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lady_songsmithDrawing -- Sketch -- Doodle
Fic -- Ficlet -- ??
I don't think it's a drabble. I'm a bit of a purist for that term; a drabble is as structured a form of fic as a haiku is of poetry. (True purists would say it has to be exactly 100 words, just as a haiku must be 17 syllables, but I'll give you +/- 5, especially once you get into things like does 'a' count for a word (yes) and should you hand count (yes) or take the word processor's number.) In any event, it has a rigidity that a doodle does not. Do we have a word for a doodle-fic? We need one!
In any event, whatever you call one, these are them.
Cyrial was certain he could never be like the hard, cold men at the Savswatchs Fort. Someone, he thought, was falling down on the job; most of them had been assigned there for years, when they should have been rotated to other --- less isolated -- posts regularly. *he* certainly didn't intend to stay longer than a ha'year's duty.
"I could write to my uncle," he offered one evening at supper, when the fellow across from him, a broadaxe of a man whose scraggly mane of grey hair was decidedly non regulation, declared he'd been there ten years. "He's not -- well, he knows the Lord Commnader, anyway, and I'm sure if someone knew you hadn't been rotated --" The roar of laughter that cut him off was deeply disconcerting. He fought to keep an unmanly pout from his features. He'd only been trying to help!
"Lad," Joeris said, once he'd stopped laughing long enough to talk, "lad, they know how long we've been out here. Savswatch duty isn't like other posts. If you can handle this place, they leave you here. Few enough as can."
"W-why?" He'd squeaked again. Lady of Night, he'd thought his voice was done breaking! Cyrial cleared his throat and tried again, "What's wrong with it? Aside from being the back-end of nowhere, that is."
"Too many strange things creeping around up here," Joeris replied. "Creatures out of your nurse's fire-tales, and worse. And they don't always keep to their side of the border."
"Border? You mean things actually live in the Icewaste?" More laughter, but at least this time he could understand it. His tutors had said the Icewaste was a country, but... Well, it had been once, anyone could tell that from old books or maps. Narnia, it was called then, and it traded with Evrath same as anyone. But there'd been naught but ice and snow there for years. His gran’ther said it was magic gone awry. The keep's priest said they'd offended the Summerlady, so she turned her face from them. Whatever it was, surely no one could still live there?
"Things, aye. Not people, lad, right enough. But there's things as survive in the Waste. Some of 'em are well enough. Some aren't."
One of the other men leaned in, lowering his voice as if telling stories at the fire. "Makes you think of spirits and every wrath-tale your priest ever scared you with. And the wind never stops. Even in summer, it's icy out of the east. And when you're shivering up there in the spiritwatch...." He trailed off, and even knowing they were trying to frighten him, Cyrial shuddered.
"It's fierce fighting, too," Joeris said, perhaps taking pity on him, perhaps just tired of the joke. "Three kinds of men out here: the ones who die, the ones who flee home, and the ones who stay."
Cyrial had no intention of dying, and he didn't want to be a coward, but looking at the men around him... he wasn't sure he wanted to stay, either.
The king is dead.
Anatele slaps the servant who blurts this out for carrying lies. Marius is a mere thirty-six, after all, with the sort of vigor that encourages comparison to animals. Gossip is always wild, but this is treason. The maid bursts into tears and flees without finishing the candles. Anatele is forced to find a footman to set and light them.
Her husband does not come home for supper. It is well past midnight — so late she had given up waiting, since he would not dare the spirits hour, especially so deep in winter — when word comes to her that’s he’s just ridden into the stableyard. She sends for warmed wine, and pulls on a robe, deciding not to bother pinning up her hair again. It will be more intimate, she thinks, and smiles to herself.
“Husband,” she greets him, when he enters their sitting room, flinging his damp greatcloak into the waiting arms of a servant. The goblet of wine is between her palms and she stands by the fire, where its light will outline her well and hint of things beneath gown and robe. “Wel — What’s wrong?” For his face is set and his lips white, and she does not think it from the bitter cold.
“King Marius is dead,” he says heavily.
Absurdly, her first thought is I cannot slap my husband. She hands him the wine, moving out of habit to settle him in his chair beside the fire. “How?” she finally manages, when she can make her voice work.
“He —” He breaks off at the first chime from the mantle-clock. “Not now.”
“Of course.” No, they would certainly not talk of death during the darkest hour. Not when the spirits would be more restless than usual, with a great lord to welcome among them. Unfortunately that leaves her without anything to talk about. She can’t very well suggest they bed, even if it might catch the soul of one of the mighty lords gathering to bring home their kinsman, and he doesn’t seem to be in a mood to notice any of her hints. She can’t ask about his day — no doubt largely consumed with matters relating to the tragedy — and she won’t inflict the little gossip of hers on him. For lack of anything else, she finds herself babbling on about household minutiae — the amount of game in the larder and the condition of the woolens. Worse, he nods as if this is perfectly reasonable conversation, and not matters to be kept closeted with the steward. He even responds with some trivialities on the prospects for planting!
So it goes, until three soft chimes ripples from the clock, marking the end of the spirit hour. Husband and wife fall silent, both reluctant to raise the subject again.
“Assassinated,” he says softly, as though the word itself might be dangerous. “They couldn’t take the man who did it alive, but all the evidence points to Ymar. The cowards.”
“The fools, more like,” she exclaims. “Do they think this will stop the war?”
“Who can fathom the minds of those barbarians? Perhaps they think us as cowardly as they themselves are.”
An awful thought occurs to her. “Perhaps they prefer Dus Gillien as king.” Marius’s cousin and heir is, in the not-so-private opinions of half the court, utterly unsuited for even his present rank, let alone the crown. “He—”
Her husband puts a finger to her lips. “Don’t say it, Ana. He is king, now; to imply he might be a wastrel or a fool borders on treason.”
She smiles against his hand, kissing his fingertip lightly. “Of course, husband. When is the coronation?”
“I doubt anyone will wish the expenditure of such a ceremony until the war is over.” He does nothing so crass as wink, of course, but she sees the satisfied look in his eyes. Wars with Ymar can drag on for years, if properly managed — and much can happen in wartime. She wonders who the lords will support for king, but there is no gracious way to ask. She brushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, considering what to say.
Her husband finally seems to notice how she’s dressed. “You look lovely tonight, Ana,” he murmurs. “But I’ve kept you from your bed, clearly. Shall we retire?” She smiles, then, and takes the hand he offers gladly.
Fic -- Ficlet -- ??
I don't think it's a drabble. I'm a bit of a purist for that term; a drabble is as structured a form of fic as a haiku is of poetry. (True purists would say it has to be exactly 100 words, just as a haiku must be 17 syllables, but I'll give you +/- 5, especially once you get into things like does 'a' count for a word (yes) and should you hand count (yes) or take the word processor's number.) In any event, it has a rigidity that a doodle does not. Do we have a word for a doodle-fic? We need one!
In any event, whatever you call one, these are them.
Cyrial was certain he could never be like the hard, cold men at the Savswatchs Fort. Someone, he thought, was falling down on the job; most of them had been assigned there for years, when they should have been rotated to other --- less isolated -- posts regularly. *he* certainly didn't intend to stay longer than a ha'year's duty.
"I could write to my uncle," he offered one evening at supper, when the fellow across from him, a broadaxe of a man whose scraggly mane of grey hair was decidedly non regulation, declared he'd been there ten years. "He's not -- well, he knows the Lord Commnader, anyway, and I'm sure if someone knew you hadn't been rotated --" The roar of laughter that cut him off was deeply disconcerting. He fought to keep an unmanly pout from his features. He'd only been trying to help!
"Lad," Joeris said, once he'd stopped laughing long enough to talk, "lad, they know how long we've been out here. Savswatch duty isn't like other posts. If you can handle this place, they leave you here. Few enough as can."
"W-why?" He'd squeaked again. Lady of Night, he'd thought his voice was done breaking! Cyrial cleared his throat and tried again, "What's wrong with it? Aside from being the back-end of nowhere, that is."
"Too many strange things creeping around up here," Joeris replied. "Creatures out of your nurse's fire-tales, and worse. And they don't always keep to their side of the border."
"Border? You mean things actually live in the Icewaste?" More laughter, but at least this time he could understand it. His tutors had said the Icewaste was a country, but... Well, it had been once, anyone could tell that from old books or maps. Narnia, it was called then, and it traded with Evrath same as anyone. But there'd been naught but ice and snow there for years. His gran’ther said it was magic gone awry. The keep's priest said they'd offended the Summerlady, so she turned her face from them. Whatever it was, surely no one could still live there?
"Things, aye. Not people, lad, right enough. But there's things as survive in the Waste. Some of 'em are well enough. Some aren't."
One of the other men leaned in, lowering his voice as if telling stories at the fire. "Makes you think of spirits and every wrath-tale your priest ever scared you with. And the wind never stops. Even in summer, it's icy out of the east. And when you're shivering up there in the spiritwatch...." He trailed off, and even knowing they were trying to frighten him, Cyrial shuddered.
"It's fierce fighting, too," Joeris said, perhaps taking pity on him, perhaps just tired of the joke. "Three kinds of men out here: the ones who die, the ones who flee home, and the ones who stay."
Cyrial had no intention of dying, and he didn't want to be a coward, but looking at the men around him... he wasn't sure he wanted to stay, either.
The king is dead.
Anatele slaps the servant who blurts this out for carrying lies. Marius is a mere thirty-six, after all, with the sort of vigor that encourages comparison to animals. Gossip is always wild, but this is treason. The maid bursts into tears and flees without finishing the candles. Anatele is forced to find a footman to set and light them.
Her husband does not come home for supper. It is well past midnight — so late she had given up waiting, since he would not dare the spirits hour, especially so deep in winter — when word comes to her that’s he’s just ridden into the stableyard. She sends for warmed wine, and pulls on a robe, deciding not to bother pinning up her hair again. It will be more intimate, she thinks, and smiles to herself.
“Husband,” she greets him, when he enters their sitting room, flinging his damp greatcloak into the waiting arms of a servant. The goblet of wine is between her palms and she stands by the fire, where its light will outline her well and hint of things beneath gown and robe. “Wel — What’s wrong?” For his face is set and his lips white, and she does not think it from the bitter cold.
“King Marius is dead,” he says heavily.
Absurdly, her first thought is I cannot slap my husband. She hands him the wine, moving out of habit to settle him in his chair beside the fire. “How?” she finally manages, when she can make her voice work.
“He —” He breaks off at the first chime from the mantle-clock. “Not now.”
“Of course.” No, they would certainly not talk of death during the darkest hour. Not when the spirits would be more restless than usual, with a great lord to welcome among them. Unfortunately that leaves her without anything to talk about. She can’t very well suggest they bed, even if it might catch the soul of one of the mighty lords gathering to bring home their kinsman, and he doesn’t seem to be in a mood to notice any of her hints. She can’t ask about his day — no doubt largely consumed with matters relating to the tragedy — and she won’t inflict the little gossip of hers on him. For lack of anything else, she finds herself babbling on about household minutiae — the amount of game in the larder and the condition of the woolens. Worse, he nods as if this is perfectly reasonable conversation, and not matters to be kept closeted with the steward. He even responds with some trivialities on the prospects for planting!
So it goes, until three soft chimes ripples from the clock, marking the end of the spirit hour. Husband and wife fall silent, both reluctant to raise the subject again.
“Assassinated,” he says softly, as though the word itself might be dangerous. “They couldn’t take the man who did it alive, but all the evidence points to Ymar. The cowards.”
“The fools, more like,” she exclaims. “Do they think this will stop the war?”
“Who can fathom the minds of those barbarians? Perhaps they think us as cowardly as they themselves are.”
An awful thought occurs to her. “Perhaps they prefer Dus Gillien as king.” Marius’s cousin and heir is, in the not-so-private opinions of half the court, utterly unsuited for even his present rank, let alone the crown. “He—”
Her husband puts a finger to her lips. “Don’t say it, Ana. He is king, now; to imply he might be a wastrel or a fool borders on treason.”
She smiles against his hand, kissing his fingertip lightly. “Of course, husband. When is the coronation?”
“I doubt anyone will wish the expenditure of such a ceremony until the war is over.” He does nothing so crass as wink, of course, but she sees the satisfied look in his eyes. Wars with Ymar can drag on for years, if properly managed — and much can happen in wartime. She wonders who the lords will support for king, but there is no gracious way to ask. She brushes a stray lock of hair out of her eyes, considering what to say.
Her husband finally seems to notice how she’s dressed. “You look lovely tonight, Ana,” he murmurs. “But I’ve kept you from your bed, clearly. Shall we retire?” She smiles, then, and takes the hand he offers gladly.
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(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-08 05:05 am (UTC)I actually sometimes think of things like these as "sketches", since I'm just doing a rough word-sketch of the scene. Or maybe we should just come up with a whole new term!
As for the, uh, ____s you have here, they are fantastic. Yay for politics and new lands and a look at Narnia from both outside the Hundred Year Winter, and directly before it (I am guessing. It could really be any time, couldn't it?).
(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-08 02:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-08 11:37 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-08 07:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-02-08 11:38 pm (UTC)