The horror, the horror...
No, not this post. The Horror is students sending me draft after draft of their essays the night before they're due, asking basic questions that they should have known the answers to on the first day the assignment was passed out, and asking for exemptions from the basic rules.
So, to escape The Horror, I am writing fanfic. Very rough, so if you have some criticism, please give it.
And this is humor and horribly silly humor at that, so do keep that in mind.
So, the Ficlet That Is All The Fault of erythros: Paarfi/Morrolan slash, for Dragaera.
(Disclaimer: I do not own Paarfi or Morrolan, and in the case of Paarfi, at least, I am profoundly grateful. Steven Brust owns them).
(Note: I'm assuming here that's there no great taboo on purely sexual relationships between Dragaerans of different Houses, only on inter-House marriage and children. We have seen canon characters, such as Tazendra and Pel, flirt with and be attracted to members of different Houses from their own. Not that Morrolan would necessarily ever do this, but I'm trying to give him some motivation. Humor-fic motivation, of course).
Speechless
Being the first chronicle of the exploits of Paarfi of Roundwood in the service of purely...
No, he couldn't begin that way. It wouldn't sound at all right, and would rather detract from the proper audience for his books. Paarfi had no intention of ending up in the kind of bookstore run by Jhereg with smiles that would put Orca to shame, even if it was only by proxy.
For is it not said truly, in the glorious words of Sethra Lavode, that one cannot remain enemies forever, but that in the due process of Empire, and in the hardly unnecessary consequence of life once again bringing the Cycle around, one must become...
A better beginning, but no. No. It didn't match what had happened here.
Paarfi frowned at the ceiling and wondered what would.
For I, Paarfi of Roundwood, have seen the bed of the Lord of Castle Black.
He winced. True, but far too blunt, and leading straight back to the Jhereg bookstores. Or perhaps the bookstores of Athyra wizards, who would gather to read the book and discuss in refined tones what sorcery could possibly have prompted that kind of change in Paarfi of Roundwood.
Paarfi covered his face with his hands and rolled over. He knew what had prompted the change. Nothing but the sorcery of words could have prompted Morrolan to come to him, and say that it was past time he had the famous writer in his home, and would Paarfi honor him with a visit to Castle Black?
Nothing but the magic of writing could have made Morrolan look past the cover of what some labeled "a pack of lies" and accept that, even if Paarfi had sometimes guessed rather than peering into the clear mists of history, he had seen the essential truth of great matters. And, of course, once he had seen the truth, the magic of words would have done the rest. Paarfi was intimately experienced with that by now.
But always before, he had put words around his experience, tidied it away properly into a book into his mind, even if it was a book that he would never write. This refused to come.
My friends, if I were to tell you what I had experienced this evening, you would never believe that...
No, that wasn't right, either. Paarfi sighed noisily.
"Do you weary of my hospitality?"
Paarfi rolled over so fast he almost fell off the bed. Morrolan stood in the doorway, holding two glasses of wine and gazing inquiringly at him. Paarfi admired, almost against his will, the thick curls of black hair; the noble's point; the fine, stern, Dragon features; and...other things, since Morrolan was still naked.
"If you do," Morrolan said, his voice inflected with only gentle curiosity, "you may of course return to the library. There must be books there to interest you. Or you may wish to--"
"No!" Paarfi's voice became slightly hysterical, and he cursed himself. "No, I am- very interested- in remaining here."
"Then what troubles you?" Morrolan asked, handing him one glass of wine and sitting down on the bed to sip the other. Paarfi accepted the drink gratefully. It was very good.
"That I cannot find the words for this experience," Paarfi sighed. "I could not write a book about this."
Morrolan made a choking sound.
"My lord?"
Morrolan stood swiftly. "A droplet in the wrong place," he murmured. "Excuse me." He left the room quickly, while Paarfi lay back, and sipped the wine, and hoped he would be back.
Heroes are not born but made, as the great artist Kathana e'Marish'Chala said, or perhaps it was His Highness Adron e'Kieron, and it will be the tale of a hero which I relate--
That wasn't right, either. Nothing would work.
*******
Outside the room, Morrolan leaned against the wall of his library and closed his eyes, raising his glass in a silent toast to himself. "It worked," he whispered. "It worked. For once, the bastard won't be able to write anything about me."
He finished his wine, and went back to see if he could make Paarfi unable to talk, too.
So, to escape The Horror, I am writing fanfic. Very rough, so if you have some criticism, please give it.
And this is humor and horribly silly humor at that, so do keep that in mind.
So, the Ficlet That Is All The Fault of erythros: Paarfi/Morrolan slash, for Dragaera.
(Disclaimer: I do not own Paarfi or Morrolan, and in the case of Paarfi, at least, I am profoundly grateful. Steven Brust owns them).
(Note: I'm assuming here that's there no great taboo on purely sexual relationships between Dragaerans of different Houses, only on inter-House marriage and children. We have seen canon characters, such as Tazendra and Pel, flirt with and be attracted to members of different Houses from their own. Not that Morrolan would necessarily ever do this, but I'm trying to give him some motivation. Humor-fic motivation, of course).
Speechless
Being the first chronicle of the exploits of Paarfi of Roundwood in the service of purely...
No, he couldn't begin that way. It wouldn't sound at all right, and would rather detract from the proper audience for his books. Paarfi had no intention of ending up in the kind of bookstore run by Jhereg with smiles that would put Orca to shame, even if it was only by proxy.
For is it not said truly, in the glorious words of Sethra Lavode, that one cannot remain enemies forever, but that in the due process of Empire, and in the hardly unnecessary consequence of life once again bringing the Cycle around, one must become...
A better beginning, but no. No. It didn't match what had happened here.
Paarfi frowned at the ceiling and wondered what would.
For I, Paarfi of Roundwood, have seen the bed of the Lord of Castle Black.
He winced. True, but far too blunt, and leading straight back to the Jhereg bookstores. Or perhaps the bookstores of Athyra wizards, who would gather to read the book and discuss in refined tones what sorcery could possibly have prompted that kind of change in Paarfi of Roundwood.
Paarfi covered his face with his hands and rolled over. He knew what had prompted the change. Nothing but the sorcery of words could have prompted Morrolan to come to him, and say that it was past time he had the famous writer in his home, and would Paarfi honor him with a visit to Castle Black?
Nothing but the magic of writing could have made Morrolan look past the cover of what some labeled "a pack of lies" and accept that, even if Paarfi had sometimes guessed rather than peering into the clear mists of history, he had seen the essential truth of great matters. And, of course, once he had seen the truth, the magic of words would have done the rest. Paarfi was intimately experienced with that by now.
But always before, he had put words around his experience, tidied it away properly into a book into his mind, even if it was a book that he would never write. This refused to come.
My friends, if I were to tell you what I had experienced this evening, you would never believe that...
No, that wasn't right, either. Paarfi sighed noisily.
"Do you weary of my hospitality?"
Paarfi rolled over so fast he almost fell off the bed. Morrolan stood in the doorway, holding two glasses of wine and gazing inquiringly at him. Paarfi admired, almost against his will, the thick curls of black hair; the noble's point; the fine, stern, Dragon features; and...other things, since Morrolan was still naked.
"If you do," Morrolan said, his voice inflected with only gentle curiosity, "you may of course return to the library. There must be books there to interest you. Or you may wish to--"
"No!" Paarfi's voice became slightly hysterical, and he cursed himself. "No, I am- very interested- in remaining here."
"Then what troubles you?" Morrolan asked, handing him one glass of wine and sitting down on the bed to sip the other. Paarfi accepted the drink gratefully. It was very good.
"That I cannot find the words for this experience," Paarfi sighed. "I could not write a book about this."
Morrolan made a choking sound.
"My lord?"
Morrolan stood swiftly. "A droplet in the wrong place," he murmured. "Excuse me." He left the room quickly, while Paarfi lay back, and sipped the wine, and hoped he would be back.
Heroes are not born but made, as the great artist Kathana e'Marish'Chala said, or perhaps it was His Highness Adron e'Kieron, and it will be the tale of a hero which I relate--
That wasn't right, either. Nothing would work.
*******
Outside the room, Morrolan leaned against the wall of his library and closed his eyes, raising his glass in a silent toast to himself. "It worked," he whispered. "It worked. For once, the bastard won't be able to write anything about me."
He finished his wine, and went back to see if he could make Paarfi unable to talk, too.