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bane-6.livejournal.com) wrote in
31_days2009-05-03 12:02 pm
[May 3] [Jim Henson's The Storyteller] Until A Later Chapter
Title: Until A Later Chapter
Day/Theme: 3. One’s company.
Series: Jim Henson's The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: The Storyteller
Rating: G
It wasn’t so bad out here alone. The Storyteller wasn’t lonely when he had the whole world to listen to. It occurred to him sometimes that it might be nice to have a companion to tell the things he heard to, but he had faith that his own tale would supply one when the time was right. Maybe a crippled bird to ride on his shoulder or a dog to rest his hand on. That was a later chapter, though, and for now, he was alone.
He had been imprisoned before. Dungeon walls had their own voices, whispered tales of betrayal and despair. He had been exiled, with the wind and the road telling him the stories of those who had gone before. He had been shipwrecked, waylaid, and just plain lost, and all the world poured into him when there was no one to pour out to.
So, he pooled the stories and the memories, let them ripple and brew behind his eyes until he found his way to places with ears as open as his own. The Storyteller was the voice of the world, he told himself at his most vainglorious, the record of all that had happened and should be remembered. At his more humble, like now, he felt more like a wind chime that the stories blew through, unable to keep making the sounds that it left behind in him even long after the wind had stilled.
Day/Theme: 3. One’s company.
Series: Jim Henson's The Storyteller
Character/Pairing: The Storyteller
Rating: G
It wasn’t so bad out here alone. The Storyteller wasn’t lonely when he had the whole world to listen to. It occurred to him sometimes that it might be nice to have a companion to tell the things he heard to, but he had faith that his own tale would supply one when the time was right. Maybe a crippled bird to ride on his shoulder or a dog to rest his hand on. That was a later chapter, though, and for now, he was alone.
He had been imprisoned before. Dungeon walls had their own voices, whispered tales of betrayal and despair. He had been exiled, with the wind and the road telling him the stories of those who had gone before. He had been shipwrecked, waylaid, and just plain lost, and all the world poured into him when there was no one to pour out to.
So, he pooled the stories and the memories, let them ripple and brew behind his eyes until he found his way to places with ears as open as his own. The Storyteller was the voice of the world, he told himself at his most vainglorious, the record of all that had happened and should be remembered. At his more humble, like now, he felt more like a wind chime that the stories blew through, unable to keep making the sounds that it left behind in him even long after the wind had stilled.
