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Maple Walnut #3. Over the Edge with Malt
Story : knights
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1260
Word Count : 1096
Malt Prompt : over the edge + Rune + long time coming, but no one seen it coming
More plot, maybe I can make more of a habit of this?
This is a rewrite of something from before RaTs that maybe a handful of people have seen, so no cookie crumbs. Still just as morbid and dramatic, but I think it works better now considering everything else I've built up about things since the first incarnation.
The temple door swung slowly and quietly in. Head bowed, Rune stepped inside. His torch cast its dancing glow over the shrines and sent tall, tapering shadows waving over the walls. He heaved a long, forceful breath. This was where it started, this was where it would end.
A bundle of daisies, five white, one red, dangled from his fist as he crossed the room in long, deliberate strides under the watch of the stone figures of the gods. He ground his fingers against the stems. Had they been laid to rest? Had they even been found? He swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat and ducked his head out of the One's empty sights. He'd half expected to find her here, though he wouldn't admit it aloud, planted at the statue's base, arms crossed and shaking her head. She'd chide him for ever doubting her, put her arms around him. He could almost smell her, sweat and leather, the hint of flowers in her hair. He swept the back of his free hand across his eyes and brushed the moisture off on his pants. If she were alive, she'd have found him by now. No need to keep lying.
Rune strode past the central altar with its cold vigil over the room, to the rear, the pair of mismatched shrines opposite the door. Torch safely deposited in the bracket between the two, he traced in the air the five points of the star, paused at the top, and let his hand fall to a sixth. "I...have no bodies," he said slowly and stayed his hand as it threatened to make a dive for his collar. "Or proper tokens of any kind, really," he added, eyeing the flowers. "Though I suppose you know them well enough.
"You'd think," he said, no longer fighting the urge to knead the back of his neck, "that I'd remember the words." He swallowed again and forced his eyes to return the gaze of the roughly chiseled ones before him. "But it seems like that was a lifetime ago."
He drew another heavy breath, the air like syrup as he forced it into his lungs, and let it out with a shudder. "I, er..." He rubbed his neck again. "I didn't think this would be easy, but, well, it's harder than that even." The goddess stared back. Sad. She always looked so sad. Maybe this was why. "If...if they're with you..." The backs of his eyes had begun to burn and his throat followed suit. "If they're with you, keep them." Another forceful swallow and a few swift blinks held the tears at bay. "Keep them well."
Rune pried his hand from his neck and plucked the first of the white blooms from the bunch. "Farran," he said, laying it at the idol's feet. After a long pause, another followed. "Tess." His hand shook with the third. "Ilya." A fourth joined the rest, petals pooling in a heap and slender stems trailing across the base of the shrine. "Tristan."
He looked down at his hand, only two flowers left, and the sting in his eyes resurfaced. He blinked and shook his head. Only two left. "If Kairn and the boy are with you as well, I suppose it really is over," he said, not liftng his gaze from the flowers. "So I'll go on thinking they've made it for now."
He took the last white flower between his fingers and held it up, his throat growing thick as he tried to stare past it to the statue. "Ski," he said, and it suddenly seemed the room was too hollow, that his voice carried further in it than it should, rebounding off the bare walls to fill the empty space. He squeezed the last, lone stalk until he felt it flatten against his palm as he stared at the five limp on the altar.
"Lyssa."
He tossed the red bloom with its fellows and snatched the torch from its perch as he turned away with a sniff and a swallow. His back to Death, he turned his gaze on Life. The flames bathed her shrine in glowing reds, light bounding off every delicately chiseled plane of the goddess's form. The gaze that met his own was as cold as the stone from which it was carved, and as Rune swallowed again and blinked back the sting from his eyes his lips curled into a sneer.
"You," he said, and he paused as if the statue might reply. "I've had enough of you." Rigidly composed, Cheva stared him down. She never looked sad. Her lips drawn tight, brows neatly arched. Arrogant. That's what she was.
Rune fumbled, with the torch still in hand, to unfasten his cloak, his eyes never leaving the stone pair before him. The cloth slid from his back to land in a heap at the floor, and he caught the sleeve of his shirt and forced it up his arm, laying the webbing of green lines at the shoulder bare.
"No more." he said. He looked from the torch to the arm to the statue and shook his head against the thickness in his throat, the tremble in his legs. "I've had enough of being your puppet, enough of being your plaything. We're through." This was where it started, this was where it would end. Rune gritted his teeth and broght the head of the torch to the mark on his flesh.
The pain brought a cry to his lips and his legs shook. A scream ripped through his head, the otherworldly voice he so rarely heard, distant and hollow, underscored by the roll thunder that forced waves of black across his sight and lit the fire at the tip of his spine. The shriek gave way to words as the magic clawed at him, vying with the pain. Stop it, it called. You could stop this.
"No," he spat through his teeth, still glaring at the shrine as it flitted in and out of clarity, wrinkling his nose against the growing stench.
Then I shall.
He pried his jaws apart to answer, to protest. The magic ripped its way up his spine. The world spun, went black, and pulled itself from beneath him. The thunder flared to a deafening roar that pulsed through and around him. His back struck the floor, his arm flung out raw flesh, already knitting itself back together, slapped against the wood. The torch skittered away and a surge of red heat swept through the dark before all was silent and still.
Story : knights
Rating : R
Timeframe : 1260
Word Count : 1096
Malt Prompt : over the edge + Rune + long time coming, but no one seen it coming
More plot, maybe I can make more of a habit of this?
This is a rewrite of something from before RaTs that maybe a handful of people have seen, so no cookie crumbs. Still just as morbid and dramatic, but I think it works better now considering everything else I've built up about things since the first incarnation.
The temple door swung slowly and quietly in. Head bowed, Rune stepped inside. His torch cast its dancing glow over the shrines and sent tall, tapering shadows waving over the walls. He heaved a long, forceful breath. This was where it started, this was where it would end.
A bundle of daisies, five white, one red, dangled from his fist as he crossed the room in long, deliberate strides under the watch of the stone figures of the gods. He ground his fingers against the stems. Had they been laid to rest? Had they even been found? He swallowed hard against the lump rising in his throat and ducked his head out of the One's empty sights. He'd half expected to find her here, though he wouldn't admit it aloud, planted at the statue's base, arms crossed and shaking her head. She'd chide him for ever doubting her, put her arms around him. He could almost smell her, sweat and leather, the hint of flowers in her hair. He swept the back of his free hand across his eyes and brushed the moisture off on his pants. If she were alive, she'd have found him by now. No need to keep lying.
Rune strode past the central altar with its cold vigil over the room, to the rear, the pair of mismatched shrines opposite the door. Torch safely deposited in the bracket between the two, he traced in the air the five points of the star, paused at the top, and let his hand fall to a sixth. "I...have no bodies," he said slowly and stayed his hand as it threatened to make a dive for his collar. "Or proper tokens of any kind, really," he added, eyeing the flowers. "Though I suppose you know them well enough.
"You'd think," he said, no longer fighting the urge to knead the back of his neck, "that I'd remember the words." He swallowed again and forced his eyes to return the gaze of the roughly chiseled ones before him. "But it seems like that was a lifetime ago."
He drew another heavy breath, the air like syrup as he forced it into his lungs, and let it out with a shudder. "I, er..." He rubbed his neck again. "I didn't think this would be easy, but, well, it's harder than that even." The goddess stared back. Sad. She always looked so sad. Maybe this was why. "If...if they're with you..." The backs of his eyes had begun to burn and his throat followed suit. "If they're with you, keep them." Another forceful swallow and a few swift blinks held the tears at bay. "Keep them well."
Rune pried his hand from his neck and plucked the first of the white blooms from the bunch. "Farran," he said, laying it at the idol's feet. After a long pause, another followed. "Tess." His hand shook with the third. "Ilya." A fourth joined the rest, petals pooling in a heap and slender stems trailing across the base of the shrine. "Tristan."
He looked down at his hand, only two flowers left, and the sting in his eyes resurfaced. He blinked and shook his head. Only two left. "If Kairn and the boy are with you as well, I suppose it really is over," he said, not liftng his gaze from the flowers. "So I'll go on thinking they've made it for now."
He took the last white flower between his fingers and held it up, his throat growing thick as he tried to stare past it to the statue. "Ski," he said, and it suddenly seemed the room was too hollow, that his voice carried further in it than it should, rebounding off the bare walls to fill the empty space. He squeezed the last, lone stalk until he felt it flatten against his palm as he stared at the five limp on the altar.
"Lyssa."
He tossed the red bloom with its fellows and snatched the torch from its perch as he turned away with a sniff and a swallow. His back to Death, he turned his gaze on Life. The flames bathed her shrine in glowing reds, light bounding off every delicately chiseled plane of the goddess's form. The gaze that met his own was as cold as the stone from which it was carved, and as Rune swallowed again and blinked back the sting from his eyes his lips curled into a sneer.
"You," he said, and he paused as if the statue might reply. "I've had enough of you." Rigidly composed, Cheva stared him down. She never looked sad. Her lips drawn tight, brows neatly arched. Arrogant. That's what she was.
Rune fumbled, with the torch still in hand, to unfasten his cloak, his eyes never leaving the stone pair before him. The cloth slid from his back to land in a heap at the floor, and he caught the sleeve of his shirt and forced it up his arm, laying the webbing of green lines at the shoulder bare.
"No more." he said. He looked from the torch to the arm to the statue and shook his head against the thickness in his throat, the tremble in his legs. "I've had enough of being your puppet, enough of being your plaything. We're through." This was where it started, this was where it would end. Rune gritted his teeth and broght the head of the torch to the mark on his flesh.
The pain brought a cry to his lips and his legs shook. A scream ripped through his head, the otherworldly voice he so rarely heard, distant and hollow, underscored by the roll thunder that forced waves of black across his sight and lit the fire at the tip of his spine. The shriek gave way to words as the magic clawed at him, vying with the pain. Stop it, it called. You could stop this.
"No," he spat through his teeth, still glaring at the shrine as it flitted in and out of clarity, wrinkling his nose against the growing stench.
Then I shall.
He pried his jaws apart to answer, to protest. The magic ripped its way up his spine. The world spun, went black, and pulled itself from beneath him. The thunder flared to a deafening roar that pulsed through and around him. His back struck the floor, his arm flung out raw flesh, already knitting itself back together, slapped against the wood. The torch skittered away and a surge of red heat swept through the dark before all was silent and still.