Category:Fantasy
Keywords:
Rating: Unrated
Spoilers:
Summary:
Disclaimer: Original world, Original Works
Beta:
Author's Note: This is the first part to my failed NaNo. I felt the need to share to help me at least flesh out the beginning a little more. Comments welcome.
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A Nairn Major Canon
Word Count : n/a
Written by Andrea Collet
NaNoWriMo Handle Arie Tarou
.•* The End
The world was not how she wanted to remember it. Carcasses and debris scattered among the ruined Towers in the place she had hoped to call home. Blood stained walls and black powder rained down upon the wold around her with indifference; almost a jaded mockery to her if ash could be as such. A land once fertile and that thrived in both culture and their blessed Arts was now stories of myth should any survive.
Snow swirled down with the ash as the darkened clouds loomed. Despite the darkness it was yet midday and even then this place was not how it should be. The colder climates were further north, a great deal further, but she guessed that perhaps -maybe- it was a slight repercussion of the magics once used here. She desperately tried not to cry.
“What happened to you, Era Narr?” whispers lost to the rustling winds. “Is this all that we have become? All our power, contributing to the last battle that kills us all? Were I . . .”
Silence from her mouth the wind roared at her, pounding at her lithe body demanding retribution with so very few words.
“No . . . I must not! I can not . . .”
It pulled back, retreating to instead beat against the ruins of the once unrivaled city of Averon.
“Is it not enough?” The whisper quickly rose to a scream. “Was not what you had enough? Could you all not destroy yourselves, you greedy sons and daughters of Nairn! Could you not simply be satisfied? Was your Power not enough that you had to have more?” She fell to her knees, her head lost to her lap as the last threads of her resolve gave way to tears. “Could I not have been enough? Was it ever enough?”
Her voice a lost whisper once a more beneath the shield of starlight colored hair. A sense of failure, loss and abandon left her cold beyond the chill of the white speckled winds. Time passed unwatched, unknown and without consequence as the inner turmoil left her untouched.
“Was I not good enough?”
.•* The Bookstore
She paced herself behind her father as she followed him through the dark side street. The blacken skies threatened to rain and she hoped they would go home soon. Moira did not like the rain. Rain made the ground wet, leaving cold puddles of mud that would splash onto clothes -soiling them and causing her to look dirty. She did not like getting dirty either. Dirt was for boys.
-click clack-
Her shoes clicked lightly on the cobblestone street as her father lead her to an old shop barely light by the lamp post hovering from a far off street corner. The glow within the shop was faint and eerie with light flickering of movement from behind. Moira tried to make out the golden scrolled words on the window but the dirt was too thick and time had worn away what the dirt attempted to hide.
She looked up at her father with a frown but he ignored her as his eyes showed a childish glee. Moira rolled her blue eyes and sighed heavily into her red school scarf. She never understood her father and his weird fascinations over one thing or another. Always excited over a dirty old artifact and went off about where it came from and how he got it; and sometimes even the history behind it. She liked the stories, sometimes. As long as no one died in the story, then they were okay.
Pulling her golden streaked brown hair out of her face from the wind, Moira held her scarf close around her neck as the winds whipped at them with a cold December chill. She never liked the cold either. England was a foul place to live for one that did not like rain or cold but barely starting middle school left her very few options. If only her father would get a transfer somewhere warmer. But then it would mean changing schools; again.
The door creaked open on its ungreased hinges, she winced a little at the sound, revealing what looked like an eclectic bookstore for used and unwanted books. A sneeze escaped her nose before her foot fell across the doorstep. The air was thick with musty dust and the fouls scent that came from books left alone for too long. Following her father in she buried her nose into her scarf as the dust continued to itch at her nose.
'At least it's warm.' bitter thoughts entered her mind as her eyes wandered the stack from where she stood. It was a warm shop, but despite the small exterior of the shop, within it was quite large, although filled beyond the eye could see. She could see large collections of books filling up row upon row of shelving, looming deep into the room and well above her head. Leaving Moira with an impressive sense of awe despite her initial disinterest.
Moira liked picture books. Books of princesses, fairy-tales and happy endings. On nights where she sat for the Kimbery's kids, she would read aloud her favorite stories over and over without fear of ridicule. Should her classmates know that she did not like thick, heavily weighted books that took a lifetime to read and instead preferred a child's version of 'Princess and the Pea' . . .
A finger draped lightly against the spine of a book, moving gently across one to the next, as she walked slowly down the row. Her mind wandered as she read titles that caught her attention in her head. She did not visit the library, she did not even have a card to allow her to borrow books, yet even the private school she attended contained as many books as this little book store.
One row, two rows, four . . . slowly she wandered through as some titles would make her smile while most others passed without notice. All too soon she found herself feeling stuffy in the thick warmth of the shop and Moira untied her scarf . The dust free room left unnoticed as the attention was focused less on where she was and more on what she was doing. If doing was even something to focus on. What she was doing, or why she was doing it also left little note before something out of the ordinary caught her eye.
Had she known what she had been looking for, Moira would have swiftly turned away and returned to her fathers side; where ever it was. However a child-like curiosity begged for her to continue. Dazed from her repetitious wander, Moira continued.
Reaching out with her left hand, Moira pulled on the only new looking book from the bottom corner of the shelf. Holding the book she flipped it over, back and forth, searching for words, a title; anything that any normal book would have. It was rather odd, in a way. It looked like a new book -that much was for certain- yet the cover and the bindings were something that Moira had only seen on old books or bound manuscripts that her father might bring home. There were silver charms and engravings right into the book, and a silver lock that kept it from being opened by unwanted hands.
'Curious . . .'
Moira could not open it, no matter how she tried. Instead of risking the possibility of ruining the book, she tucked it under her arms to ask. Not that she wanted the book, she was just curious. Yes, just curious. Looking around the stacks, an entirely different emotion gripped her as rows passed on forever, and there no longer seemed a way out. Gripping the book as a lifeline, she passed rows of book towards a break at what looked like a far wall that lead up to a second story of the room. The room already surpassing what Moira would consider a normally tall roof, she assumed that there was no second floor.
It was also by logic that she assumed if there was a wall, she would be able to find her way back to the front of the book store without losing herself completely to rows and rows of books. Walls may dip and turn, but this was a shop and all shops had a left wall, a right wall, a back and a front. Without entering another room logic dictated that she would be able to work her way back following that simple logic.
Nearing the wall, instead of finding a staircase that lead to a second floor it was five steps that lead to an open landing surrounded by a beautifully scrolled banister.
Although the banister was very beautiful, and so very out of place –yet again; but what brought Moira pause were all the Armour, swords, spears and other weaponry that littered the landing. Manikins that displayed gowns of rich fabric and other paraphernalia of royalty; It was not the banister that would have held any ones attention. Moira's eyes wide with awe, her feet carried her to the stairs and then up in slow revered steps, a hand gripping the scroll worked banister.
She had once visited the Queen's Palace, the vaults and treasury where crown jewels of old and new were laid out for a spectators eye. A great deal of history had been recited over head as constant reminders were reminding all to keep wandering hands to themselves. They were beautiful -the jewels- but they did not sparkle like the simple crown that sat upon a cushioned pillow beside what looked like a Victorian styled gown – perfect in preservation but a stile uniquely different than anything she'd ever seen in her history studies.
Questions, unrelenting questions confused her mind yet still she reached out to touch the fabric to find it soft and clean. Moira thought the dress too beautiful for a place like this, a musty old book store. What was it doing here? Why was such a dress here?
“Papa?” She called out hesitantly, not taking her eyes from the dress. “Pa . . pa?” The quiver registering in her voice as a cold chill from within slithered up her spine. Moira knew she shouldn't be here. She knew that all of this, these . . . things, should not be here. Why were they here? Where was this? Confusion rained down on her as she turned around.
A man, an old man with a cane, stood at the edge of the banister. Had she looked and noticed she would see that he was angry, that he wore robes instead of tunics and slacks. His cane was just like the scroll work on the banister, intricate and beautiful. She would have noticed something intricately odd about the man, yet she did not. And even as he spoke she did not notice this little thing.
“Why are you here, child? Lady Arie's room is forbidden.”
Moira didn't hear. She was too shocked to from the book store gone and instead tapestries of an ancient unknown room replace it.
“Child? Answer me!”
She could not. Instead Moira fainted dead away and the cold darkness consumed her confused thoughts.
.•* The Cairn
“I hate you!”
The voice yelled over the autumn coloured field as laughter echoed back. The small red haird girl was relentless, pulling up her skirts to giver her more freedom to run. Stupid boys, it was not nice to pick on girls; especially when they fought back. Didn't they know better?
No, of course not. Boys are stupid.
“Donna make me talk to y'ur mums! They'd box y'ur ears good!”
“You wouldn'a dare!” A boy called back from just to the left of her -she lost sight of him the trees. Recognizing the voice from one of the smaller boys, she instead pressed on after the larger ones. Take down the big and you won't feel guilty for the smaller ones fearing you. Or so her Papa taught her. He taught her a great deal after her Mum passed away when she was much smaller. She missed her Mum, but at least she still remembered her enough to smile when she thought of her.
That was something that always made her angry. People would always say they were sorry that she was gone and that she grew up with only a father, but Suibhan saw it so very differently. She remembered happy times with her Mum and Papa took very good care of her. They were very close, Papa and and her. And there was nothing bad about it. It certainly didn't make it any right for people to say they were sorry. Pity was left for the weak and she was far from weak. Especially when she would take down that rat-faced pig, Seamus. Ratty pig pig pigger of a pig, he was!
“Git back here!” She called out, as if desperate to catch him -pretending that she might not. A Cairn ahead of her caught her attention. One that she had never seen before, but then she normally did not run this deep into the fields. It had probably been there for centuries. Quickly ducking into the sanctuary of the stone structure, she waited. She could be patient as the boys would then think they were safe. Ha! Like they could be safe from her, she was stronger then they thought she was. That, and unlike them she did not mind so much hitting the opposite sex. It was always better when they called for their mums.
Then again, that was how she got suspended from school in the first place. Not that it was her fault that the boys tried to be better than her. Boys were infinitely stupid and she continuously had to put them in their place because they were wrong.
No boy likes to be beaten by a girl, especially not one of Suibhan's size! Standing barely over 5 feet, her red hair curled down her back if not for the thick braid she kept it in to keep it from getting in her eyes. Maybe it was her fault that they tugged her hair each in turn. Maybe she should cut her hair, but she liked it this length. Her mothers hair was long and red like hers is now and to change it would be a shame. Of course, if she made sure that no one did it again then all would be good. Yes, yes . . . it was a good idea to make the boys pay for their stupidness. Never mess with a Quinn!
“Is she gone?”
“Must'ah run home.”
“Knew she wouldna catch us! All mouth, that girl! No wonder no one likes her.”
The boys laughed aloud as Suibhan stewed silently within the Cairn. How dare they! She had friends! She regularily laughed and had lunch with Bonny and Cassidy. They were her best friends! That, and boys are icky . . . and stupid. She'd show them, the stupid boys!
“Whatcha wanna do now?”
“I donna know. A'bout we go to y'ur place? You mum makes those good pies. Maybe she made some today.”
“Oh yeah! I totally love y'ur mum's pie!”
“I donna think so!” Suibhan stepped out of the Cairn with a fist raised up to the side of her face ready to strike the one closest to her, but instead of finding the boys standing there looking at her in surprise, she found the field gone and replaced by richly green forests.
“Ah, dang'namit!” She scowled. “'Allo?” Her voice barely echoed over the forestry and despite herself, Suibhan stepped back, her back against the stone Cairn behind her. “I donna think I'm in kanses anymore, Toto.” Quoting her favorite movie. Where had she brought herself?
“I hope I donna find any fae, or I swear I may hafta actually hurt sum'thing.” Suibhan muttered as she started to walk. She didn't know what direction she was going, but her feet seemed to. For whatever it was worth, she knew she could find her way back to the Cairn easily enough. Unless something else transported her to somewhere knew. “Eh, I'll get those boys later. It's not like I donna know where they live.”
.•* The Marketplace
The woman chatted away noisily as the young chinese girl struggled to maintain the balance of boxes in her arms. It was a struggle, always a struggle. Isabael was not the most graceful or well balanced of girls and often referred to as Disney's Mulan. How quick she pointed out that Mulan saved the world but the other girls would only turn and laugh.
“Careful, Isabael! Those are precious silks! If just one box opens your sisters wedding will be ruined! Those silks took months to order and prepare for her wedding day!” Chinese hurled with disdainful tones; Isabael avoided looking at where her mother was lecturing her as she positioned the boxes a little better using her shoulders and chin for leverage. It was not much but it will do.
“Hurry up! Do not drag your feet, you will trip.”
“Yes Mother.”
“Do not use that tone with me, young lady. If I wanted a re sponce I would have asked. Now, where did your grandmother go?”
Isabael stood silently without knowing the answer. Stuck behind boxes of fabic, she was lucky if she did not trip on what she couldn't see let alone see anything aside from the colourful wrapping aroung the boxes which kept them together; thankfully.
“Well?” An exasperated note nearly made Isabael cringe, but she was able to refrain enough to keep her mother from noticing.
“I don't know.” She answered quietly.
“You do not know. Say it properly, girl. I swear your are more like your father than a daughter of mine. Hurry this way. I think your grandmother went to fetch some shoes or, gods, just randomly decided to wander off. That woman needs a keeper!” The chinese woman turned without so much as a gesture before storming off before Isabael was able to respond.
Isabael did not bother rolling her eyes as she tried to catch up with her mother. The crowds were deep and heavy with patrons scrolling the marketplace for this or that.
“Sorry.” She would whisper respectfully with each thump against her load, “Excuse me . . .” Vertigo throwing her off balance as more than one box threatened to topple her over back, forward or to either side. Where was her mother? Could not someone help her? Desparate Isabael looked around for a friendly helpful face that might be so kind as to at least releave her load so that she could rebalance the haphazard pile of boxes the shop matron so carelessly unloaded onto her. Even then she wished she has spoken out of place to avoid the struggle that she was in now. Weighed down by both cloth and guilt the boxes soon gave way against the traffic.
Her eyes shut to keep herself from seeing the wreckage around her. Not only was her mother going to berate her and no doubt take a switch to her, her own sister would probably make worse of the situation and blame her for all the families failings and poor luck.
That was just it, Isabael concluded, she was just a bad luck charm!
Falling to her knees, tears rolled down her cheeks and pooled into the hands that now covered her face. Head in her lap, Isabael cried in frustration. How could life be so unfair. The gods were truly unkind for birthing her into such an unwelcome family. Laughter behind the whispers around her, scuffling feet that avoided the array of boxes around her, Isabael was shamed.
“Oh gods . . .” She whispered. Was it worse that her mother was no where to be found or was this just shame and the beratement would be unbearable upon her return.
'Run away,' a voice whispered in her ear. It was not her own, nor one that was around her.
“No, there is no honour in running.”
'Honour is not to be found here.' The voice contradicted, in few simple words. It was not trying to convince her, the whispers echoed with discontent but neither malice or conviction. It simply was.
“But . . .”
'Away . . .'
Torn, Isabael rubbed the tears from her eyes, looking at the scattered boxes around her in surprise. Instead of soiled in the muddied roads of the Shanghai roads they rested among soft grass peaking out from a bed of moss.
“Gods . . .” She whispered, cold dread running down her spine as her eyes gazed around the forest floor. Richly blessed trees towered over her. Leaves larger than both her hands shielded her from the rays of the bright sun above, keeping the forest floor at a cool and comfortable temperature. Bushes of berries, small unfamiliar flowers and the occasionally bare twig littered what holes of sunshine that broke through the green canopy above her.
“No, No! I won't run away! Take me back! Take me home, Gods! Please!!” She cried out in delirious vane. Weeping aloud she fell heavily to her knees without concern of pain. “I need to get home! I need to bring my sister her dress! Gods, I pray, please take me home!” Fitful panic brought each box shakily towards her, she stacked them perfectly, ready to carry them home. She needed to get home! Her mother would hate her and her sister would never forgive her is she did not return.
“Please . . . Please . . . I will do anything. Please take me home . . .” Words became whispers and her weeping slowly became silent sobs and a light series of hiccups. Hours stretched without relief and soon she fell asleep on the forests soft bed of moss and grass, hope diminished and bled dry with every tear.
