The Raven and the Rattler [1/3]
anonymous
October 16 2010, 19:01:00 UTC
Why am I doing this? I have other fills to complete…Damn my love of Poe!
England was drunk.
That seemed a harsh way of putting it, but he was. He was drunk and lonely and miserable, hiding here in the darkened nook of his private library, lit only by a weak and flickering fire in the hearth. The place should have been familiar to him, comforting. Here, he was surrounded by the familiar tomes of his personal collection, the beautifully illuminated volumes that bound his most stunning literature, most haunting spells and most brilliant moments of history into a solid and concrete form.
But there was no comfort to be found among the shelves tonight, nothing that could distract him from the aching emptiness of his loss, of three years spent across the sea in vain, struggling against the fury a force that should have crumpled before him only to be beaten down and lose the thing he’d clung to all along.
America…
The name shuddered through his mind like a musket ball. England let his glass fall from his hands, never minding how its dark contents stained the carpet below; the book he’d desperately tried to distract himself with soon followed. He leaned back in his chair, pressed his hands across his face and tried to force himself to sleep, so he would no longer be able to dwell.
Sleep would not come. Instead, he fancied he heard a visitor - perhaps a servant or some busy-body minister - rapping upon his chamber door.
England closed his eyes and ignored the sound. His ears craned for something else to hear and caught the fluttering of his curtains about the window frame. The wind beyond must be growing quite strong now, to force its way through the window’s lingering cracks. Perhaps a storm was brewing; perhaps it was bringing snow. It did not matter. He had a good fire, a good home, a good drink. He could weather any storm, any war, now that he was home.
The rapping came again upon his chamber door. The visitor, whoever they might be, was frustrating persistent. England rose, resigned, and made his way to the door. “My apologies,” he called as he undid the heavy latch, “but I was nearly sleeping when you arrived and almost thought your knocking was nothing more than a dream…”
With this, he opened wide the door. Yet, the hall beyond was empty; only darkness waited there.
England stood a moment, beneath the arch of his chamber door, and searched; but there was no more there than ever before. A cold wind howled through his ancient and lonely estate and, for a moment, he almost fancied he heard a child’s laughter echoing from further in.
“America,” he whispered, unable to stop the firing of the word.
The Raven and the Rattler [2/3]
anonymous
October 16 2010, 19:01:53 UTC
England shook himself and closed the door up tight once more. As he closed the final latch, he half-believed he felt something slid across his foot, like river water given a form neither fluid nor solid in its power. He looked, but there was nothing there - only the carpet, and the dancing light of his fire.
“Foolishness,” he muttered, scolding, and moved to return to his seat before the hearth; but scarcely had he reach the cushion when the rapping came again. This time he paused and focused, listening as the tapping echoed. Thus, he realized that it came not from the door, but from his windowpane.
“Bloody hell,” he said beneath his breath, pushing the curtains away to reveal the window beyond. He would put a stop to this, chase off whatever fool creature was behind it, and get on with it all.
When the window opened, it was with a burst of icy wind that nearly flung him off his feet. His heel caught on the carpet and he tripped, falling to the ground as some large and dark swept in from the night. England craned his head back to follow, astounded, as the tremendous raven settled upon the mantle place above his chamber door. It sat and perched and stared at him, with great dark eyes like endless pits, and moved no more.
England roll to his knees, and scowled at the bird, his disposition soured by the icy wind breathing down his neck. “You’re no normal beast,” he said with conviction. “You act as no normal creature would. A commune of the Fae, perhaps. Tell me, creature, have you a name?”
The Raven whispered, “Nevermore.”
England’s scowl deepened as he rose, moving to close his windows enough to shut out the howling winter fury. True, he had great knowledge of the haunting this that stalked the darkness, but he’d never heard of a beast, of either this world or another, with a name like ‘Nevermore.’
“Foolish,” he muttered again, scolding his own fancy. There was no reason to believe this creature to be anything more than what it seemed - a bird, a beast, a creature seeking only warmth within, and a distraction.
He ignored the bird, who watched him ever, and returned to his chair, bending as he sat to retrieve the book he had abandoned. His head was muddled and his thought unsteady, but still he thought he felt something other brushing by his hand. He looked, but there was nothing there; only book and glass and hand.
Still the raven sat above his chamber door, watching ever with those endless eyes. England tried, but found the creature’s gaze impossible to ignore. It was as though the beast were boring ever further, into England’s very core, like fire allowed to spread unchecked through a weak and wooden structure. The book, he found, was no more diversion than it had ever been before. Instead, his mind was allowed to wander, linking fancy unto fancy on this ominous bird of yore.
In the hearth, the fire danced, spraying shadows across the floor. England watched them and almost fancied that he saw within their fluttering the shade of a child long forgotten, lost to history and more. He’d a room like this in the home he’d built for his charge, filled with schoolbooks and histories to enrich a growing child’s mind. Still he recalled the long nights of his all-too-brief vacations, sitting beside the fire as America lay sprawled across the carpet, practicing his letters and glowing with affection and pride.
The Raven and the Rattler [3/3]
anonymous
October 16 2010, 19:03:07 UTC
And there among the patterns, another movement he spied, this unlike anything the fire could have conjured. It was fluid yet solid, and strong, with muscles curling and uncurling through its natural motions as it slithered o’er the floor. A second later he heard the rattle, like uncooked beans within a kettle, shattering the silence like glass against a stone.
England leapt upon his cushions, grasping the back of his chair. The serpent slithered where his feet once rested, pushing through the fire’s light, and looked at him with eyes of gleaming molten gold. Its tongue, a fork like tool of devils, fluttered in the darkness, tasting England’s fear. The rattle upon the tip of its tail shuddered, giving warning, soft as thunder, before it slithered ever further across the barren chamber floor.
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Wretch!” cried England, “to bring a serpent with you into the chambers of a gracious host! Wherever you’ve come from, beneath the mountain or above the sky, now return, and take it with you! This, the one creature I’d care never to see!”
The raven watched with cold dispassion, never moving, never stirring. The snake, it seemed, had settled further by the fire on the floor, right where England’s foot would rest if he risked to step. Against the flames it seemed to glisten black, hissing like the Gadsden demon; but no more so a source of ire than the raven upon the door.
England leapt then for the window, vaulting over snake and rattle, landing hard upon the carpet and flinging shudders wide. Cold winter rushed within his chambers, carrying ice and snow and water, and threatened to extinguish the fire that still sat upon the chamber floor. He turned then to the raven, fear and fire fresh within him, for neither creature sought to move now from either carpet or the chamber door.
“Prophet,” said he, “thing of evil - isn’t this enough already? To have fought and starved and lost my child in this foolish foreign war? Is there no way to continue, to live on without this memory, to sooth the pain and forget the loss and return to the way things were before?”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
England swallowed fear within him and sank upon the window ledge, trying in vain to block out the rattling serpent’s sounds, which grew louder with each passing moment like the fury of the storm. “Is there no chance then,” he asked in whisper, “no reconciliation to be found? Tell, will I ever see him run to meet me, see him smile, laugh and greet me, or hold him in my arms again, the way we did before?”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
For moment brief, England’s emptiness consumed him, loneliness and sorrow haunting every corner of his core. Then it was replaced by fire, rage and fury stoked by ire, and he leapt across the chamber as he never had before. From the hearth he snatched a poker, bringing it around to strike the serpent where it lay before his chair upon the floor. Drove to near-madness by his fury, he brought it down upon the creature with such force that the serpent’s form was shattered, spilling blood across the floor.
When England paused again, the snake lay dead before him, its blood soaking with his drink to stain carpet beyond repair. England dropped the blood-stained weapon and turned again to gaze, one more, upon the raven, who sat still watching, upon the mantle above the door.
“Leave,” he said, voice rough and broken. “Leave me be. Return now to your devil’s haunt and haunt me nevermore. Leave no black plume as a token and quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door.”
But quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Sorry if it got a little weird there towards the end. I got reeeeaaaally caught up in the poem. ^.^;
Not OP (But a major Poe fan!)
anonymous
October 16 2010, 19:19:51 UTC
Writer Anon you are a wonderful person! I really liked how you worked in the "Don't Tread On Me" snake. You did a beautiful job of changing the poem to a poetic narrative that just got more and more poetic at it went on!
8D This makes me so happy! I'll admit I had to look up the snake reference but having it in there makes it even better!
I feel bad for England but gosh darn I love these kinds of things. You did the poem justice I think and I didn't find the ending weird at all, I liked it. I send lots of love and gratitude to you for this!
England was drunk.
That seemed a harsh way of putting it, but he was. He was drunk and lonely and miserable, hiding here in the darkened nook of his private library, lit only by a weak and flickering fire in the hearth. The place should have been familiar to him, comforting. Here, he was surrounded by the familiar tomes of his personal collection, the beautifully illuminated volumes that bound his most stunning literature, most haunting spells and most brilliant moments of history into a solid and concrete form.
But there was no comfort to be found among the shelves tonight, nothing that could distract him from the aching emptiness of his loss, of three years spent across the sea in vain, struggling against the fury a force that should have crumpled before him only to be beaten down and lose the thing he’d clung to all along.
America…
The name shuddered through his mind like a musket ball. England let his glass fall from his hands, never minding how its dark contents stained the carpet below; the book he’d desperately tried to distract himself with soon followed. He leaned back in his chair, pressed his hands across his face and tried to force himself to sleep, so he would no longer be able to dwell.
Sleep would not come. Instead, he fancied he heard a visitor - perhaps a servant or some busy-body minister - rapping upon his chamber door.
England closed his eyes and ignored the sound. His ears craned for something else to hear and caught the fluttering of his curtains about the window frame. The wind beyond must be growing quite strong now, to force its way through the window’s lingering cracks. Perhaps a storm was brewing; perhaps it was bringing snow. It did not matter. He had a good fire, a good home, a good drink. He could weather any storm, any war, now that he was home.
The rapping came again upon his chamber door. The visitor, whoever they might be, was frustrating persistent. England rose, resigned, and made his way to the door. “My apologies,” he called as he undid the heavy latch, “but I was nearly sleeping when you arrived and almost thought your knocking was nothing more than a dream…”
With this, he opened wide the door. Yet, the hall beyond was empty; only darkness waited there.
England stood a moment, beneath the arch of his chamber door, and searched; but there was no more there than ever before. A cold wind howled through his ancient and lonely estate and, for a moment, he almost fancied he heard a child’s laughter echoing from further in.
“America,” he whispered, unable to stop the firing of the word.
“America,” said the darkness in return.
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“Foolishness,” he muttered, scolding, and moved to return to his seat before the hearth; but scarcely had he reach the cushion when the rapping came again. This time he paused and focused, listening as the tapping echoed. Thus, he realized that it came not from the door, but from his windowpane.
“Bloody hell,” he said beneath his breath, pushing the curtains away to reveal the window beyond. He would put a stop to this, chase off whatever fool creature was behind it, and get on with it all.
When the window opened, it was with a burst of icy wind that nearly flung him off his feet. His heel caught on the carpet and he tripped, falling to the ground as some large and dark swept in from the night. England craned his head back to follow, astounded, as the tremendous raven settled upon the mantle place above his chamber door. It sat and perched and stared at him, with great dark eyes like endless pits, and moved no more.
England roll to his knees, and scowled at the bird, his disposition soured by the icy wind breathing down his neck. “You’re no normal beast,” he said with conviction. “You act as no normal creature would. A commune of the Fae, perhaps. Tell me, creature, have you a name?”
The Raven whispered, “Nevermore.”
England’s scowl deepened as he rose, moving to close his windows enough to shut out the howling winter fury. True, he had great knowledge of the haunting this that stalked the darkness, but he’d never heard of a beast, of either this world or another, with a name like ‘Nevermore.’
“Foolish,” he muttered again, scolding his own fancy. There was no reason to believe this creature to be anything more than what it seemed - a bird, a beast, a creature seeking only warmth within, and a distraction.
He ignored the bird, who watched him ever, and returned to his chair, bending as he sat to retrieve the book he had abandoned. His head was muddled and his thought unsteady, but still he thought he felt something other brushing by his hand. He looked, but there was nothing there; only book and glass and hand.
Still the raven sat above his chamber door, watching ever with those endless eyes. England tried, but found the creature’s gaze impossible to ignore. It was as though the beast were boring ever further, into England’s very core, like fire allowed to spread unchecked through a weak and wooden structure. The book, he found, was no more diversion than it had ever been before. Instead, his mind was allowed to wander, linking fancy unto fancy on this ominous bird of yore.
In the hearth, the fire danced, spraying shadows across the floor. England watched them and almost fancied that he saw within their fluttering the shade of a child long forgotten, lost to history and more. He’d a room like this in the home he’d built for his charge, filled with schoolbooks and histories to enrich a growing child’s mind. Still he recalled the long nights of his all-too-brief vacations, sitting beside the fire as America lay sprawled across the carpet, practicing his letters and glowing with affection and pride.
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England leapt upon his cushions, grasping the back of his chair. The serpent slithered where his feet once rested, pushing through the fire’s light, and looked at him with eyes of gleaming molten gold. Its tongue, a fork like tool of devils, fluttered in the darkness, tasting England’s fear. The rattle upon the tip of its tail shuddered, giving warning, soft as thunder, before it slithered ever further across the barren chamber floor.
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
“Wretch!” cried England, “to bring a serpent with you into the chambers of a gracious host! Wherever you’ve come from, beneath the mountain or above the sky, now return, and take it with you! This, the one creature I’d care never to see!”
The raven watched with cold dispassion, never moving, never stirring. The snake, it seemed, had settled further by the fire on the floor, right where England’s foot would rest if he risked to step. Against the flames it seemed to glisten black, hissing like the Gadsden demon; but no more so a source of ire than the raven upon the door.
England leapt then for the window, vaulting over snake and rattle, landing hard upon the carpet and flinging shudders wide. Cold winter rushed within his chambers, carrying ice and snow and water, and threatened to extinguish the fire that still sat upon the chamber floor. He turned then to the raven, fear and fire fresh within him, for neither creature sought to move now from either carpet or the chamber door.
“Prophet,” said he, “thing of evil - isn’t this enough already? To have fought and starved and lost my child in this foolish foreign war? Is there no way to continue, to live on without this memory, to sooth the pain and forget the loss and return to the way things were before?”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
England swallowed fear within him and sank upon the window ledge, trying in vain to block out the rattling serpent’s sounds, which grew louder with each passing moment like the fury of the storm. “Is there no chance then,” he asked in whisper, “no reconciliation to be found? Tell, will I ever see him run to meet me, see him smile, laugh and greet me, or hold him in my arms again, the way we did before?”
Quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
For moment brief, England’s emptiness consumed him, loneliness and sorrow haunting every corner of his core. Then it was replaced by fire, rage and fury stoked by ire, and he leapt across the chamber as he never had before. From the hearth he snatched a poker, bringing it around to strike the serpent where it lay before his chair upon the floor. Drove to near-madness by his fury, he brought it down upon the creature with such force that the serpent’s form was shattered, spilling blood across the floor.
When England paused again, the snake lay dead before him, its blood soaking with his drink to stain carpet beyond repair. England dropped the blood-stained weapon and turned again to gaze, one more, upon the raven, who sat still watching, upon the mantle above the door.
“Leave,” he said, voice rough and broken. “Leave me be. Return now to your devil’s haunt and haunt me nevermore. Leave no black plume as a token and quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door.”
But quoth the raven, “Nevermore.”
Sorry if it got a little weird there towards the end. I got reeeeaaaally caught up in the poem. ^.^;
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I feel bad for England but gosh darn I love these kinds of things. You did the poem justice I think and I didn't find the ending weird at all, I liked it. I send lots of love and gratitude to you for this!
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Love it!
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