Fic: Stay, thou art so beautiful - Prologue
Prologue
Master post of all chapters here.
Prologue
The first memory Eames has is of staring into a flame. Such a small thing, the lit end of a candle--but to a youthful eye it seemed hungry enough to consume the whole world.
As a boy, his grandmother regaled him with tales of living flames, the will-o'-the-wisps that haunted the moorland encircling their estate, luring those who wandered at night off marked paths. "What becomes of their prey?" Eames asked.
"It varies from wisp to wisp, demon to demon," she replied, yellowed teeth baring as the wrinkles of her face shifted into something resembling a smile. "Some ghostly lights lead travelers to riches beyond their wildest imaginations, while others lead hapless souls to their ends in bog."
"But one must always beware the lures of demons," she cautioned. "The supernatural world cares nothing about human life and death. Any reward a demon promises is bought with a price that will be too much for any mortal to endure."
"What foolishness you speak," Eames' father declared the first time he heard her talk of such things. "We live in a world of science and reason, not magic and mysticism. Prometheus didn't discover fire, and the gods didn't punish him for giving it to the rest of mankind."
"And who do you think benefits most from these scientific advances?" she replied. "A demon can live in the shadow of a machine as easily as he lives in the shadow of a candle-as long as shadows exist in men's hearts, so shall they."
Eames remembered the evening that she passed, the way the manor creaked when he stepped in her room, wind gusting through the open window from across the grey landscape outside. It hadn't been a peaceful death at all-her mouth parted in a last rattling gasp, eyes wide and unfocused.
In the years after, his father retreated further into his world of academic study, disinterest in Eames only seeming to grow with time. Eames' mother was long dead, and a cavalcade of nannies and au pairs did their best to relieve Eames of the hideous boredom of the estate, distract him from the sounds of his father pacing in the room above his, muttering to himself at all hours of the night or day.
Scholastically, Eames followed in his father's considerable footsteps: the oldest institutions, the finest education, the most pedigreed stock. "A formidable mind-much in the mold of his father," was the consistent refrain of teachers, administrators, even his grudging classmates.
Despite all the praise and adulation he received, Eames could hardly stand each day that passed. To live only as an echo of his father was unbearable, and so he took the coursing river of fate into his hands and changed it.
"I hope you don't expect your father's name to carry much weight here," the military recruiter said as he flipped through Eames' file. "This isn't a place for bored children to wave guns about and play at being heroes."
"I've no interest in heroics," Eames replied. "Nor in riding on my father's coattails. All I want is an opportunity."
And so he received one.
Onto Act I
Master post of all chapters here.
Prologue
The first memory Eames has is of staring into a flame. Such a small thing, the lit end of a candle--but to a youthful eye it seemed hungry enough to consume the whole world.
As a boy, his grandmother regaled him with tales of living flames, the will-o'-the-wisps that haunted the moorland encircling their estate, luring those who wandered at night off marked paths. "What becomes of their prey?" Eames asked.
"It varies from wisp to wisp, demon to demon," she replied, yellowed teeth baring as the wrinkles of her face shifted into something resembling a smile. "Some ghostly lights lead travelers to riches beyond their wildest imaginations, while others lead hapless souls to their ends in bog."
"But one must always beware the lures of demons," she cautioned. "The supernatural world cares nothing about human life and death. Any reward a demon promises is bought with a price that will be too much for any mortal to endure."
"What foolishness you speak," Eames' father declared the first time he heard her talk of such things. "We live in a world of science and reason, not magic and mysticism. Prometheus didn't discover fire, and the gods didn't punish him for giving it to the rest of mankind."
"And who do you think benefits most from these scientific advances?" she replied. "A demon can live in the shadow of a machine as easily as he lives in the shadow of a candle-as long as shadows exist in men's hearts, so shall they."
Eames remembered the evening that she passed, the way the manor creaked when he stepped in her room, wind gusting through the open window from across the grey landscape outside. It hadn't been a peaceful death at all-her mouth parted in a last rattling gasp, eyes wide and unfocused.
In the years after, his father retreated further into his world of academic study, disinterest in Eames only seeming to grow with time. Eames' mother was long dead, and a cavalcade of nannies and au pairs did their best to relieve Eames of the hideous boredom of the estate, distract him from the sounds of his father pacing in the room above his, muttering to himself at all hours of the night or day.
Scholastically, Eames followed in his father's considerable footsteps: the oldest institutions, the finest education, the most pedigreed stock. "A formidable mind-much in the mold of his father," was the consistent refrain of teachers, administrators, even his grudging classmates.
Despite all the praise and adulation he received, Eames could hardly stand each day that passed. To live only as an echo of his father was unbearable, and so he took the coursing river of fate into his hands and changed it.
"I hope you don't expect your father's name to carry much weight here," the military recruiter said as he flipped through Eames' file. "This isn't a place for bored children to wave guns about and play at being heroes."
"I've no interest in heroics," Eames replied. "Nor in riding on my father's coattails. All I want is an opportunity."
And so he received one.
Onto Act I