[Gormenghast] fics20in20 Round 3 Entry: Ten Themes
Author's Note: Or at least the rest of them since I've already posted one
"Dark"
Word Count: 113
Many passageways in the castle lay buried in darkness, thick in the air as the dust on the floor. No ray of noonday sun found its way over the rooftops to light windows shrouded by shadows or masses of ivy that grew over the walls and veiled the apertures. Forgotten rooms lay unlit by candle or lamp for decades, even centuries. Darkness seemed to these rooms as much part and parcel as the dust-covered and worm-eaten floors or the ceilings dropping cracked plaster. For a light to be kindled within them seemed as much a blasphemy as to spit on the Stones or to tear down the ivy that clothed them.
"Draft"
Word count: 121
Titus had, for once, broken free of footman and servant, hiding himself deep in a trackless wing that had known no human occupant in ages. All the better to hide from those who knew not the corridors of the castle as he did.
Finding a room with a store of unlit candles awaiting in cobwebbed candelabra on a dusty table, he lit one the better to explore his domain.
In venturing along one passageway, leaving footprints where no one had tread, he felt a draft of wind caress his face. The candle flames flattened and guttered, but did not extinguish.
But as he turned a corner into another passage, a second draft arose and doused the flames, plunging him into blackness.
"Damn"
Word count: 102
--Damn the Stones and the Law and the traditions that seemed more important than replacing the mortar between them and shoring up the walls that were crumbling.
--Damn the young lord for ignoring his duties and running off at the drop of a napkin.
--Damn the Undersecretary of the Ritual. If he found the Laws so important, let him be the one to shoulder them and carry them out to the letter, instead of him
--Damn the wretch. His petulance and stubbornness are proof that the house of Groan has had its day and a new day must start with fresh blood.
"Draft"
Word count: 117
An autumn day, the colored leaves and dead needles from the pines littered the quadrangle below the window to the Ritual Master's window, where the wind had dropped them. Steerpike sat perched on the sill, watching as the young lord passed below, head bowed, as a bevy of footmen lead the youth to the next site for the day's Rituals.
He felt a stone in the sill rock under his palm: such a simple matter to shift his hand and let the stone drop, striking the young usurper on the head and killing him, or at the least rendering him comatose. That would leave just two more to eliminate on his path to the crown he craved.
"Dearth"
Word count: 136
Gormenghast suffered from a dearth of mirth, in Prunesquallor's opinion. The weight of the Stones seemed to bear down on those who dwelt there, for no good reason than they were *there*. No one needed to bear the entire weight on their shoulders, least of all the young earl, who despite his tender years threatened to inherit his noble and superannuated father's dour demeanor. At least the youth chose to cast off his burden by fleeing into the woods. Perhaps botany or zoology would divert the youth when he wasn't caught up with his duties to the dust and dry rot of the castle: better that than maundering about among the silverfish in the library: perhaps the loss of those copious volumes to that so, so mysterious fire proved a blessing in disguise to the juvenile...
"Don't"
Word count: 121
The young earl had made yet another of his little escape attempts, thinking he could take advantage of the twisting corridors and forgotten passageways as a means of concealing himself. And for the thousandth time, a search party had been sent to find him. Well, he wasn't the only young man who knew his ways about the stony pile.
Steerpike spotted the younger man trying to secret himself into an alcove veiled by a curtain of cobwebs. But the servant moved quicker than the master and soon pinned him against the wall.
"Don't--" the young earl snapped, indignant. But Steerpike clamped a hand over Titus's mouth, muffling his petulance.
"Don't run off, and I shan't be obliged to track you down."
"Dawdle"
Word count: 117
A warm day in early summer, and Titus sat stuck in Bellgrove's classroom, staring at a page of numbers and figures to calculate and gurgitate the results back onto the page. The breeze coming in at the window and the rustle of the branches of the trees just outside made him think of the Wild Thing. He let his eye stray from the cold page and up to the greenery framed by the window, imagining that the branches swayed because she perched in them.
"Master Titus," Bellgrove's indulgent voice cut into his reverie. "Do feel free to dawdle over your algebra. The trees outside have all the time in the world, but sadly, this class does not."
"Dapper"
Word count: 142
Fuschia admired well-dressed men: Dr. Prunesquallor, in his black suit and violet satin waistcoat, often with a sprig of flowers in his buttonhole, seemed the very picture of how a dapper man should look, despite the way his prematurely greying hair stood up like a shock of wiry grass.
She tried to make sure Titus looked well-dressed, as befit his title, but under his bronze-colored ceremonial cape, his jackets were often rumpled and his trousers muddied from the times he had escaped the castle through a tunnel that lead under the walls.
But perhaps the most dapper man in the castle was Steerpike: once he had affected those matte black suits, a sword-cane under his arm, he seemed a far different man than the scrawny kitchen rat in a grease-spattered uniform who had scrambled into her window.
"Drag"
Word count: 124
Life for Steerpike seemed to be a series of incidents in which someone larger and stronger than he dragged him about, whether it was Swelter dragging him out of a cubbyhole under a cabinet in the Great Kitchen at some unholy hour, of Flay dragging him down the Stone Lanes after catching him in the act of sneaking about, observing someone or something that could be of import at a later time.
It pleased him a little too much, that it now came his turn to be the one dragging the young earl about, hauling him out of bed or away from his studies or out of some hiding place about the castle, because duty called the youth to something more important than rebellion.
"Dark"
Word Count: 113
Many passageways in the castle lay buried in darkness, thick in the air as the dust on the floor. No ray of noonday sun found its way over the rooftops to light windows shrouded by shadows or masses of ivy that grew over the walls and veiled the apertures. Forgotten rooms lay unlit by candle or lamp for decades, even centuries. Darkness seemed to these rooms as much part and parcel as the dust-covered and worm-eaten floors or the ceilings dropping cracked plaster. For a light to be kindled within them seemed as much a blasphemy as to spit on the Stones or to tear down the ivy that clothed them.
"Draft"
Word count: 121
Titus had, for once, broken free of footman and servant, hiding himself deep in a trackless wing that had known no human occupant in ages. All the better to hide from those who knew not the corridors of the castle as he did.
Finding a room with a store of unlit candles awaiting in cobwebbed candelabra on a dusty table, he lit one the better to explore his domain.
In venturing along one passageway, leaving footprints where no one had tread, he felt a draft of wind caress his face. The candle flames flattened and guttered, but did not extinguish.
But as he turned a corner into another passage, a second draft arose and doused the flames, plunging him into blackness.
"Damn"
Word count: 102
--Damn the Stones and the Law and the traditions that seemed more important than replacing the mortar between them and shoring up the walls that were crumbling.
--Damn the young lord for ignoring his duties and running off at the drop of a napkin.
--Damn the Undersecretary of the Ritual. If he found the Laws so important, let him be the one to shoulder them and carry them out to the letter, instead of him
--Damn the wretch. His petulance and stubbornness are proof that the house of Groan has had its day and a new day must start with fresh blood.
"Draft"
Word count: 117
An autumn day, the colored leaves and dead needles from the pines littered the quadrangle below the window to the Ritual Master's window, where the wind had dropped them. Steerpike sat perched on the sill, watching as the young lord passed below, head bowed, as a bevy of footmen lead the youth to the next site for the day's Rituals.
He felt a stone in the sill rock under his palm: such a simple matter to shift his hand and let the stone drop, striking the young usurper on the head and killing him, or at the least rendering him comatose. That would leave just two more to eliminate on his path to the crown he craved.
"Dearth"
Word count: 136
Gormenghast suffered from a dearth of mirth, in Prunesquallor's opinion. The weight of the Stones seemed to bear down on those who dwelt there, for no good reason than they were *there*. No one needed to bear the entire weight on their shoulders, least of all the young earl, who despite his tender years threatened to inherit his noble and superannuated father's dour demeanor. At least the youth chose to cast off his burden by fleeing into the woods. Perhaps botany or zoology would divert the youth when he wasn't caught up with his duties to the dust and dry rot of the castle: better that than maundering about among the silverfish in the library: perhaps the loss of those copious volumes to that so, so mysterious fire proved a blessing in disguise to the juvenile...
"Don't"
Word count: 121
The young earl had made yet another of his little escape attempts, thinking he could take advantage of the twisting corridors and forgotten passageways as a means of concealing himself. And for the thousandth time, a search party had been sent to find him. Well, he wasn't the only young man who knew his ways about the stony pile.
Steerpike spotted the younger man trying to secret himself into an alcove veiled by a curtain of cobwebs. But the servant moved quicker than the master and soon pinned him against the wall.
"Don't--" the young earl snapped, indignant. But Steerpike clamped a hand over Titus's mouth, muffling his petulance.
"Don't run off, and I shan't be obliged to track you down."
"Dawdle"
Word count: 117
A warm day in early summer, and Titus sat stuck in Bellgrove's classroom, staring at a page of numbers and figures to calculate and gurgitate the results back onto the page. The breeze coming in at the window and the rustle of the branches of the trees just outside made him think of the Wild Thing. He let his eye stray from the cold page and up to the greenery framed by the window, imagining that the branches swayed because she perched in them.
"Master Titus," Bellgrove's indulgent voice cut into his reverie. "Do feel free to dawdle over your algebra. The trees outside have all the time in the world, but sadly, this class does not."
"Dapper"
Word count: 142
Fuschia admired well-dressed men: Dr. Prunesquallor, in his black suit and violet satin waistcoat, often with a sprig of flowers in his buttonhole, seemed the very picture of how a dapper man should look, despite the way his prematurely greying hair stood up like a shock of wiry grass.
She tried to make sure Titus looked well-dressed, as befit his title, but under his bronze-colored ceremonial cape, his jackets were often rumpled and his trousers muddied from the times he had escaped the castle through a tunnel that lead under the walls.
But perhaps the most dapper man in the castle was Steerpike: once he had affected those matte black suits, a sword-cane under his arm, he seemed a far different man than the scrawny kitchen rat in a grease-spattered uniform who had scrambled into her window.
"Drag"
Word count: 124
Life for Steerpike seemed to be a series of incidents in which someone larger and stronger than he dragged him about, whether it was Swelter dragging him out of a cubbyhole under a cabinet in the Great Kitchen at some unholy hour, of Flay dragging him down the Stone Lanes after catching him in the act of sneaking about, observing someone or something that could be of import at a later time.
It pleased him a little too much, that it now came his turn to be the one dragging the young earl about, hauling him out of bed or away from his studies or out of some hiding place about the castle, because duty called the youth to something more important than rebellion.