(no subject)
Flavor of the Day - 3/26/09 - Propinquity
Story : knights
Rating : G
Timeframe : 1260 to late 1260/early 1270's no clue how to fit this in my timeline...
Word Count : 772
Word of the Day : Propinquity : nearness in place; proximity. Nearness in time. Nearness of relation; kinship.
Much love for the word of the day. I needed some inspiration. I think Marty will appreciate the piece and I hope it won't confuse anyone else too much.
“A temple?” said Shasa, lingering in the doorway.
Kairn prodded her through, the sturdy door weighing heavily against his shoulder. “You need to rest,” he said. “We both do. Out of the rain.”
“But-” said Shasa, the door sliding shut behind them with a resounding thud that echoed through the small, round chamber.
“It has a roof,” said Kairn. “That’s all we need.” He peeled his sodden cloak from his back while his sister made her way to the altar, a trail of water spreading in her wake as it dripped from her clothes.
She sank to her knees before the statue, turning to him with a frown. “We have nothing to offer.”
Kairn paused, about to wring the water from his cloak, and let the thing fall limp in his grasp with a nervous glance to the puddle forming beneath it. “I’m sure they will understand,” he said. “I think they owe us at least that much.”
Shasa bowed her head, finger tracing the five points of the star in the air before her as she uttered a soft prayer. “Odd,” she said, “that there would be a temple here, when there’s not been a sign of civilization for days.”
That, he thought, as he cast a slow look over the room, was nothing in light of the fact that there were six, yes six, shrines set around the perimeter. His eyes settled on the rough hewn one to the rear, a shudder passing through him.
“Kairn?”
“Yes?“ He tore his gaze from the statue with a shake of his head.
Shasa cast him a stern gaze, one brow sharply raised. “I know we don’t have any offerings, but I do hope you at least intend to pray.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said, hurrying to her side.
Rune leaned back, shoulders against cold stone. He couldn’t possibly be that lost. He’d been in a whole different country, more miles than he could count from the temple.
Perhaps it was another, of the same design; same stone work, same doors. Right. The same cracks between the same stones, same grain to the wood of the doors, the same tree with its same boughs dangling right over his head. And someone else must have carved out a garden in precisely the spot he had and let it go to waste for years. Certainly all a coincidence.
Idly prodding the gnarled roots that passed near his feet, he wondered, would he find the same black walls within.
“You again,” said Lyssa. From her position on her knees in the grass, she gave the thick doors that loomed before her a contemptuous glare.
“I assure you,” she said, a hand pressed to her bleeding side, “I am not dying.”
The doors returned only silence.
“I don’t need your help.” She thrust the other to the ground, and, with an agonized groan, forced herself to her feet.
The world swam before her. She swore she had turned around. It could have been the pain, but the doors still stood before her.
“Maybe,” she swayed dangerously, “maybe just a little rest.” Tipping forward, Lyssa pressed a palm to the wood.
“What is this?” said Tristan, shuffling through the doors in Sethan’s wake. He cast the walls a puzzled frown. The exterior had been in tact, yet every inch inside the room, save the space around the central altar, had clearly once been bathed in flames.
“This,” said Sethan, a look of such unadulterated joy to the man’s features that Tristan withdrew a step, “is what I have been searching for.”
Arms folded, Tristan kept near the door, while his companion strode right past the altar on his way to the pair of shrines to the rear. He eyed the blackened walls and floor, scorched bits of wood peeling and flaking all around, but not one board out of place, and shuddered at the thought of the blaze the place must have seen, and the worry at what Sethan might possibly want with it.
The other came to a halt at the far end of the temple, before the twin altars, and Tristan blinked. He counted; fire and water to the left, earth and air to the right, another pair to the rear. Sethan lingered in front of the rough figure, mismatched to all the rest, the one which, by all accounts, should not be there at all, and laughed.
“So, just what is it?” said Tristan, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“This,” said Sethan, and Tristan cringed as he reached up to tap the statue, most irreverently, on its nose, “is the gateway.”
Story : knights
Rating : G
Timeframe : 1260 to late 1260/early 1270's no clue how to fit this in my timeline...
Word Count : 772
Word of the Day : Propinquity : nearness in place; proximity. Nearness in time. Nearness of relation; kinship.
Much love for the word of the day. I needed some inspiration. I think Marty will appreciate the piece and I hope it won't confuse anyone else too much.
“A temple?” said Shasa, lingering in the doorway.
Kairn prodded her through, the sturdy door weighing heavily against his shoulder. “You need to rest,” he said. “We both do. Out of the rain.”
“But-” said Shasa, the door sliding shut behind them with a resounding thud that echoed through the small, round chamber.
“It has a roof,” said Kairn. “That’s all we need.” He peeled his sodden cloak from his back while his sister made her way to the altar, a trail of water spreading in her wake as it dripped from her clothes.
She sank to her knees before the statue, turning to him with a frown. “We have nothing to offer.”
Kairn paused, about to wring the water from his cloak, and let the thing fall limp in his grasp with a nervous glance to the puddle forming beneath it. “I’m sure they will understand,” he said. “I think they owe us at least that much.”
Shasa bowed her head, finger tracing the five points of the star in the air before her as she uttered a soft prayer. “Odd,” she said, “that there would be a temple here, when there’s not been a sign of civilization for days.”
That, he thought, as he cast a slow look over the room, was nothing in light of the fact that there were six, yes six, shrines set around the perimeter. His eyes settled on the rough hewn one to the rear, a shudder passing through him.
“Kairn?”
“Yes?“ He tore his gaze from the statue with a shake of his head.
Shasa cast him a stern gaze, one brow sharply raised. “I know we don’t have any offerings, but I do hope you at least intend to pray.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said, hurrying to her side.
Rune leaned back, shoulders against cold stone. He couldn’t possibly be that lost. He’d been in a whole different country, more miles than he could count from the temple.
Perhaps it was another, of the same design; same stone work, same doors. Right. The same cracks between the same stones, same grain to the wood of the doors, the same tree with its same boughs dangling right over his head. And someone else must have carved out a garden in precisely the spot he had and let it go to waste for years. Certainly all a coincidence.
Idly prodding the gnarled roots that passed near his feet, he wondered, would he find the same black walls within.
“You again,” said Lyssa. From her position on her knees in the grass, she gave the thick doors that loomed before her a contemptuous glare.
“I assure you,” she said, a hand pressed to her bleeding side, “I am not dying.”
The doors returned only silence.
“I don’t need your help.” She thrust the other to the ground, and, with an agonized groan, forced herself to her feet.
The world swam before her. She swore she had turned around. It could have been the pain, but the doors still stood before her.
“Maybe,” she swayed dangerously, “maybe just a little rest.” Tipping forward, Lyssa pressed a palm to the wood.
“What is this?” said Tristan, shuffling through the doors in Sethan’s wake. He cast the walls a puzzled frown. The exterior had been in tact, yet every inch inside the room, save the space around the central altar, had clearly once been bathed in flames.
“This,” said Sethan, a look of such unadulterated joy to the man’s features that Tristan withdrew a step, “is what I have been searching for.”
Arms folded, Tristan kept near the door, while his companion strode right past the altar on his way to the pair of shrines to the rear. He eyed the blackened walls and floor, scorched bits of wood peeling and flaking all around, but not one board out of place, and shuddered at the thought of the blaze the place must have seen, and the worry at what Sethan might possibly want with it.
The other came to a halt at the far end of the temple, before the twin altars, and Tristan blinked. He counted; fire and water to the left, earth and air to the right, another pair to the rear. Sethan lingered in front of the rough figure, mismatched to all the rest, the one which, by all accounts, should not be there at all, and laughed.
“So, just what is it?” said Tristan, shuffling uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
“This,” said Sethan, and Tristan cringed as he reached up to tap the statue, most irreverently, on its nose, “is the gateway.”