[ARCHIVE: As I stopped writing emo blog entries, I started writing emo stories. Go figure. I switched the genders, but the story is basically a paper-thin allegory for what was going on. Hell, even the names were rooted in our names (or nicknames). I do like the world "mythology" I sorta made up for it, especially considering it was conceived and fully drafted within the span of three hours.]
Lucia sat in stony silence, the minute rise and fall of her tunic the only indication of life in the withered husk she had become. Her waterskin had long since gone dry, empty and shriveled like her stomach. Yet she made no move to drink from the river outside, to eat the berries that grew just outside the cave. She had long since lost herself in her own psyche.
In her mind, she could see it happen, as vivid and tangible as the day it had happened. She had thrown the runes, like she had done so many times before. People came from lands across the mountains to seek her advice. Young in face, her wit was ages wiser, and many times her self-spun parables and heart-felt advice was enough. But more times, parties persisted, and she would throw the stones. The runes that her father had treasured above all else, so that even when highwaymen robbed their carriage blind of their gold and iron he had hidden them away, sewn inside the belly of an ailing mule so decrepit that the bandits would not think to waste the time to sell it.
They were magic stones, impossibly strong yet deeply etched with the letter of the Elderlands. Some were cold to the touch, some always warm, others could keep no single color for a whole day. Her father called them runythe, the shattered remains of the weapons welded by the gods in their quarrelsome youth, discarded as they turned away from impulsive wrath. They were heavy in the hand, yet never sank to the river bottom, nor did they follow the current. The runythe were of the world yet strangely different.
It had been her childhood friend, a daughter of the mettlesmith that had asked her to throw the stones. Tyrissa had appealed to her sense romance and, when that failed, had wrestled her to the grass until she had agreed. The recent war had brought many tribes through their village. They would make camp on the outskirts, rest their horses and themselves for the night. As was common, the young men would seek to pass the night by the side of a local common girl.
It was one of these, a young nightsmen by the name of Crysurik that had unexpectedly stolen the heart of the mettlesmiths daughter, she who was as much a man as her admirers, sometimes more so. An oddity, for the nightsmen were known not for their strength but for their stealth. There were tales of entire enemy camps quietly overwhelmed by no more than three nightsmen, dispatched in their beds, at their posts, in front of their dinner. There was no honor or regard in their ruthless ways, only a grudging respect of their skills.
Lucia threw the stones as Tyrissa chanted his name, stumbling over the syllables in her own excitement. They careened against each other, ricocheting off each other but never leaving their unseen border. When they finally came to rest, Lucia did nothing but stare at the ground, the words of the stones clear as a spring river. Tyrissa had shaken her from her trance, eager to hear their verdict. Smiling, Lucia had told her friend, that Crysurik would one day live in her home. Exuberant, the mettlesmithe's daughter had laughed and ran off to tell her sisters.
Alone, Lucia looked back down at the runes on the ground. She had not told her friend the entire reading. Like a storycloth, the runythe proclaimed, "YOU WILL LOVE HIM AND HE WILL SUFFER FOR IT."
The stones had never been wrong, not about the sex of the ranger's baby, not about the fires that would have destroyed their village had they not prepared. Yet as she examined herself, Lucia could see no such indication within herself. She knew nothing of this boy, save for what Tyrissa had told her, and even that had been amusing at best. Even when Crysurik had returned to live in the village in permanence, Lucia saw only a war-battered youth, useless for the menial but necessary farming tasks.
Months passed and Lucia learned to control her trepidation. Tyrissa had pursued him in the subtle, giving way that was like all girls except herself. Crysurik, on his part had responded, if for no other reason than his loneliness. He had never been entirely at ease within the hunter's circle; his nightskills were limited to men alone it seemed. Tyrissa alone talked to him about things other than the war and the hunts. It was not unusual to see them walk over to his home and then hear the laughter as they joked like children until the middle-night, at which time she would hurry home and be scolded by her brother. And then one evening, the middle-night came and went, and still Tyrissa did not hurry home.
She had come to know Crysurik then, when Tyrissa would drag him with her everywhere. They were not uncivil to each other, but their friendship seemed to revolve around her friend and his lover. He was akin to the tribesman that had come to learn the eldertongues from her father. They spent time in each other company, and they were courteous, but nothing more.
And then one day, Tyrissa left. As a mettlesquire, she was apprenticed to a traveling smith. It was uncommon enough for her to choose this lifepath, but to have her lover come with, especially when he had no marketable, peaceful skills...
So he stayed behind. And Lucia, out of habit, would look out her window in the evening towards his house, expecting to hear commotion she was not a part of. So she quickly noticed that, with Tyrissa gone, Crysurik did not come out much at all. Perhaps it was curiosity, perhaps it was duty that motivated her to talk to him. Whatever the reason, she found herself outside his door with a paisley pie one afternoon.
It had been extremely awkward. Her repeated apologizing for disturbing him, for overcooking the pie, for asking for a glass of water, was surpassed only by his own, for the state of his home, for overcooking the boar, for only having one cup. When they were not mumbling pardons, they sat in uncomfortable silence. When they were not silent, they were talking about Tyrissa.
Two weeks the scene repeated itself, clumsy conversation and silent dinners. Then one day, Lucia arrived to find Crysurik in high spirits. He had received a letter by messenger. It was from Tyrissa. Then night overflowed with jest and cheer. And in the midst, he had taken out a lyre and played. He was awful. She had laughed, but he took no offense. He knew the meagerness of his talent and played only for his own enjoyment. It was strange to see such a pursuit in a nightsman, but it was the first time she had seen him enthusiastic in something he was terrible at.
Time spent after that went by more easily. They began to talk about many things; his training, her father, his first horse, her last trip to the markets. They began to be real friends. Lucia began hosting dinners at her own home, opening up a wider range of foods for preparation. Evenings stopped being a duty and instead became something to look forward to. Then one night, Crysurik failed to come by for dinner. He indulged in a mid-day slumber and did not wake until the middle-night. But Lucia did not know this. All she knew was that she had prepared a nice meal and he had not even mentioned that he would be late. She smoldered as he thought of reasons she would be tardy. Different scenarios flashed through her imagination: he had made friends with the village men and was out drinking with them; he had gone out hunting and pursued his prey too far to return by sunfall; Tyrissa had returned home and they were enjoying each other's company after her lengthy absence.
At this thought Lucia halted mid-pace. Although she had rarely experienced it she could recognize the embers that burned in her heart. It was jealousy.
When Crysurik visited her home the next day, he found a cold dinner, upset bedding and no sign of the sole resident. He spent the rest of the day worried until Tyrissa returned in the middle-day. She explained that Lucia had no doubt left at the behest of a noble; a woman of her divinity was always in demand, so it was quite possible that she had been called upon to make haste.
After reading this from the runythe, Lucia swallowed them. They did not score her insides, nor did they leave her stomach. They simply existed inside her, sustaining her with life without good health. She felt no remorse in denying the world of the relics. They had done much good in the world through her, but she could taste nothing but the bitterness of their last prophecy. She traveled far, far away, walking forever away from her village. She walked where few tread, and she walked on still. She walked until at least her legs were weak.
And there she settled inside a cave. Tired yet not drowsy, Lucia sat and tried to wrest control of her thoughts. She thought of her father, she thought of the musical caravan she had seen on her tenth birthday, she thought of the way the grass outside her home swayed in the wind yet never grew past her thighs. She thought about everything she could so that she would not think of Crysurik. And when she could no longer stop it, she thought of nothing but him. And in her withered body, her heart sank. She had run from herself, from everything that she had.
Strange then, that by running away, by trying to deny the future she foresaw, her every action brought her closer to fulfilling it.
[As a story itself, I think it was accurately critiqued for not representing the "he will suffer for it" part of the prophecy.]
Read More......
