(no subject)
Endings
I have two swords. One is named Sorrow and the other Joy. These are not their real names. I do not think there is anyone alive who knows even the letters that are etched into the blue-black blades.
I know, but then I am not alive. Yet not dead. Something in between, hovering in the twilight, betwixt wakefulness and sleep, pinned to the board unable to go back, unable to go forward.
I do rest, but it is not sleep and i do not dream. I simply remember, the memories tumbling over one another, mixing and joining and mingling till i do not know when or where or how or why, and by nightfall it is unbearable and i rise from my troubled bed to howl at the moon or pace the corridors....
Or sit beneath the swords in the old cane chair, waiting for the chance of a visitor, the chance of change, the chance...
I have two daughters. One is named Sorrow and the other Joy.
These are not their real names. I do not think even they remember what they were called in the far-distant days of their youth. Neither they nor I can recall their mother's name,though sometimes in my daytime reveries I catch a glimpse of her face, the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the swish of a sleeve as she leaves the room and my memory.
They are hungrier than I, my daughters, and still have the thirst for blood.
This story has two endings. One is named Sorrow and the other Joy.
This is the first ending:
A great hero comes to my house without caution, as the sun falls. He is in the prime of life, tall and strong and arrogant. He meets my daughters in the garden, where they stand in the shade of the great oak. Two steps away lies the last sunlight, and he is clever enough to make use of that, and strong. There is pretended armour on both sides, and fangs strike true. Yet the hero is swifter with his silvered knife, and the sun is too close.
Silver poisons, and fire burns, and that is the finish of Sorrow and the end of Joy.
weakened, the hero staggers on, intent on finishing the epic that will be written about him. He find me in the cane chair, and above me Sorrow and Joy.
I give him the choice and tell him the names.
He chooses Sorrow, not realizing that is what he chooses for himself, and the blades are aptly named.
I do not feel sorrow for him, or for my daughters, but only for myself.
I do drink his blood, It had been a long time ... and he was a hero.
This is the second ending:
A young man not yet old enough to be a hero, great or small, comes to my garden with the dawn. He watches me through the window, and though I delay, at last I shuffle out of the cane chair, toward my bed.
There are bones at my feet, and a skull, the flesh long gone. I do not know whose bones they are. There are many skulls and bones about this house.
The boy enters through the window, borne on a shaft of sunlight. I pause in the shadowed doorway to watch as he examine the swords. His lips move, puzzling out what is written there, or so I must suppose. Perhaps no alphabet or language is ever really lost, as long as some of it survives.
He will ge no help from that ancient script, from that ancient life.
I call out the names I have given the swords, but he does not answer.
I do not see which weapon he chooses. Already memories rush at me, push at me, buffet and surround me. I do not know what has happened or will happen or might happen.
I am in my bed. the youth stands over me, the point of a sword pricking at my chest.
It is Joy and, I think, chosen through wisdom, not by luck. Who would have thought it of a boy not yet old enough to shave?
The steel is cold. Final. yet only dust bubbles from the wound.
Then comes the second blow, to the dry bones of the neck.
I have been waiting a long time for this ending.
Waiting for someone to choose for me.
To give me Joy instead of Sorrow.
Garth nix, Across the wall (endings), 2004 and such
I have two swords. One is named Sorrow and the other Joy. These are not their real names. I do not think there is anyone alive who knows even the letters that are etched into the blue-black blades.
I know, but then I am not alive. Yet not dead. Something in between, hovering in the twilight, betwixt wakefulness and sleep, pinned to the board unable to go back, unable to go forward.
I do rest, but it is not sleep and i do not dream. I simply remember, the memories tumbling over one another, mixing and joining and mingling till i do not know when or where or how or why, and by nightfall it is unbearable and i rise from my troubled bed to howl at the moon or pace the corridors....
Or sit beneath the swords in the old cane chair, waiting for the chance of a visitor, the chance of change, the chance...
I have two daughters. One is named Sorrow and the other Joy.
These are not their real names. I do not think even they remember what they were called in the far-distant days of their youth. Neither they nor I can recall their mother's name,though sometimes in my daytime reveries I catch a glimpse of her face, the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the swish of a sleeve as she leaves the room and my memory.
They are hungrier than I, my daughters, and still have the thirst for blood.
This story has two endings. One is named Sorrow and the other Joy.
This is the first ending:
A great hero comes to my house without caution, as the sun falls. He is in the prime of life, tall and strong and arrogant. He meets my daughters in the garden, where they stand in the shade of the great oak. Two steps away lies the last sunlight, and he is clever enough to make use of that, and strong. There is pretended armour on both sides, and fangs strike true. Yet the hero is swifter with his silvered knife, and the sun is too close.
Silver poisons, and fire burns, and that is the finish of Sorrow and the end of Joy.
weakened, the hero staggers on, intent on finishing the epic that will be written about him. He find me in the cane chair, and above me Sorrow and Joy.
I give him the choice and tell him the names.
He chooses Sorrow, not realizing that is what he chooses for himself, and the blades are aptly named.
I do not feel sorrow for him, or for my daughters, but only for myself.
I do drink his blood, It had been a long time ... and he was a hero.
This is the second ending:
A young man not yet old enough to be a hero, great or small, comes to my garden with the dawn. He watches me through the window, and though I delay, at last I shuffle out of the cane chair, toward my bed.
There are bones at my feet, and a skull, the flesh long gone. I do not know whose bones they are. There are many skulls and bones about this house.
The boy enters through the window, borne on a shaft of sunlight. I pause in the shadowed doorway to watch as he examine the swords. His lips move, puzzling out what is written there, or so I must suppose. Perhaps no alphabet or language is ever really lost, as long as some of it survives.
He will ge no help from that ancient script, from that ancient life.
I call out the names I have given the swords, but he does not answer.
I do not see which weapon he chooses. Already memories rush at me, push at me, buffet and surround me. I do not know what has happened or will happen or might happen.
I am in my bed. the youth stands over me, the point of a sword pricking at my chest.
It is Joy and, I think, chosen through wisdom, not by luck. Who would have thought it of a boy not yet old enough to shave?
The steel is cold. Final. yet only dust bubbles from the wound.
Then comes the second blow, to the dry bones of the neck.
I have been waiting a long time for this ending.
Waiting for someone to choose for me.
To give me Joy instead of Sorrow.
Garth nix, Across the wall (endings), 2004 and such