SkeeK
The Original, Rock n' Roll Doggie, VIP PASS
Here's a little number I stayed up late working up for English class. *ahem* It might not make sense if you haven't read Tigana by Guy Gavriel Kay (amazing book) and The Last English King by Julian Rathbone (not such an amazing book). What I've done here (my own clever idea) is taken the maor character from one book I analyzed and put him into the world and events that precede the events in Tigana. I thought it fit pretty well. Anyway, even though this is the copy I handed in to the teacher this morning, this is a first draft, meaning I'm probably capable doing much better.. I'd like to think so, anyway. My major concern is that it is a little loose and not cohesive since I made up what was going to happen as I went along, and that it doesn't make sense without knowledge of the books in question. Any constructively critical comments would be greatly appreciated, and even "oh wow that's so good"s will be accepted as well. Anyhoo, enough with the banter...
A Sort of Homecoming
Nothing but ill had happened since his return to Stevanien, as it was now called.
Walt paused and squinted in the bright but waning sunlight, putting his hand to his face to brush away the grime and tears and sweat. Or at least try. He took a ragged breath and forced his tired, sore arms to thrust his spade back into the earth and continue.
Several hours later the sun had imprinted red on his neck and arms. His body felt stiff, his wrists and arms ached, his hands and fingers bled, and his throat was raw with thirst. But he was finished. Finished more than just the task at hand?finished a process that had begun the year before when he had survived his master Valentin at the battle of the river Deisa. He could summon enough energy to do nothing but collapse to a half kneeling position over the mound of earth and weep. He grieved most for his lost wife Erica, but he realized that he buried with her so many things?the hope of serving his master faithfully as he had spent most of his life, the hope of the quiet life of a farmer with a family he had always secretly wished for though he only realized it now, and even the hope of living in the country where he had spent all but one year of his life.
He had, as far as he could see, nothing left in the whole world; yet those few short days ago when he arrived back in Tigana after a year abroad, he had been full of such a passion, reinvigorated to live his life the way he should have before. He saw children, women and elderly death-wheeled for little more than being a part of the province whose soldiers had claimed the life of Brandin?s son, saw his home downtrodden and oppressed to the point that their legendary Tiganese pride was all but destroyed along with their magnificent towers; and still that passion remained, primarily preserved against all the tragedy. He could not waste this fervor pining for what might have been but clearly was not; he had already wasted enough time traipsing about in foreign lands on some quest to attain personal enlightenment. With nothing to lose at all, he would dedicate his life to opposing Brandin and working to rebuild his shattered home.
How to go about this new undertaking was another matter entirely. Walt had never been one prone to extended bouts of dull cogitation on any subject; but he did realize that blindly rushing into an endeavor such as this would serve to benefit only an Ygrathan soldier who took a sadistic pleasure at the death of a rebel man of Tigana, very likely accompanied by the death of a slew of innocent men and women just to make a point. He had the inkling of an idea. Enough to know that there was something he must do, but not enough to realize exactly what it was. He waited impatiently for the idea?s seed to germinate.
He lay, his back to the sun-warmed freshly moved earth of his wife and his unborn child?s grave, and closed his eyes. As the sun, now a fiery ball of red, sank beneath the horizon?s trees and rolling hills, Walt fell into a deep dreamless slumber.
***
The stars of Eanna cast a mellow light over the silent glade. A figure clad in heavy traveling robes lay in the center, on a gentle slope and upon a rectangular patch of newly displaced earth. A scanty breeze slightly ruffled the barricade of cypress trees around him. He rolled over on his back, yawned ponderously, and let his eyes flutter open. Above him in a flurry of sound and flutter an owl took to the air, circling gracefully, lazily above him. He lay for several moments enchanted by the wings? fluid pumping and majestic gliding. He felt refreshed and invigorated after his rest; certainly his limbs still ached and his throat was dry, but compared to his state the previous day he was in fine condition. He felt like a new man, and in more ways than one. Soon he stood, and under cover of the cool, calm night made his way first to the spring he had stopped at the previous afternoon to quench his thirst, and then back towards what should have been the city of Avalle. Stevanien now, named to honour of Brandin?s slain son and a spiteful reminder that Tigana had been erased in name from the whole of the world.
Through a happy combination of memory and chance, it was not long before he found himself back at the spring, where he drank deeply and rested his limbs, before continuing toward the city. Avalle of the towers? Stevanien. No, Avalle he decided; he would not call it by Brandin?s name, for that was a small defeat in itself.
Finding Avalle posed not nearly as much difficulty as locating the spring. Even in its time of sorrow, the flickering of torchlight could be seen even from within the veil of cypress trees. The torchlight was centered though on the city?s barracks, newly domineered by the Ygrathen soldiers; not on the high green and white towers, as it would have been one year since. The towers lay in ruin; their intricate designs and carvings, their majesty and grandeur reduced to heaps of scrap rock. During his short time in Avalle he?d heard talk of plans to use the rubble from the towers to build city walls; or a new barracks for the Ygrathens depending on who he spoke to. However credible the source, the idea made his stomach churn. Such a thing could not be done solely for practical reasons; the generals (perhaps Brandin himself) who plotted this must surely know what that would represent to the people of Tigana. Or Lower Corte as Brandin had named it; named after the province to the north, the traditional enemies of Tigana. He would never call it that. Never.
In his mind, the idea from the previous night had taken root and slowly revealed itself to him. Resolutely he set his feet toward Avalle, once the brightest city in all of Tigana, now a tortured and oppressed conglomerate of disheartened people lorded over by the soldiers of King Brandin of Ygrath. It was clear in his mind. He knew what he would do.
***
Nearly a fortnight later, Walt was picking his way through the dark and rocky rubble of the Towers of Avalle. He moved as quietly as possible and kept his body low to the ground. The time he spent in the city made it clear that the curfew was strictly enforced and that the enforcers were entirely unforgiving. He was alert to any noise beyond the dull crunching of his shoes on the rubble, though sometimes even that gave him a momentary fright.
He reached his destination in good time; he knew the way intimately now, and as much by feel as anything else since his eyes were of little use on the trail. He knelt and unslung his pack from over his shoulder, easing it gently to the smooth granite surface. He undid the strings and removed the chisel and hammer. He glanced around apprehensively before striking a spark that ignited his torch and illuminated his creation in all of what he hoped was its grandeur and majesty, beauty and delicacy. Seeing it that night, he decided it was finished.
Using the rubble of the pillaged and demolished towers, he had created his own tower of Avalle. He hesitated to call it his own though; he had made it with his hands, but as he did so he felt connected to the hearts and spirits of all who had ever lived in Tigana and ever would. It stood only five feet tall, a far cry from the original towers, but still it was a miracle it had not been found and destroyed by the Ygrathen soldiers. Amidst its five feet of height, the tower was adorned with intricately carved patterns, windows and a tiled roof. It was polished smooth, and though it could not be seen from far away, amid the uneven rubble it stood out like a swan amid ravens. He liked to imagine that if he were to ever see the tower during the day, it would glitter as brightly as did the Towers of Avalle before Brandin?s army destroyed them nearly a year ago.
Beside it he had planted a flower. The blue rose of Tigana bloomed once again in what might have before been a royal garden. Its flower unfurled itself toward the stars of Eanna?s sky, its roots stretched downward toward the nourishing water of Adaon, and its existence was owed to Morian of the portals. Amid the rubble of fallen majesty it flourished.
He thought he heard the shuffle of soldiers feet over the flagstones of the not so distant street; perhaps approaching, perhaps departing to the barracks to sleep. As he gazed at the monument he had created, visible dimly in the pre-dawn ambience, he realized he didn?t really care where it was they were going right then, even if they were coming here to apprehend him. He was finished. And for the first time ?was it the first time since he?d returned? Walt smiled.
As the sun rose over Avalle.
A Sort of Homecoming
Nothing but ill had happened since his return to Stevanien, as it was now called.
Walt paused and squinted in the bright but waning sunlight, putting his hand to his face to brush away the grime and tears and sweat. Or at least try. He took a ragged breath and forced his tired, sore arms to thrust his spade back into the earth and continue.
Several hours later the sun had imprinted red on his neck and arms. His body felt stiff, his wrists and arms ached, his hands and fingers bled, and his throat was raw with thirst. But he was finished. Finished more than just the task at hand?finished a process that had begun the year before when he had survived his master Valentin at the battle of the river Deisa. He could summon enough energy to do nothing but collapse to a half kneeling position over the mound of earth and weep. He grieved most for his lost wife Erica, but he realized that he buried with her so many things?the hope of serving his master faithfully as he had spent most of his life, the hope of the quiet life of a farmer with a family he had always secretly wished for though he only realized it now, and even the hope of living in the country where he had spent all but one year of his life.
He had, as far as he could see, nothing left in the whole world; yet those few short days ago when he arrived back in Tigana after a year abroad, he had been full of such a passion, reinvigorated to live his life the way he should have before. He saw children, women and elderly death-wheeled for little more than being a part of the province whose soldiers had claimed the life of Brandin?s son, saw his home downtrodden and oppressed to the point that their legendary Tiganese pride was all but destroyed along with their magnificent towers; and still that passion remained, primarily preserved against all the tragedy. He could not waste this fervor pining for what might have been but clearly was not; he had already wasted enough time traipsing about in foreign lands on some quest to attain personal enlightenment. With nothing to lose at all, he would dedicate his life to opposing Brandin and working to rebuild his shattered home.
How to go about this new undertaking was another matter entirely. Walt had never been one prone to extended bouts of dull cogitation on any subject; but he did realize that blindly rushing into an endeavor such as this would serve to benefit only an Ygrathan soldier who took a sadistic pleasure at the death of a rebel man of Tigana, very likely accompanied by the death of a slew of innocent men and women just to make a point. He had the inkling of an idea. Enough to know that there was something he must do, but not enough to realize exactly what it was. He waited impatiently for the idea?s seed to germinate.
He lay, his back to the sun-warmed freshly moved earth of his wife and his unborn child?s grave, and closed his eyes. As the sun, now a fiery ball of red, sank beneath the horizon?s trees and rolling hills, Walt fell into a deep dreamless slumber.
***
The stars of Eanna cast a mellow light over the silent glade. A figure clad in heavy traveling robes lay in the center, on a gentle slope and upon a rectangular patch of newly displaced earth. A scanty breeze slightly ruffled the barricade of cypress trees around him. He rolled over on his back, yawned ponderously, and let his eyes flutter open. Above him in a flurry of sound and flutter an owl took to the air, circling gracefully, lazily above him. He lay for several moments enchanted by the wings? fluid pumping and majestic gliding. He felt refreshed and invigorated after his rest; certainly his limbs still ached and his throat was dry, but compared to his state the previous day he was in fine condition. He felt like a new man, and in more ways than one. Soon he stood, and under cover of the cool, calm night made his way first to the spring he had stopped at the previous afternoon to quench his thirst, and then back towards what should have been the city of Avalle. Stevanien now, named to honour of Brandin?s slain son and a spiteful reminder that Tigana had been erased in name from the whole of the world.
Through a happy combination of memory and chance, it was not long before he found himself back at the spring, where he drank deeply and rested his limbs, before continuing toward the city. Avalle of the towers? Stevanien. No, Avalle he decided; he would not call it by Brandin?s name, for that was a small defeat in itself.
Finding Avalle posed not nearly as much difficulty as locating the spring. Even in its time of sorrow, the flickering of torchlight could be seen even from within the veil of cypress trees. The torchlight was centered though on the city?s barracks, newly domineered by the Ygrathen soldiers; not on the high green and white towers, as it would have been one year since. The towers lay in ruin; their intricate designs and carvings, their majesty and grandeur reduced to heaps of scrap rock. During his short time in Avalle he?d heard talk of plans to use the rubble from the towers to build city walls; or a new barracks for the Ygrathens depending on who he spoke to. However credible the source, the idea made his stomach churn. Such a thing could not be done solely for practical reasons; the generals (perhaps Brandin himself) who plotted this must surely know what that would represent to the people of Tigana. Or Lower Corte as Brandin had named it; named after the province to the north, the traditional enemies of Tigana. He would never call it that. Never.
In his mind, the idea from the previous night had taken root and slowly revealed itself to him. Resolutely he set his feet toward Avalle, once the brightest city in all of Tigana, now a tortured and oppressed conglomerate of disheartened people lorded over by the soldiers of King Brandin of Ygrath. It was clear in his mind. He knew what he would do.
***
Nearly a fortnight later, Walt was picking his way through the dark and rocky rubble of the Towers of Avalle. He moved as quietly as possible and kept his body low to the ground. The time he spent in the city made it clear that the curfew was strictly enforced and that the enforcers were entirely unforgiving. He was alert to any noise beyond the dull crunching of his shoes on the rubble, though sometimes even that gave him a momentary fright.
He reached his destination in good time; he knew the way intimately now, and as much by feel as anything else since his eyes were of little use on the trail. He knelt and unslung his pack from over his shoulder, easing it gently to the smooth granite surface. He undid the strings and removed the chisel and hammer. He glanced around apprehensively before striking a spark that ignited his torch and illuminated his creation in all of what he hoped was its grandeur and majesty, beauty and delicacy. Seeing it that night, he decided it was finished.
Using the rubble of the pillaged and demolished towers, he had created his own tower of Avalle. He hesitated to call it his own though; he had made it with his hands, but as he did so he felt connected to the hearts and spirits of all who had ever lived in Tigana and ever would. It stood only five feet tall, a far cry from the original towers, but still it was a miracle it had not been found and destroyed by the Ygrathen soldiers. Amidst its five feet of height, the tower was adorned with intricately carved patterns, windows and a tiled roof. It was polished smooth, and though it could not be seen from far away, amid the uneven rubble it stood out like a swan amid ravens. He liked to imagine that if he were to ever see the tower during the day, it would glitter as brightly as did the Towers of Avalle before Brandin?s army destroyed them nearly a year ago.
Beside it he had planted a flower. The blue rose of Tigana bloomed once again in what might have before been a royal garden. Its flower unfurled itself toward the stars of Eanna?s sky, its roots stretched downward toward the nourishing water of Adaon, and its existence was owed to Morian of the portals. Amid the rubble of fallen majesty it flourished.
He thought he heard the shuffle of soldiers feet over the flagstones of the not so distant street; perhaps approaching, perhaps departing to the barracks to sleep. As he gazed at the monument he had created, visible dimly in the pre-dawn ambience, he realized he didn?t really care where it was they were going right then, even if they were coming here to apprehend him. He was finished. And for the first time ?was it the first time since he?d returned? Walt smiled.
As the sun rose over Avalle.
