Gossamer
Oct 26, 2010 6:40:12 GMT -8
Post by Marbletoast on Oct 26, 2010 6:40:12 GMT -8
Been reading this at my writing club, and been posting it on DA. Thought I'd go ahead and post it here, too, since I like it well enough. It does need work, I'm sure, so feel free to point out issues.
___
Prologue
The city of Dal-Kurin, old with grandeur, was lovelier under rain at twilight than ever. If Anoruval, only a few leagues distant, rose glorified in the waking dawn, the subtle majesty of Dal-Kurin was clearest in the last hours of day and most brilliant when subdued by the silver showers of winter. Beauty persisted as if the wasted body in the back room was little more than those gray moths caught burning in the candle wax: clear enough testimony of the cold indifference the beautiful things have for life. Even the sacred sorrow of rain was not left to the ugly feeling sitting in Gossamer's gut, but was crafted by cruel beauty into delight. Only death takes sorrow seriously, stripping loved faces of all familiar delicacies and leaving only the crevices of age and the scars of disease and, most sympathetic of all, empty, half-closed eyes that stare blindly into nothing.
Gossamer had tried to find sympathy in the rain by sitting at the balcony for hours, wet and cold but never wet or cold enough to match the polar gulf the death of Agnaithia T'nuval had poured into his heart. They had told him, from the time he was a small boy, that his mother would not live to see his fifteenth birthday. She had made it to his twelfth. Hardly a boy, Gossamer shouldered the weight few men knew. Death alone might have been bearable, had it come upon him suddenly. Had his mother been an abstract absence rather than a stiffening corpse, he may have found comfort in beautiful sadness. But Gossamer had been sitting in the rain for years, and all he had ever become was wet.
"Gossamer."
He did not look away from the rain.
"Come with me. You can't stay here anymore."
Gossamer pulled his knees to his chest and hardened his mouth. "This is my home."
"Not without your mother. Come quickly." A shadow fell across Gossamer's shoulder, and the voice—quiet but relentless—was closer. A pale hand extended to him, but Gossamer ignored it, looking instead up to the face.
He knew it well—gray eyes, dark hair, a care-lined face that had nothing to do with age. The young man wore brown and purple, and his mouth was as hard as Gossamer's.
"Where are we going?"
"To your grandmother's family."
Gossamer's eyes whipped back to the rain. "Why? Why can't I stay here?"
"They'll care for you. You don't have to be afraid. But you can't stay here. The T'nuval family has told me to take you there."
Gossamer waited a while longer, and the man seemed content to hover just behind him in silence, at least for a while. When the silence grew weary, he reached forward and set a heavy hand against Gossamer's shoulder, but the boy whirled with the frightened fury of a startled horse, and his eyes were no less wild.
"Don't touch me! You don't care where I end up—and neither do they. Fine." Gossamer adjusted his own garment—black with mourning, girded with a brilliant blue sash. "I'm not afraid, you know. But I'll go. The T'nuval clan can rot for all that I care. I'll be—what will I be?"
"You will always be T'nuval," the man said, his voice bored and gray. "Come with me."
With a last glance to the rain, as if hoping for some succor that never came, Gossamer followed him out—away from the home of his mother, away from the glittering heart of the city. Away, at last, from the cold blood of aristocracy.
They took him in a carriage to the old roads where the purple and green sash families built their one and two storied homes with clear glass windows that looked east. He remembered forever the first smell of the blacksmith fire, the first time he'd ever heard the clatter of chickens in the street, the first time he'd ever seen a young woman in a leather and forest green dress step out of her home in boots, her long yellow hair pleated and piled at the back of her neck, a basket of turnips under her arm.
Gossamer looked back to the east, toward the high glittering towers of Ral-sharin and the homes of his aunts and uncles and cousins. He looked down at his waist, where the blue sash hung rumpled in his lap. Methodically, he untied it, glanced at the brown-clad man riding with him, then thrust his fist out the carriage window. In another moment, the blue banner was fluttering behind them, suspended for a moment on the tail wind of their passing. Then, in elegant spirals, it curled to the street.
The man looked at the boy.
"We're nearly there," he said. "Be ready."
Gossamer had never felt more ready for anything in his life.
___
Prologue
The city of Dal-Kurin, old with grandeur, was lovelier under rain at twilight than ever. If Anoruval, only a few leagues distant, rose glorified in the waking dawn, the subtle majesty of Dal-Kurin was clearest in the last hours of day and most brilliant when subdued by the silver showers of winter. Beauty persisted as if the wasted body in the back room was little more than those gray moths caught burning in the candle wax: clear enough testimony of the cold indifference the beautiful things have for life. Even the sacred sorrow of rain was not left to the ugly feeling sitting in Gossamer's gut, but was crafted by cruel beauty into delight. Only death takes sorrow seriously, stripping loved faces of all familiar delicacies and leaving only the crevices of age and the scars of disease and, most sympathetic of all, empty, half-closed eyes that stare blindly into nothing.
Gossamer had tried to find sympathy in the rain by sitting at the balcony for hours, wet and cold but never wet or cold enough to match the polar gulf the death of Agnaithia T'nuval had poured into his heart. They had told him, from the time he was a small boy, that his mother would not live to see his fifteenth birthday. She had made it to his twelfth. Hardly a boy, Gossamer shouldered the weight few men knew. Death alone might have been bearable, had it come upon him suddenly. Had his mother been an abstract absence rather than a stiffening corpse, he may have found comfort in beautiful sadness. But Gossamer had been sitting in the rain for years, and all he had ever become was wet.
"Gossamer."
He did not look away from the rain.
"Come with me. You can't stay here anymore."
Gossamer pulled his knees to his chest and hardened his mouth. "This is my home."
"Not without your mother. Come quickly." A shadow fell across Gossamer's shoulder, and the voice—quiet but relentless—was closer. A pale hand extended to him, but Gossamer ignored it, looking instead up to the face.
He knew it well—gray eyes, dark hair, a care-lined face that had nothing to do with age. The young man wore brown and purple, and his mouth was as hard as Gossamer's.
"Where are we going?"
"To your grandmother's family."
Gossamer's eyes whipped back to the rain. "Why? Why can't I stay here?"
"They'll care for you. You don't have to be afraid. But you can't stay here. The T'nuval family has told me to take you there."
Gossamer waited a while longer, and the man seemed content to hover just behind him in silence, at least for a while. When the silence grew weary, he reached forward and set a heavy hand against Gossamer's shoulder, but the boy whirled with the frightened fury of a startled horse, and his eyes were no less wild.
"Don't touch me! You don't care where I end up—and neither do they. Fine." Gossamer adjusted his own garment—black with mourning, girded with a brilliant blue sash. "I'm not afraid, you know. But I'll go. The T'nuval clan can rot for all that I care. I'll be—what will I be?"
"You will always be T'nuval," the man said, his voice bored and gray. "Come with me."
With a last glance to the rain, as if hoping for some succor that never came, Gossamer followed him out—away from the home of his mother, away from the glittering heart of the city. Away, at last, from the cold blood of aristocracy.
They took him in a carriage to the old roads where the purple and green sash families built their one and two storied homes with clear glass windows that looked east. He remembered forever the first smell of the blacksmith fire, the first time he'd ever heard the clatter of chickens in the street, the first time he'd ever seen a young woman in a leather and forest green dress step out of her home in boots, her long yellow hair pleated and piled at the back of her neck, a basket of turnips under her arm.
Gossamer looked back to the east, toward the high glittering towers of Ral-sharin and the homes of his aunts and uncles and cousins. He looked down at his waist, where the blue sash hung rumpled in his lap. Methodically, he untied it, glanced at the brown-clad man riding with him, then thrust his fist out the carriage window. In another moment, the blue banner was fluttering behind them, suspended for a moment on the tail wind of their passing. Then, in elegant spirals, it curled to the street.
The man looked at the boy.
"We're nearly there," he said. "Be ready."
Gossamer had never felt more ready for anything in his life.