Narnia fic: "Dust in the Air" (prologue)
Oct. 13th, 2008 08:17 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardTitle: Dust in the Air prologue
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bedlamsbard
Fandom: Chronicles of Narnia movieverse/bookverse
Rating: PG-13
Summary: And the end of all our exploring / will be to arrive where we started. An AU of The Last Battle, some five years after that book begins.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Certain characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to Walden Media. Title and quote from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets: Little Gidding.
Author's Notes: And this would be the other reason this isn't getting posted to the comms just yet! This should be the only out-of-order bit that's posted, and I apologize; I thought it would work somewhere in the middle, but apparently not.
There is, of course, blood.
Blood and fire; those they have in plenty. There are other elements that are harder to get. The wine takes them three weeks to steal, and that was pure chance; it wasn't usually Narnian wine that was given to the soldiers at the nearby forts, and they couldn't have used a Calormene or Archenlander vintage. But even the wine was easy enough to get compared to the rest.
Hard enough to leave the woods, harder still to get across the whole of Narnia, and hardest of all to get into Cair Paravel and out again. They'd done it in the end, one nerve-wracking month after they'd finally gotten the wine and a bare day before the stars were no longer right for what they meant to do.
It should have been on the nameless island, amidst the ruins of the true Cair Paravel, but that would have been certain death. So they do it here, flames building towards the star-speckled sky as they stoke the fire higher and higher, melting the snow in a wide circle around it, steam shimmering in the cold air. The blood is a minotaur's; there was much that had been forgotten, but not this. He goes willing, chosen at random out of a pool of volunteers; and once they've collected the blood in a rough wooden bowl (it should have been silver, but where were they to get a silver bowl? and wood would do well enough, for this; it was good Narnian wood, gifted by a willing dryad) they drag the body away. Give him to the earth and the open air, a true Narnian interment and not the tombs of the Telmarines, nor the pyres of the Calormenes. There are few enough left of them that will have the luck to meet such an end.
Blood and wood; he adds wine (a good vintage, unspoiled, from Erlian's last year) and a handful of earth carefully gathered from the nameless island itself, the land that even the Calormenes will not venture on. A good place to hide if any Narnian had been willing to spend a night there; none of them are. The nameless island is haunted by the spirits of the unquiet dead, those murdered in the Dying Times; they will wreak their vengeance on anyone who sets foot on that land past nightfall, Narnian or otherwise. Despite the risk of Calormene patrols, they had gone in the daylight and looked for the first time upon the thrones of the kings and queens of summer, broken and despoiled by siege and by time. The earth comes from beneath the walls of what had once been Cair Paravel; he lets it sink to the bottom of the bowl, blurring amidst the blood and wine that shimmer scarlet in the firelight.
One last addition; this had been the most pleasurable to get. By all justice this should be the sword of Narnia he draws, but no one will touch that blade, not even the Telmarine thieves who call themselves kings. It's enough that this is one of the legendary weapons of the Kings and Queens of old, the Kings and Queens of Summer. He draws the dagger of the Queen of Morning, the golden hilt flickering in the firelight as he turns the blade to see the steel stained dark with king's blood. This for the prophecy; this for Peter's promise to Caspian three hundred years before. The dagger sinks to the bottom of the bowl, resting amidst the earth of Narnia.
He passes the bowl to a comrade and steps up before the fire. The gifts are laid upon the bare earth, crystal vial to one side, bow and quiver to the other. He takes the sheathed sword of Narnia up between his palms. He will not draw this blade; no one will. Rhindon goes point-down in the earth, a guide-post for those that will come, must come, and looped across the crossbars of the hilt is Queen Susan's horn.
He takes the bowl in his hands again. There were words for this, once; they have been forgotten. So much has been forgotten. This has to be enough. Blood and fire, earth and wine, the gifts of Narnia and the blood of a traitorous king, and the need of a nation. A summoning.
The blood of Narnia, her breath and her flesh and her bone, and a promise that must be fulfilled. The words fall on silence but for the crackle and pop of the burning wood. Answer us! Kings and Queens of Summer, we call you in this time of need, in this time of dying; we call you to fulfill the prophecy made two thousand years ago. Adam's flesh and Adam's bone, Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve who once graced the white walls of Cair Paravel. Queen of Morning, we ask for your strong heart. King of Evening, we ask for your wisdom. Queen of Spring, we ask for your grace. King of Summer, we ask for your protection, for your sword-arm, for your vengeance. Once you promised that you would come at Narnia's call; she calls you now! Answer us!
He throws the bowl upon the fire. Blood and wine turn from liquid to air; the steel goes red with heat and the wood burns. He takes the horn of Narnia and it burns his hands, warm as a woman's flesh and the heart of a flame.
The sound of it is like nothing they’ve ever heard before; this call has not been heard in Narnia for three hundred years. The winding of the horn rends the strength from his bones; he falls to his knees and the horn falls from his hand to lie upon the earth.
He looks up at the gasps of those around him.
There are shapes in the fire. Four of them, dark and shadowy at first but growing more distinct even as he watches, and then the fire dies, leaving behind spirits made flesh. Two are dark, one is fair, and the fourth is golden. It is this last that moves first. He grips the hilt of the sword that has not been drawn in three hundred years and pulls it from its scabbard. Starlight catches on steel as Rhindon tastes Narnian air once more.
The King of Summer and his kin have returned.
Part One 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17
Part Two 00 | 000 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Interlude | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31
Author:
bedlamsbardFandom: Chronicles of Narnia movieverse/bookverse
Rating: PG-13
Summary: And the end of all our exploring / will be to arrive where we started. An AU of The Last Battle, some five years after that book begins.
Disclaimer: The Chronicles of Narnia and its characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to C.S. Lewis. Certain characters, situations, settings, etc., belong to Walden Media. Title and quote from T.S. Eliot's Four Quartets: Little Gidding.
Author's Notes: And this would be the other reason this isn't getting posted to the comms just yet! This should be the only out-of-order bit that's posted, and I apologize; I thought it would work somewhere in the middle, but apparently not.
There is, of course, blood.
Blood and fire; those they have in plenty. There are other elements that are harder to get. The wine takes them three weeks to steal, and that was pure chance; it wasn't usually Narnian wine that was given to the soldiers at the nearby forts, and they couldn't have used a Calormene or Archenlander vintage. But even the wine was easy enough to get compared to the rest.
Hard enough to leave the woods, harder still to get across the whole of Narnia, and hardest of all to get into Cair Paravel and out again. They'd done it in the end, one nerve-wracking month after they'd finally gotten the wine and a bare day before the stars were no longer right for what they meant to do.
It should have been on the nameless island, amidst the ruins of the true Cair Paravel, but that would have been certain death. So they do it here, flames building towards the star-speckled sky as they stoke the fire higher and higher, melting the snow in a wide circle around it, steam shimmering in the cold air. The blood is a minotaur's; there was much that had been forgotten, but not this. He goes willing, chosen at random out of a pool of volunteers; and once they've collected the blood in a rough wooden bowl (it should have been silver, but where were they to get a silver bowl? and wood would do well enough, for this; it was good Narnian wood, gifted by a willing dryad) they drag the body away. Give him to the earth and the open air, a true Narnian interment and not the tombs of the Telmarines, nor the pyres of the Calormenes. There are few enough left of them that will have the luck to meet such an end.
Blood and wood; he adds wine (a good vintage, unspoiled, from Erlian's last year) and a handful of earth carefully gathered from the nameless island itself, the land that even the Calormenes will not venture on. A good place to hide if any Narnian had been willing to spend a night there; none of them are. The nameless island is haunted by the spirits of the unquiet dead, those murdered in the Dying Times; they will wreak their vengeance on anyone who sets foot on that land past nightfall, Narnian or otherwise. Despite the risk of Calormene patrols, they had gone in the daylight and looked for the first time upon the thrones of the kings and queens of summer, broken and despoiled by siege and by time. The earth comes from beneath the walls of what had once been Cair Paravel; he lets it sink to the bottom of the bowl, blurring amidst the blood and wine that shimmer scarlet in the firelight.
One last addition; this had been the most pleasurable to get. By all justice this should be the sword of Narnia he draws, but no one will touch that blade, not even the Telmarine thieves who call themselves kings. It's enough that this is one of the legendary weapons of the Kings and Queens of old, the Kings and Queens of Summer. He draws the dagger of the Queen of Morning, the golden hilt flickering in the firelight as he turns the blade to see the steel stained dark with king's blood. This for the prophecy; this for Peter's promise to Caspian three hundred years before. The dagger sinks to the bottom of the bowl, resting amidst the earth of Narnia.
He passes the bowl to a comrade and steps up before the fire. The gifts are laid upon the bare earth, crystal vial to one side, bow and quiver to the other. He takes the sheathed sword of Narnia up between his palms. He will not draw this blade; no one will. Rhindon goes point-down in the earth, a guide-post for those that will come, must come, and looped across the crossbars of the hilt is Queen Susan's horn.
He takes the bowl in his hands again. There were words for this, once; they have been forgotten. So much has been forgotten. This has to be enough. Blood and fire, earth and wine, the gifts of Narnia and the blood of a traitorous king, and the need of a nation. A summoning.
The blood of Narnia, her breath and her flesh and her bone, and a promise that must be fulfilled. The words fall on silence but for the crackle and pop of the burning wood. Answer us! Kings and Queens of Summer, we call you in this time of need, in this time of dying; we call you to fulfill the prophecy made two thousand years ago. Adam's flesh and Adam's bone, Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve who once graced the white walls of Cair Paravel. Queen of Morning, we ask for your strong heart. King of Evening, we ask for your wisdom. Queen of Spring, we ask for your grace. King of Summer, we ask for your protection, for your sword-arm, for your vengeance. Once you promised that you would come at Narnia's call; she calls you now! Answer us!
He throws the bowl upon the fire. Blood and wine turn from liquid to air; the steel goes red with heat and the wood burns. He takes the horn of Narnia and it burns his hands, warm as a woman's flesh and the heart of a flame.
The sound of it is like nothing they’ve ever heard before; this call has not been heard in Narnia for three hundred years. The winding of the horn rends the strength from his bones; he falls to his knees and the horn falls from his hand to lie upon the earth.
He looks up at the gasps of those around him.
There are shapes in the fire. Four of them, dark and shadowy at first but growing more distinct even as he watches, and then the fire dies, leaving behind spirits made flesh. Two are dark, one is fair, and the fourth is golden. It is this last that moves first. He grips the hilt of the sword that has not been drawn in three hundred years and pulls it from its scabbard. Starlight catches on steel as Rhindon tastes Narnian air once more.
The King of Summer and his kin have returned.
Part One 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17
Part Two 00 | 000 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | Interlude | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31
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Date: 2008-10-14 05:19 pm (UTC)