ORIGINAL FICTION | Ashes and Memory
title: Ashes and Memory
summary: There are many different ways to win and lose a war.
notes: The story which ended the long drought of not writing anything at all. Truth be told, it's more of an overview/sketch of a story than a story -- but this is the original. Since it was written a few months ago, the storyline and the characters have spawned an entirely different novel-length plotline which was originally attached to the story but somehow expanded past it. The original is still being re-worked.
The actual story Ashes and Memory is incomplete -- I'm still fleshing it out and re-working my phrasing. When it's finished, I'll re-post it; I only have one part out of five completed, so far. What is posted here is the original sketch I came up with at two in the morning -- and, following that, the completed segment, Last Man Standing.
The Original Plot Sketch: Ashes and Memory
The queen’s orders had been very clear as Sir Bastion knelt before a grim court. Remain here, Sir Bastion. Keep the book from the Others. Do not let anyone in. (But the ironclad command had in her voice contradicted the plea in her eyes.)
He wondered, now, if she had known what would follow. He had promised in any case-and Bastion kept his promises, through war and through siege.
The remaining knights of the Shield (the ones who weren’t dead, or dying) had taken a last stand outside the door, the enemy at their throats. He hadn’t been able to catch a final glimpse of their faces, separated by the famously unbreachable Iron Door, but their cries of Heaven! as swords clashed and they died came through clearly enough. Finally there had been silence, and he had known exactly what that meant.
Then the Others had dragged the queen up to the stone tower, laying out very clearly what they would do to her if he did not open the door. Bastion had nearly lost his resolve, then; he might have, if not for the last word the queen uttered: no. (Screams did not count as last words.) Like Bastion the Others kept their promises, and he heard it all. At last that, too, was over. Quiet came, for a time.
Sir Bastion sat silently in the center of the circular stone tower through it all. Battle raged outside the walls; he heard ever scream and clash, but saw none of it. Instead his eyes wandered from sword to candle to book, the only items in the small chamber. Death awaited him, and Bastion wished again-vainly-that he could have died in glory at the beginning rather than hell at the end.
It was almost a relief when, much later, the sounds of war ceased and the Others cemented their victory by bringing an ultimatum to the door. He didn’t know why they bothered-both sides knew what the outcome would be. Win the battle, lose the book.
His hand was steady as Bastion lifted a candle from its bracket, lowered it to the oil-soaked rope. Flames licked down its length, racing along the inward-spiraling curve to the book at the center. Soon the room would be nothing but flames; the bloody, realm-rending war’s locus destroyed and all of its dark lore lost. When the Others finally breached the door, the only remaining traces of the knight and of the book would be ashes and memory.
V. LAST MAN STANDING
This is the single completed section of the "good copy" of the story. It will be finished when I have the time and the drive, which is code for "I have no idea when".
It was almost a relief when, much later, the sounds of war ceased entirely and the Others cemented their victory by bringing an ultimatum to the door. He didn’t know why they bothered-both sides knew what the outcome would be. They had blastfire; he had the books.
Bastion knew what to do, of course, body moving as if trapped in a dream (or, perhaps, another time). His hand was steady as he lifted a candle from its bracket, lowered it to the oil-soaked rope which wound its way around the room. Flames licked down its length, racing along the inward-spiraling curve to the books at the center. Soon the room would be nothing but flames; the bloody, realm-rending war’s locus destroyed and all of its dark lore lost.
There was a gentle whisper as the flames merged with whatever was nearest-the shelves, the books, his sleeve-and it sounded like irrevocability, a conclusion, a closing. Bastion could feel the ghosts of his past coalescing around him, as clearly as he felt the unbearable heat racing down his skin. It wouldn't be long now. Heat-pain-then-then…
(After the tide turned, and turns again, this time irrevocably, the survivors struggled through the leavings of death and the king's men made haste to wrench the door from its charred frame-but all that remained as trace in the chamber were ashes and memory.)
summary: There are many different ways to win and lose a war.
notes: The story which ended the long drought of not writing anything at all. Truth be told, it's more of an overview/sketch of a story than a story -- but this is the original. Since it was written a few months ago, the storyline and the characters have spawned an entirely different novel-length plotline which was originally attached to the story but somehow expanded past it. The original is still being re-worked.
The actual story Ashes and Memory is incomplete -- I'm still fleshing it out and re-working my phrasing. When it's finished, I'll re-post it; I only have one part out of five completed, so far. What is posted here is the original sketch I came up with at two in the morning -- and, following that, the completed segment, Last Man Standing.
The Original Plot Sketch: Ashes and Memory
The queen’s orders had been very clear as Sir Bastion knelt before a grim court. Remain here, Sir Bastion. Keep the book from the Others. Do not let anyone in. (But the ironclad command had in her voice contradicted the plea in her eyes.)
He wondered, now, if she had known what would follow. He had promised in any case-and Bastion kept his promises, through war and through siege.
The remaining knights of the Shield (the ones who weren’t dead, or dying) had taken a last stand outside the door, the enemy at their throats. He hadn’t been able to catch a final glimpse of their faces, separated by the famously unbreachable Iron Door, but their cries of Heaven! as swords clashed and they died came through clearly enough. Finally there had been silence, and he had known exactly what that meant.
Then the Others had dragged the queen up to the stone tower, laying out very clearly what they would do to her if he did not open the door. Bastion had nearly lost his resolve, then; he might have, if not for the last word the queen uttered: no. (Screams did not count as last words.) Like Bastion the Others kept their promises, and he heard it all. At last that, too, was over. Quiet came, for a time.
Sir Bastion sat silently in the center of the circular stone tower through it all. Battle raged outside the walls; he heard ever scream and clash, but saw none of it. Instead his eyes wandered from sword to candle to book, the only items in the small chamber. Death awaited him, and Bastion wished again-vainly-that he could have died in glory at the beginning rather than hell at the end.
It was almost a relief when, much later, the sounds of war ceased and the Others cemented their victory by bringing an ultimatum to the door. He didn’t know why they bothered-both sides knew what the outcome would be. Win the battle, lose the book.
His hand was steady as Bastion lifted a candle from its bracket, lowered it to the oil-soaked rope. Flames licked down its length, racing along the inward-spiraling curve to the book at the center. Soon the room would be nothing but flames; the bloody, realm-rending war’s locus destroyed and all of its dark lore lost. When the Others finally breached the door, the only remaining traces of the knight and of the book would be ashes and memory.
V. LAST MAN STANDING
This is the single completed section of the "good copy" of the story. It will be finished when I have the time and the drive, which is code for "I have no idea when".
It was almost a relief when, much later, the sounds of war ceased entirely and the Others cemented their victory by bringing an ultimatum to the door. He didn’t know why they bothered-both sides knew what the outcome would be. They had blastfire; he had the books.
Bastion knew what to do, of course, body moving as if trapped in a dream (or, perhaps, another time). His hand was steady as he lifted a candle from its bracket, lowered it to the oil-soaked rope which wound its way around the room. Flames licked down its length, racing along the inward-spiraling curve to the books at the center. Soon the room would be nothing but flames; the bloody, realm-rending war’s locus destroyed and all of its dark lore lost.
There was a gentle whisper as the flames merged with whatever was nearest-the shelves, the books, his sleeve-and it sounded like irrevocability, a conclusion, a closing. Bastion could feel the ghosts of his past coalescing around him, as clearly as he felt the unbearable heat racing down his skin. It wouldn't be long now. Heat-pain-then-then…
(After the tide turned, and turns again, this time irrevocably, the survivors struggled through the leavings of death and the king's men made haste to wrench the door from its charred frame-but all that remained as trace in the chamber were ashes and memory.)