Story Preview: The Bearskin Cloak by Horridporrid (Fairytale AU, Gen)
The Idea:
I was crossing a street, thinking about SGA (as you do), when I had this visual of Ronon. He was watching something burn and, though he was trying to be stoic and strong, he was totally wrecked by what he was seeing. The image was powerful enough that it occupied me for the rest of my walk. What was burning? Why did it hit Ronon so hard? What was he going to do next?
Fire, for me, suggests the oldest sort of stories. Back when monsters lurked in the darkness and you didn't go into the woods alone. So, if it started with a fire, then Ronon's story had to be just as dark and grim. It had to be a fairytale.
The Inspiration:
A vaguely remembered fairytale, nearly forgotten except for a few particularly lurid images, seemed the perfect fit. I started writing. I hit a plot-snag. I unleashed my google-fu and searched out the story that had inspired me.
As it turned out, the story wasn't all that old: The Traveling Companion by Hans Christian Anderson. Unfortunately, the story's theme could be summed up as, "Fathers! Control your daughters!" which didn't thrill me all that much. But the lurid images I'd remembered were still delicious enough to keep and the basic structure was sound. So I kept what I liked, threw out what I didn't, and let the rest of the story come as it would.
This is how it starts...
The Bearskin Cloak
Smoke and flame filled Ronon's vision, engulfing the black outlines of the burning house. He could hear its death roar, the heavy crash of timber beams as the wood his great-great-grandfather had felled collapsed in on itself. A giant burst of sparks flung into the night sky, danced briefly across the familiar constellations, and were gone.
Ronon kept staring up, not wanting to watch his mother's garden burn, watch the fire rip through rows of beets and radishes, squash and rhubarb, rushing greedily towards the barn and outbuildings. His face was wet and the stars were blurring and the heat from the flames drove him back a step -
She stared at him in horror, her impossibly wizened hand clutching a smoking kerosene lamp. "No," she said, her voice weaker than he'd ever heard it. Not even when a cranky kick from his uncle's mule had broken her ribs, back when he was twelve and thought himself strong enough to hold the beast. "Not now, not like this."
He stepped back. A small step, all instinct and fear. But this was his mother, too strong to be felled like this: shriveled and shaking, all the strength drained from her. He glanced around the once familiar room, seeing but not making sense of the kindling papers and firewood strewn across the usually spotless floors.
A corpse was laid out on the dinner table. An old man in too large clothes, withered away to skin and dust. His father, dead from the plague that had wiped out Ronon's battalion, the plague that was now killing his mother. His despair outweighed his cowardice, pushed Ronon forward. "Mama," he said, like he was six again and she had the power to make it all better.
She shook in his arms, frail and failing. "I'm sorry, Ronon," she said. "I didn't want you to see us like - " a coughing fit wracked her body.
Ronon smoothly shifted his hold, bracing her shoulders while still giving her room to cough up the blood and phlegm her body was expelling. Just as he'd done for Tyre and Hemi and Ara and others withered past recognition. She coughed and choked -
Squeezing his eyes tight, desperate to shut out the memory, Ronon stepped back, and back again. It didn't work. His mother's ravaged face filled his vision. ("No... Not now, not like this...") He stumbled and turned and ran. Into the woods, shadow-black and treacherous, running past thickets he'd once hid in as a boy, leaping the small gully he'd pretended was the great Genii river when he'd played soldiers with his cousins. Branches ripped at his clothes, slashed at his face, grabbed at his ankles and still he ran. Away from the burning bier that had been his home, away from the parents he'd failed.
I was crossing a street, thinking about SGA (as you do), when I had this visual of Ronon. He was watching something burn and, though he was trying to be stoic and strong, he was totally wrecked by what he was seeing. The image was powerful enough that it occupied me for the rest of my walk. What was burning? Why did it hit Ronon so hard? What was he going to do next?
Fire, for me, suggests the oldest sort of stories. Back when monsters lurked in the darkness and you didn't go into the woods alone. So, if it started with a fire, then Ronon's story had to be just as dark and grim. It had to be a fairytale.
The Inspiration:
A vaguely remembered fairytale, nearly forgotten except for a few particularly lurid images, seemed the perfect fit. I started writing. I hit a plot-snag. I unleashed my google-fu and searched out the story that had inspired me.
As it turned out, the story wasn't all that old: The Traveling Companion by Hans Christian Anderson. Unfortunately, the story's theme could be summed up as, "Fathers! Control your daughters!" which didn't thrill me all that much. But the lurid images I'd remembered were still delicious enough to keep and the basic structure was sound. So I kept what I liked, threw out what I didn't, and let the rest of the story come as it would.
This is how it starts...
The Bearskin Cloak
Smoke and flame filled Ronon's vision, engulfing the black outlines of the burning house. He could hear its death roar, the heavy crash of timber beams as the wood his great-great-grandfather had felled collapsed in on itself. A giant burst of sparks flung into the night sky, danced briefly across the familiar constellations, and were gone.
Ronon kept staring up, not wanting to watch his mother's garden burn, watch the fire rip through rows of beets and radishes, squash and rhubarb, rushing greedily towards the barn and outbuildings. His face was wet and the stars were blurring and the heat from the flames drove him back a step -
She stared at him in horror, her impossibly wizened hand clutching a smoking kerosene lamp. "No," she said, her voice weaker than he'd ever heard it. Not even when a cranky kick from his uncle's mule had broken her ribs, back when he was twelve and thought himself strong enough to hold the beast. "Not now, not like this."
He stepped back. A small step, all instinct and fear. But this was his mother, too strong to be felled like this: shriveled and shaking, all the strength drained from her. He glanced around the once familiar room, seeing but not making sense of the kindling papers and firewood strewn across the usually spotless floors.
A corpse was laid out on the dinner table. An old man in too large clothes, withered away to skin and dust. His father, dead from the plague that had wiped out Ronon's battalion, the plague that was now killing his mother. His despair outweighed his cowardice, pushed Ronon forward. "Mama," he said, like he was six again and she had the power to make it all better.
She shook in his arms, frail and failing. "I'm sorry, Ronon," she said. "I didn't want you to see us like - " a coughing fit wracked her body.
Ronon smoothly shifted his hold, bracing her shoulders while still giving her room to cough up the blood and phlegm her body was expelling. Just as he'd done for Tyre and Hemi and Ara and others withered past recognition. She coughed and choked -
Squeezing his eyes tight, desperate to shut out the memory, Ronon stepped back, and back again. It didn't work. His mother's ravaged face filled his vision. ("No... Not now, not like this...") He stumbled and turned and ran. Into the woods, shadow-black and treacherous, running past thickets he'd once hid in as a boy, leaping the small gully he'd pretended was the great Genii river when he'd played soldiers with his cousins. Branches ripped at his clothes, slashed at his face, grabbed at his ankles and still he ran. Away from the burning bier that had been his home, away from the parents he'd failed.