Tired, worn, weak, I stood staring down into a puddle of rainwater and watching the sky shift above the dark shadow of my outline. Deep purple tones and faded wisps of passing white could not distract me from the bone-deep agony of terror and the drip, drip, drip of blood--my blood. Could this be the end? A dark stain encroached on the puddle's edge, broadening every moment, until a great drop of darkness fell from my chin into the center of the view, shattering the pristine stillness and shocking me back into death.
I looked up at the sound of firm, light footsteps. Clothed in stainless white, my opponent approached. Her eyes gleamed golden in the sunlight, shocking against her dark-toned skin. How could she be more strange? How could such a wispy creature contain such strength? Clenching my teeth against the pain, I struggled to stand and face her. No strength. No hope of life. No chance to stand against the weaponless hands she held out before her. So fragile, those hands of death, and so innocent of blood and impurities.
"If you choose death, you will survive. I promise you this on the honor of the King. But death also, you may choose." Such clear simplicity of tone in her melodious voice. Death or death. She gave no other options, despite the warmth of the first suggestion, and the cold of the second.
I choked out the strange combination she had used, "King's honor?" and felt the laugh dry up in the depths of my mind as darkness poured across my eyes. There was a stinging wrench of falling, then the shallow pool soaked through my tunic, chilling my body with a shock of new sensation. Death or death, and she had never once touched me. For all my strength of sword and shield, her weapons ... yet, what weapons? Not once had I seen a blade.
Her feet shifted beside me. "Very well. Keep your world for now. It is not I who may change your choice. But others will come to persuade you. Once you are called, death comes. Then you will see."
What could she mean?
---
At the sound of hoof beats, Deila turned from the sorry wretch lying in all his filth and blood. "Such crude weapons, those swords. Why does he not see how ineffective they are?" She watched Meir's face shift as though a great shadow flew up from his beard to settle in his expression.
He dismounted to study the bleeding man and pressed a firm hand against the worst of his wounds. Shaking his head, he looked up. "You're too rough, Deila. You know the King wishes them to make their own choice." He reached for the pack he'd dropped nearby. "You are efficient and strong, but that is not all that is needed. The King has sent Ara to take your place. You are to return to City Center, for now."
Sniffing, Deila turned away. "I like City Center assignments anyway. They suit me far better than dealing with these blind and ignorant wretches." She led her horse down the damp lane toward a break in the dark line of trees marking the edge of the highway. "Tell Ara if she can save this one's life, that I want to hear of it. She won't, though. She's a wimp." With a harsh laugh, she mounted and kicked her horse to a gallop.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
A Calling or an Impulse?
Every book I've read recently, whether doctrinal or pure fluff has been prodding at me to write either characters of Truth or anti-fluff storylines...
The problem?
I don't think I'm capable of writing the book/s that are jolting around in this brain. It's so much more than characters and plot,... it's reflecting hope and truth without skimming over all the real hardships and evils. Ugh. I can handle kinda-good and somewhat-interesting (I think?). Waaaay too many first chapters and scattered scenes; not enough finished work. Save this lazy writer from grand ideas, please!
Dear God, Maybe you could just zap me with a Grand Command or something? How on earth do I know if I'm supposed to write, or just think it's a cool thing to do? -- Me
PS - Aiera was no good, even when I finished the final plot edit/outline and wrote nearly all of it. I know it. I'll chalk it up to practice for now, but it's depressing. I still like who You were, but the rest of the characters ruined the story. *sigh* I ruined the story. Seriously, I'm confused as to why I bothered even trying at this point.
PPS - Ok, fine. But the next one had better be worth writing, or I quit! Maybe. If You want me to? *sigh* Oh, help! Save me from delusions of capability.
The problem?
I don't think I'm capable of writing the book/s that are jolting around in this brain. It's so much more than characters and plot,... it's reflecting hope and truth without skimming over all the real hardships and evils. Ugh. I can handle kinda-good and somewhat-interesting (I think?). Waaaay too many first chapters and scattered scenes; not enough finished work. Save this lazy writer from grand ideas, please!
Dear God, Maybe you could just zap me with a Grand Command or something? How on earth do I know if I'm supposed to write, or just think it's a cool thing to do? -- Me
PS - Aiera was no good, even when I finished the final plot edit/outline and wrote nearly all of it. I know it. I'll chalk it up to practice for now, but it's depressing. I still like who You were, but the rest of the characters ruined the story. *sigh* I ruined the story. Seriously, I'm confused as to why I bothered even trying at this point.
PPS - Ok, fine. But the next one had better be worth writing, or I quit! Maybe. If You want me to? *sigh* Oh, help! Save me from delusions of capability.
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