, which contains the meanings to the words in bold, it is also a people and places thingie aswell. The name is also in the pending stage because of similarites to another published work...so critique away, trust me I can take it all, as the wise say, "what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger." Same in my opinion with writing, "which doesn't kill you, makes you a better writer." I just realized there is a member on her named Nefer. Cool! Nefer in my story is the goddess of death and beauty and all things fleeting.
ºMaatº
Eolenel
Chapter One – Eventide 'The Nefer's Aurora'
"And so it is called The Nefer's Aurora: the night following Midsummer
when the night alights with such a spectrum of colors, a painters
canvas it becomes. It explodes with such feeling and so fleeting is it
that she, Nefer, one of death and beauty can be the only architect of
such a masterpiece...." - The Book of Paradise, Llyfflain
Stars gaze down and tell their story,
All through the night,
'Here's the way to a land of glory,'
All through the night,
Other light seems merely darkness
All through the night.
When coming home
Night is old age, grief a-coming
All through the night.
- Ad Nwyr Hos
Taynwyr Canticle Ballade (Traveling Madrigali Shant)
translation by Taurasi, original unknown
The salt licked waves laped at the side of The Geffen as it skirted the edges of darkness and wind shifts, the blinking stars it's only guide. It skipped across the shade, snaking it's way in and around rocks and hazards as if baiting them with knowledge. In the shadows of the foward and two aft becons figures, sea-haggard though graceful swam in and out of being, as the sloop lolled in the shifting sea. Behind the forward staysail, stoic and just as straight rose a richly clothed man. He was young, the laugh lines and frown creases soft on his tanned face. His eyes were dark, fathomless depths, and mahogany tendrils of hair fluttered in the wind from under his hood. Slowly out of the dark, shadow spliting from shadow, came a figure. His short, stocky, brown frame blended in with the outlying dark. He wore common servant's attire, pantaloons and a knee lenght open jacket, the cold did not seem to bother him. He looked to where his silent companion was fixated upon.
"Lydhi, what do you see?"
"Nothing Geyr, nothing but the fathomless deep."
Geyr took that as his cue to leave and swiftly disapeared into shadow.
The man remained long at the bow, the glow from the latern dancing across his face. The darkness itself seemed to whisper: take me home, take me home.
Geyr was worried, it wasn't often he was and it disconcerted him. His master was rarely thus – quiet and silent in his movement especially on the water. He would be pestering their Captain about time or cajoling the crew for tales of where they had been or from – even questions about the running of the ship. So far he had stayed in his room and when she above deck he was always at the bow, eyes pinned forward, silent to all but Geyr. He wondered if his Master's
preoccupied state was because of the letter he recieved a day before departure from Daamas, but those curiosities would have to wait. Eventually he would find the reason, tonight was for sleep.
The greying dawn swept across the sky, breaking the overpresent odsidian night. Through the tendrils of clouds, light slithered into being.
*
A Prince of Ridhia, their last living Soel, stood in his accustomed spot. In the distance, farther than the normal eye can see, he is fixated upon. He has spied the familar green cliffs and stone, wooden harbour of Let, he wishes for his Tamerundi hunting hawk, Jadhira's wings, so to fly back to Daamas and the relative comfort of the bright Southern cities and the soft sands. He lets his thoughts travel back, he has no wings, and Jadhira is tucked within her padded cage. Her yellow eyes and sharp talons frightened the sailors, he would have liked to send her for a flight, now, in the grey dawn but he didn't want to impose more than he already has.
Shifting his blood red, fur coat farther up on his shoulders, he tries to shake the feelng that whatever is at the end of this road won't end well.
One of the sailors approached wearily he knows, they are trying to be courteous and caucious at the same time – he knows full well the Gifted make them edgy.
He nodded keeping his eyes ahead.
“We will be approaching Let soon, Sir.”
He knows that, but nodded anyway and the sailor leaves him to the quiet slap of the waves on The Geffen's wooden hull, and the rustle of the wind in the rigging.
*
Let, the northern most port of Morgavia, is a tiny, bustling place; full of the smell of pugnant polish, and fish. It is bantam place, only a rocky walled entrance to the docks. The slight Geffen slid in easily and Geyr accompanied his Master as they leave the small sloop and hail a couch – so unlike the Southern sedans – glomy, dusky, full of the odor of wet vermin.
A little man, the porter, helped Geyr load the luggage, Jadhira safely with their Master. The coach scampered up the steep, stoney incline out of the deep set harbour.
Geyr watched his Master, who just scratched the white down feathers on Jadhira's neck. The tawny and grey speckled bird chirped softly. His Master peered out the lone coach window, his darkened face impassive. Geyr surveyed his own dark skin, like fresh tilled earth, and shrugged. One thought gave him comfort – they both were simply foreigners here in the cold, northern expanse of Morgavia.
*
The castle rose forbiddening and dark out of the mud. It was rather small for being a castle, for of a keep as such, but bared itself proudly. The large iron gates opened widely complete with sharp fangs like the waiting mout of a beast. The windows of the castle were closed, dark heavy curtains blocking out any light from entering. To one side of the castle was a stables, brambles and ivy conquering the face, on the other a neatly kept servant's quarters. An imposing forest surrounded all, looming shadows curling in the mist, places where the sun doesn't prentrate.
The coach stopped at the entrance, and the porter got out to open the door and help Geyr with the luggage. He eyes his Master surveying the set of steps and the large door.
*
There are exactly eleven steps up to the door, he counted them hoping that maybe this time it would be ten, or twelve, even thirteen, that it would be different, changed, but no such luck there. Eleven heavy steps.
He knocked three times of the thick door before it was opened. Geyr watchd as the a footman appears and attempted to get his Master's name, as he had continued down the hall. Giving up, the pale man turned to Geyr and baded him to follow.
*
It was dark and stuff, just like he remembered. Nothing had changed from his desertion an ennin before. It was an instant emergance into his boyhood walking through these halls. He veered sharply to the left down a hallyway full of doors. He didn't even check to see if Geyr was following, he knew the Hurundi wouldn't stray in unfamiliar territory.
The pitter patter of little child's feet ran against the walls of his mind. Speaking to him in tongue – Remember when you ran from Menae, hiding behind vertually unknown before you were lost and then found hours later tears striking traitorous eyes – Remember chasing Nellia through the old dusty room in the Upper East Wing – Remember Kati, the Moonlight pool in the garden and cold chills in the first waking hours.-
He quieted these thoughts with one stoke of a blade of killed past. Stopping at the last door, a black metal import, he steeled himelf.
He felt Geyr's pressence behind and made a gesture for him to wait. Opening the iron jaws he entered.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. The distinct tang of salted Kavia, unaired damp cotton invaved his senses. It took him a few minuted to adjust to the dim lighting, blinded shortly. It was a small room, a lamp flicked lazily on the bedside table. A large four poster bed, heavy curtains pregnant with moth-dust were bunched at the posts. In the center of the bed lay a tiny frail woman. Tucjed beneath a mass of blankets she was drawfed in their wake. On hand had freeed itself from the warmth and rested on top, parchment thin skin wrinkled and streaked a soft blue. Her eyes were closed, and grey hair thin and limp, fell in waves across her fluffed pillows.
Slowly he made his way to the bed and kneeled at the side. Slipping off one glove he placed a hand over hers. The sudden shock of warmth jolted her and she opened her heavily lidded eyes. At first she seemed lost in a trance, as he feared, but then recognition, a sharp sparkle burst, lit her eyes.
“Micayale, micayale, is that really you?”
He bent his head forward and squeezed her hand, “Yes.”
“I thought-” Her face was myriad of confused reverie, her head cocked slightly like a bird's.
“I'm here now and that's all that matters.”
He could see the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips.
“Oh my Estil-Veren, I am sorry you did not send word, I would have notified the servants.”
“No need, I am here now.”
Again her face lit at that.
“So tell me, micayale, what distant lands have you squandered yourself on, what foreign lords and kings have entertained you, what beautiful maidens have you given you tract to, and have given their signant linen in return...?”
He bent his thoughts towards those of his travels. Softly he began, his voice a steady stream of words, playing along the air and ear like a Bard or Dower would with his lute.
He finished one harrowing tale and saw her eyes and attention droop.
Before he could excuse himself, she spoke, “Your journey must have been long and tiresome, I'll ring Alben to set up a room for you, I think in this wing, close to me, I've lost you for so long.”
He simply inclined his head and she rung a bell.
A man quickly entered and lowered his eyes in the pressense of his Mistress. She told him of her plans and he exicted as quietly as he'd come.
“Thank you Mam.” He affirmed and she smiled although exhaustion was pulling her puppet strings.
As she was nodding off, he left to find Geyr sitting against the far wall. When the darker man heard his footfalls he snapped alert. Alben was back again ushering him towards a room.
His bags and Jahira had been safely enclosed in a set of room, near, and a lamp had been lit. He tipped his head towards the footman who spoke.
“I will send a maid in the morning to draw you bath, about you man-?” The pale man seemed hard pressed to describe Geyr.
“No, thank you Alben I think we're all settled here.”
“Geyr.”
“Yes sir.”
The had shifted back intothe more comfortable sounthern speech of Tisma, a dialect of Lango (the language of the southern tribes)
“Take the bed, I don't think I'll sleep tonight.”
Geyr was now more unsettled by the statement. The promise of a real bed, albeit one of northern composure, when they had spent a great deal of time in crampt ship bunks, he had never known his master to turn down comfort. But he never questioned him on such matters, so he scattered his thoughts, and let them float away with the Nyia.
With celerity Geyr sorted the baggage, hanging up clothing in the large armoire, all the while his Master coddled and clucked at Jadhira who was destesting the current state of things.
*
He dreamed of a faerie girl with hair the bright white of white caps on the water. She had silvery wings like those of winter moths, shimmering in the depths of his dreams. She opened her pale mouth as if to swallow him whole, but instead spoke in a voice not her own but of a thousand.
Abyssan te llante num.
The language of old flitered through his brain looking for purchase. Finally finding it in a memory of childhood schooling.
The faerie girl fell away her hands soaked and dripping dark blood.
He awoke in a cold sweat. He shifted quietly on the bed roll, as to not wake Jadhira, who was tethered to her perch, or Geyr in the large bed. Standing to his full height in the cold, dismal room, he decided some fresh air would do him good. The feel of wind on his skin always helped him to think better, clearer, more coherently. Without waking either of the other occupants though he supposed Geyr probably was just beyond the reaches of wakefullness, he withdrew.
After some solitary wandering he came to familiar looking glass doors, orante gold inlays in the frames, he knew these to lead out into a very expansive courtyard and garden. The child inside remembered fondly of summers spent lost in the hues and platency of nature.
Outside the air was crisp and cut at his skin. The garden that once was manicured a meticulously kept, was now a mass of overgrown weeds, bramble bushes, and general chaos. He supposed that no one had set foot in here in a very long time.
Taking the circular stone path around, he drank in the smell of windswept, dewwed earth and it's inhabitants. Most of it took on a sour, rotting smell, but he ignored that, following his feet down a path, etched permenantly in his brain.
Pushing against the wild branches, making sure that he didn't break them, he proceeded further into the recesses of the courtyard, until coming to a mossy, molding brick wall. Letting his fingers trail along the wet, fuzzy wall, he burrowed his himself in his memory. His fingers found first what his brain had been searching for all this time. Ghosting over the worn carving, he dug the brink out, and shoved his hand into the vacant space. Grasping at the back he pulled out a stone box, worn and scractched with time, but still locked. Placing the brick back, he retreated to find a place to sit, as his knees were becoming shaky, taking one last look at the engraving before departing.
Estil + Kani
Forever
Secluded in the darkness of forest and night, wind nipping at his ends, the smell of wet leaves wafted in his nostrils, the heavy cloak of fading memories wrapt around his heart, he felt safe.
Digging under his robe and tunic, he ripped the large brass key, that had hung cumberous above his heart for so long, he imagined it's pair at the bottom of the Great Sea by now, rusting, keeping company witht the fishes.
The lock clicked as he turned it, and the top of the stone box popped open. It made rasping sounds as he opened it, and he wiped away the cobwebs and pieces of moss and dirt.
The box contained little, but quantity hadn't matter to him since he was a child, quality proved time and again to be the more superior side of the scale. Making sure not to damage the contents, with light fingers he took them out of their haven. There were letters, a book of poetry and song, a blood knife, and a pair of smooth, skipping rocks. Setting them aside, he reached for a letter, the familiar script dewing his thoughts. Undoing the seal with a nail, he began to read...
*
The Day of the Dead, Year Six of Our Lord Tavin
Estil,
You will not believe what happened today. You know ol Florensa, she on father's orders made me wear the new tunic and breeches from Portav, you know the ones that itch, well while she was repair the hole I'd alrealdy made, on one of my saboutage missions, I went and put mice in her sewing drawer. I am sure you can imagine what happened when she went to fetch another bobbin of thread...oh her face, it was so priceless, I wish you could have seen it...
He shook head at the retelling, he must have heard it an infinite times after that, how she had chased Kani all over the estate and back, how he had almost been caught doubled over with laughter when she squeaked after one ran across her foot. But then Kani was always the trouble maker between the two, or more the first to brew it. Estil, a name he hadn't been called almost an ennin, was the quieter of the pair, the follower, content in that role, as Kani was their self-proclaimed leader. He smiled at the happy remembrances of childhood. He supposed it was best, cathartic to revive the days past that shaped him and drove him from his birthplace, his childhood home and his liege right.
Looking up through the holy blanket of trees, he gazed at the stars, tears glinting in the corners of his dark eyes.
*
"It's beautiful Kani," He turned to face the youth at his side.
The long grasses of the far-meadow tickled at his fingertips. They lay drowsily on their backs, not even an arms lenght away, night pressed upon them in the wee hours of morning. The warmth of Midsummer had
dictated that not even cloaks were needed.
Estil watched from where he lay, all limbs and sprawled angels, his growth spurt coming on with a vengence unlike his companion. Kani was a full head taller, having grown to his full height the previous summer, and barely the older by a few moons. He had filled out from all the fencing session his father threw him into with Master Bek. The tips of his ash blonde hair shone like bubbly champagne. The pride of his family line it was (the blonde hair, fair skin), cropped short this season, thin tendrils tucked behind his ear. His dark blue-purple eyes, the ones girls fawned over at parties and wrote hideous poetry over, were riveted upwards intent on the painted heavens. Estil was suddenly concious of his own lacking traits.
He didn't have time to hide himself before Kani caught his stare, his eyes sparkled with mirth, mischief, and mocking laughter. Estil looked down and blushed deeply in his folly, glad his summer tan hid the blotches of red, that heated up his face.
"I thought I brought you here to watch the sky not to watch me."
Estil blushed even harder and couldn't bring himself to even look up to read Kani's expression, he couldn't bear being laughed at.
But a soft silence stretched between them and he heard the distinct rustling of grass and Kani flopping back down.
Estil discretly look at him from under his lashes. Kani was absently chewing ona piece of long grass. Estil retreated back to the comfort of watching the skys of Midsummer alight in all the deities glory, but a hand tangled itself in his, breaking his concentration, a calloused thumb rubbing light circles into his wrist.
He told himself that purple was not a fetching colour, to breath, when had just simple touching been more than friendship shared. He glanced over at Kani, who was eyeing him thoughtfully, as if looking for the answer to something. Estil was about to ask him, what was wrong, when he spoke.
"It's nice though."
"Nice to be watched," the word wanted hung in the air like a fishing weight on the end of a line, "nice, for all the right reasons."
"Oh." Estil was still distracted by the light touches, on what proved to be a very sensitive piece of skin.
Meeting Kani's eyes, he blinked at the emotions he saw there.
"Abyssan te llante num. MiEstil, abyssan te llante num."
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Glossary
1. Llyfflain - a philospher and poet. Wrote the Book of Paradise on the natural occurances in the world.
2. Ad Nwyr Hos - Taynwyr Canticle Ballade (Traveling Madrigali Shant), translated by the lendary Taurasi after he visited Madrigali. Ad Nwyr Hos roughly translates to All Through the Night. I go the idea and frame from a welsh folk song.
3. Taurasi - legendary bard, dower, poet, romantic, philosopher, explorer...the list goes on. Translated many songs, chants, ballades from their original texts to the Common Tongue.
4. Lydhi - from the Tisma, master, sir or lord
5. Estil-Veren - from Morgava translates to starshine, also Estil is the "Master's" childname
6. Micayale - endearment from Morgava meaning dearling, youngling, or son/daughter
6. Nyia - translates from a dialect of Tisma to children of the wind, or wind whisperings...
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