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31_days2009-03-16 07:08 pm
bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2009-03-16 07:08 pm
[March 16] [Storyteller] Underneath
Title: Underneath
Day/Theme: 16. I’ll keep the lights out, I’ll tell you fairy tales
Series:Storyteller
Character/Pairing: Storyteller
Rating: PG
Comments: Gah. This took me forever. Worst writer's block ever!
“One day,” the old man said. “The sun went out.”
A dozen or so frightened eyes focused on him in the dark. Up above them, somewhere outside, there was another vibrating impact as the enemy army’s battering ram smashed against their outer gate for the third time. The old man didn’t even flinch. He was barely visible in the weak torchlight, and even those who hated him for speaking at all in this dark hour were too choked by fear to hush him.
“The whole world lay in darkness,” he went on. “The moon did her best to light the roads and water, but even her silver was absorbed into this blackness, this endless stygian nightmare of a world without dawn.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but he was the only one speaking. Another bone-jarring thump shook their walls and floors, sending a small shower of dust down on their heads. Somewhere in the dark, a woman started to cry and that set off another, and a few of the children begin to whimper.
“Hush,” said another old man, this one propped up on crutches. “If they’re still pounding our door it means they’re still on the outside of it. Don’t give up yet.”
There was a pause after that, where the children were calmed and then the first man, the Storyteller, went on.
“There was no summer without the sun, so only Winter walked. He was as lonely as everyone else for the glint of sun on his snow, the sparkle of frost to lighten his heart. His whiteness was as lost as the moonlight, leaving him as dark and empty as the sky had become. Not even birds flew there, except for owls, and even they were blind and lost.”
A chorus of screams rose from outside, shriek upon shriek of pain, and the faint scent of burning leaked down to the women, children, elders, and wounded who were sealed away from the fighting. The screams went on, rising higher and breaking, only to rise again from their own pieces.
“Hot oil,” whispered one of the boys, just barely too young to be allowed to fight. “They poured it over the walls.”
“Hush,” said his mother, just barely old enough to have a child that age. Her face was twisted in a wince that might never relax again. She was trying not to look at anyone. To see her own fear and anger staring out of one of her friends or neighbors would be too much to stand. Her skittering eyes found the Dog, an unremarkable, scruffy creature crouched at the Storyteller’s feet. Some of the children with no adult to cling to had gathered around it.
“Until Winter, the old man, the cold man, crowned in ice and dead branches, robed in winds and the sound of howling, finally saw a light in the window of a house at the ends of the earth. The bright yellow glow of fire in a window pane, like the sun itself.”
One by one, person by person, the crowd began to turn toward the Storyteller. Anything was better than listening to the screams or squinting through the blackness for any movement at the door. Like flowers turning toward their own sun, they all focused on his words as the darkness grew deeper and the war raged on.
Day/Theme: 16. I’ll keep the lights out, I’ll tell you fairy tales
Series:Storyteller
Character/Pairing: Storyteller
Rating: PG
Comments: Gah. This took me forever. Worst writer's block ever!
“One day,” the old man said. “The sun went out.”
A dozen or so frightened eyes focused on him in the dark. Up above them, somewhere outside, there was another vibrating impact as the enemy army’s battering ram smashed against their outer gate for the third time. The old man didn’t even flinch. He was barely visible in the weak torchlight, and even those who hated him for speaking at all in this dark hour were too choked by fear to hush him.
“The whole world lay in darkness,” he went on. “The moon did her best to light the roads and water, but even her silver was absorbed into this blackness, this endless stygian nightmare of a world without dawn.”
His voice wasn’t loud, but he was the only one speaking. Another bone-jarring thump shook their walls and floors, sending a small shower of dust down on their heads. Somewhere in the dark, a woman started to cry and that set off another, and a few of the children begin to whimper.
“Hush,” said another old man, this one propped up on crutches. “If they’re still pounding our door it means they’re still on the outside of it. Don’t give up yet.”
There was a pause after that, where the children were calmed and then the first man, the Storyteller, went on.
“There was no summer without the sun, so only Winter walked. He was as lonely as everyone else for the glint of sun on his snow, the sparkle of frost to lighten his heart. His whiteness was as lost as the moonlight, leaving him as dark and empty as the sky had become. Not even birds flew there, except for owls, and even they were blind and lost.”
A chorus of screams rose from outside, shriek upon shriek of pain, and the faint scent of burning leaked down to the women, children, elders, and wounded who were sealed away from the fighting. The screams went on, rising higher and breaking, only to rise again from their own pieces.
“Hot oil,” whispered one of the boys, just barely too young to be allowed to fight. “They poured it over the walls.”
“Hush,” said his mother, just barely old enough to have a child that age. Her face was twisted in a wince that might never relax again. She was trying not to look at anyone. To see her own fear and anger staring out of one of her friends or neighbors would be too much to stand. Her skittering eyes found the Dog, an unremarkable, scruffy creature crouched at the Storyteller’s feet. Some of the children with no adult to cling to had gathered around it.
“Until Winter, the old man, the cold man, crowned in ice and dead branches, robed in winds and the sound of howling, finally saw a light in the window of a house at the ends of the earth. The bright yellow glow of fire in a window pane, like the sun itself.”
One by one, person by person, the crowd began to turn toward the Storyteller. Anything was better than listening to the screams or squinting through the blackness for any movement at the door. Like flowers turning toward their own sun, they all focused on his words as the darkness grew deeper and the war raged on.