happily to their slaughter
From: bluedreaming
Title: happily to their slaughter
Rating: R
Word Count: 1305 words
Prompt: orenda: A mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to effect change in their own lives.
Warning/s: major character deaths, minor character deaths, graphic descriptions of violence and murder, violence towards a child, the death of an infant, war themes, guns,[Spoiler (click to open)]suicide bomber
Please listen to Ruelle's Up in Flames EP while you read this.
The title is from The Orenda by Joseph Boyden. Please see the end for further notes.
We knew the world would not be the same.
A few people laughed,
a few people cried.
Most people were silent.
I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture,
the Bhagavad-Gita;
Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty,
and to impress him,
takes on his multi-armed form and says,
'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.'
I suppose we all thought that,
one way or another.
―J. Robert Oppenheimer
"You don't want that teacup," she says, the old woman in the corner, knife shining silver in the flashes of light as she scales fish for dinner, the flimsy flakes cascading to the floor like sharp rain.
"I like it," Lu Han replies obstinately. He's used to getting his own way. And the teacup is pretty; the pattern reminds him of something from one of his old textbooks, a pattern of women in wide empire skirts that look like upside-down tulips.
"It has strong orenda," the woman says, as the knife slips, red flooding over the pale flesh. Lu Han watches as she just wraps a rag around her finger, keeps scraping the scales off.
"What's orenda?" he asks, but he's not really interested in the answer. There's a sharp clang that rings through the air; the ships are coming in.
"Run now, little boy, run for your life," the woman mutters under her breath; Lu Han only hears the echo as he grabs the teacup and heads out the door.
It always smells like death and something sharper after the ships dock at the port, and it's not because they're old-they gleam so sharp and silver in the air, cut against the backdrop of stars-but there's a kind of acrid taste that clings to the back of his throat, covers everything in an invisible layer of rust. Lu Han finds himself swallowing all the time, tamping down the questions he used to have when he was younger.
("What is the war about?" a small voice asks, big eyes on a pale face under the light of the satellites, sky sails throwing strange shadows across his skin. There's a blow, stars in his mind, a vicious box to the ears as a deep voice growls into his ear, pulling a small form away, legs scrabbling against the sleek marble of the floor, "Don't ever disrespect your father again." The boy looks up, tears in his eyes. He doesn't understand, but he's learned something here, in the dark, in the cold, red trickling out of one ear: never ask questions.)
"The campaign was a success," he hears, standing in the doorway, the long gold path up to the throne glistening in the artificial light of a distant sun. "Complete victory across the board."
There's a brief applause, courtiers smiling their fake plastic grins, gemstones glimmering on the fingers they hold curled to the softness of their bellies, curled in as though expecting a blow.
Everything hurts, here. Lu Han bows to his father, waits to be waved away.
Tea is his secret comfort. Here, in the quiet of his room, Lu Han can sit, watch the tea leaves swirl through the water, telling stories of places he'll never see. Tea is a luxury, and Lu Han can afford anything he wants, except what he really wants. For those with every luxury they could ever desire, the only luxury left is the simplicity of the quotidian.
No one will ever unlock this door.
Lu Han pours the steeped tea, crimson today, provenance of the Far Edge, a backwater planet called Thyria, conquered by the Pylorian Empire in 4403 F.H. Lu Han will never see it, but he imagines a landscape of green trees, the red berries clustered between shiny leaves, a blue sky stretching over the horizon. The Pylorian seat of power has not been located on a surface for centuries, and he will never set foot on land.
The tea slips sweetly over his tongue, as he lifts the new teacup to his lips.
Hello.
Lu Han freezes, glancing around, but nothing has shifted, nothing has changed; the security footage unrolling on the screen shows an empty hallway.
He drinks again.
My name is Sehun.
The cup falls to the table, crimson spilling across the ebonite surface as the antique porcelain rolls but does not crack. Lu Han stares at his hands, the way they tremble, the pads of his fingers stained red from the berries.
That's the teacup my father made for me.
"Who are you?" Lu Han whispers. There's no one there.
I'm Sehun, he hears as a response, though hearing isn't the right word. He feels it, somehow, the words swimming under his skin, singing in his blood.
"What's happening?" Lu Han asks, as all the questions spill out of his mouth, the questions he's never been able to ask anyone.
That's what I asked, when they kicked open our door, shot my mother in the face where she was standing, stepped on my baby brother's head and started kicking me in the chest, over and over and over and over again until the rhythm replaced the beating of my heart.
"Who did?" Lu Han asks. He's never seen anything like that, but the way the words cut through the thoughts in his head, their absolute truth, paints a picture in his head. He can feel the heel of the boot, the pointed metal toe, and he knows the answer before Sehun answers the question.
The Pylorian soldiers. They wore gold on their chests, I could see it when I blinked the blood out of my eyes.
The answer hurts anyway, because he knows it's true.
(A small boy, crying in his room, hand over his swollen ear, the air ringing and warm wetness on his fingers as he cries silently into his fist, because he opened his mouth.)
"Where are you now?" Lu Han asks, fingers stretched out involuntarily across the table, as he reaches out to comfort someone he can never reach.
I don't know what happened to my body. I was thinking about the gift from my father when I closed my eyes; the teacup he made for me for my birthday, the teacup I never got to use.
Lu Han doesn't realize he's crying until he lifts his fingers to his cheek and they come away wet.
"What-"
He's interrupted by a sharp clang; the electric voice over the I.C. crackles: All citizens to report to Aurelian Square for the military parade and commendation ceremony to celebrate another successful campaign. Long live the Pylorian Empire!
Lu Han slips the teacup into his pocket without thinking about it, fingers lifting something else from his shelf that he's been keeping for no apparent reason, for so long.
The Pylorian Empire is glorious, in its display of power and strength, rows and rows of soldiers gleaming gold, the stars stretching out above, a pale ocean in thrall to its brilliance. Lu Han slips to his position, standing to the right of his father, a crown prince in the shadows of the Emperor.
That's how he's always liked it, and he realizes that everything was for a reason.
Everything is always for a reason.
The Emperor sits after addressing the citizens, and Lu Han sticks his hand into his pocket. There's a spoon there; he'd forgotten about it, his favourite spoon he'd used as a child, his mother feeding him, tiny baby hands batting at the air as she'd smiled, raised the spoon to his mouth.
He pulls the ■■■■ out of his pocket; steps forward as his thumb nudges the pin and it falls to the ground with a tiny ping as the guard, gold shining in the light, sees the danger and opens fire.
It's too late.
Flowers blossom on Lu Han's chest as his arm arcs from where he stands on the platform, his secret ripping through the air as the world goes up in flames.
There's another soft ping in his pocket as he falls.
There's an old woman, sitting in the corner, peeling tubers with a silver knife, slick, slick, slick. On the top shelf, tucked away in the dust, are a porcelain teacup and a silver spoon.
orenda n.
an extraordinary invisible power
believed by the Iroquois to pervade in varying degrees
all animate and inanimate natural objects
as a transmissible spiritual energy
capable of being exerted
according to the will of its possessor
a successful hunter's orenda
overcomes that of his quarry
source
End notes: This story is inspired in part by Joseph Boyden's The Orenda and Alejandro G. Iñárritu's The Revenant (trigger warnings apply).
Title: happily to their slaughter
Rating: R
Word Count: 1305 words
Prompt: orenda: A mystical force present in all people that empowers them to affect the world, or to effect change in their own lives.
Warning/s: major character deaths, minor character deaths, graphic descriptions of violence and murder, violence towards a child, the death of an infant, war themes, guns,[Spoiler (click to open)]suicide bomber
Please listen to Ruelle's Up in Flames EP while you read this.
The title is from The Orenda by Joseph Boyden. Please see the end for further notes.
We knew the world would not be the same.
A few people laughed,
a few people cried.
Most people were silent.
I remembered the line from the Hindu scripture,
the Bhagavad-Gita;
Vishnu is trying to persuade the Prince that he should do his duty,
and to impress him,
takes on his multi-armed form and says,
'Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.'
I suppose we all thought that,
one way or another.
―J. Robert Oppenheimer
"You don't want that teacup," she says, the old woman in the corner, knife shining silver in the flashes of light as she scales fish for dinner, the flimsy flakes cascading to the floor like sharp rain.
"I like it," Lu Han replies obstinately. He's used to getting his own way. And the teacup is pretty; the pattern reminds him of something from one of his old textbooks, a pattern of women in wide empire skirts that look like upside-down tulips.
"It has strong orenda," the woman says, as the knife slips, red flooding over the pale flesh. Lu Han watches as she just wraps a rag around her finger, keeps scraping the scales off.
"What's orenda?" he asks, but he's not really interested in the answer. There's a sharp clang that rings through the air; the ships are coming in.
"Run now, little boy, run for your life," the woman mutters under her breath; Lu Han only hears the echo as he grabs the teacup and heads out the door.
It always smells like death and something sharper after the ships dock at the port, and it's not because they're old-they gleam so sharp and silver in the air, cut against the backdrop of stars-but there's a kind of acrid taste that clings to the back of his throat, covers everything in an invisible layer of rust. Lu Han finds himself swallowing all the time, tamping down the questions he used to have when he was younger.
("What is the war about?" a small voice asks, big eyes on a pale face under the light of the satellites, sky sails throwing strange shadows across his skin. There's a blow, stars in his mind, a vicious box to the ears as a deep voice growls into his ear, pulling a small form away, legs scrabbling against the sleek marble of the floor, "Don't ever disrespect your father again." The boy looks up, tears in his eyes. He doesn't understand, but he's learned something here, in the dark, in the cold, red trickling out of one ear: never ask questions.)
"The campaign was a success," he hears, standing in the doorway, the long gold path up to the throne glistening in the artificial light of a distant sun. "Complete victory across the board."
There's a brief applause, courtiers smiling their fake plastic grins, gemstones glimmering on the fingers they hold curled to the softness of their bellies, curled in as though expecting a blow.
Everything hurts, here. Lu Han bows to his father, waits to be waved away.
Tea is his secret comfort. Here, in the quiet of his room, Lu Han can sit, watch the tea leaves swirl through the water, telling stories of places he'll never see. Tea is a luxury, and Lu Han can afford anything he wants, except what he really wants. For those with every luxury they could ever desire, the only luxury left is the simplicity of the quotidian.
No one will ever unlock this door.
Lu Han pours the steeped tea, crimson today, provenance of the Far Edge, a backwater planet called Thyria, conquered by the Pylorian Empire in 4403 F.H. Lu Han will never see it, but he imagines a landscape of green trees, the red berries clustered between shiny leaves, a blue sky stretching over the horizon. The Pylorian seat of power has not been located on a surface for centuries, and he will never set foot on land.
The tea slips sweetly over his tongue, as he lifts the new teacup to his lips.
Hello.
Lu Han freezes, glancing around, but nothing has shifted, nothing has changed; the security footage unrolling on the screen shows an empty hallway.
He drinks again.
My name is Sehun.
The cup falls to the table, crimson spilling across the ebonite surface as the antique porcelain rolls but does not crack. Lu Han stares at his hands, the way they tremble, the pads of his fingers stained red from the berries.
That's the teacup my father made for me.
"Who are you?" Lu Han whispers. There's no one there.
I'm Sehun, he hears as a response, though hearing isn't the right word. He feels it, somehow, the words swimming under his skin, singing in his blood.
"What's happening?" Lu Han asks, as all the questions spill out of his mouth, the questions he's never been able to ask anyone.
That's what I asked, when they kicked open our door, shot my mother in the face where she was standing, stepped on my baby brother's head and started kicking me in the chest, over and over and over and over again until the rhythm replaced the beating of my heart.
"Who did?" Lu Han asks. He's never seen anything like that, but the way the words cut through the thoughts in his head, their absolute truth, paints a picture in his head. He can feel the heel of the boot, the pointed metal toe, and he knows the answer before Sehun answers the question.
The Pylorian soldiers. They wore gold on their chests, I could see it when I blinked the blood out of my eyes.
The answer hurts anyway, because he knows it's true.
(A small boy, crying in his room, hand over his swollen ear, the air ringing and warm wetness on his fingers as he cries silently into his fist, because he opened his mouth.)
"Where are you now?" Lu Han asks, fingers stretched out involuntarily across the table, as he reaches out to comfort someone he can never reach.
I don't know what happened to my body. I was thinking about the gift from my father when I closed my eyes; the teacup he made for me for my birthday, the teacup I never got to use.
Lu Han doesn't realize he's crying until he lifts his fingers to his cheek and they come away wet.
"What-"
He's interrupted by a sharp clang; the electric voice over the I.C. crackles: All citizens to report to Aurelian Square for the military parade and commendation ceremony to celebrate another successful campaign. Long live the Pylorian Empire!
Lu Han slips the teacup into his pocket without thinking about it, fingers lifting something else from his shelf that he's been keeping for no apparent reason, for so long.
The Pylorian Empire is glorious, in its display of power and strength, rows and rows of soldiers gleaming gold, the stars stretching out above, a pale ocean in thrall to its brilliance. Lu Han slips to his position, standing to the right of his father, a crown prince in the shadows of the Emperor.
That's how he's always liked it, and he realizes that everything was for a reason.
Everything is always for a reason.
The Emperor sits after addressing the citizens, and Lu Han sticks his hand into his pocket. There's a spoon there; he'd forgotten about it, his favourite spoon he'd used as a child, his mother feeding him, tiny baby hands batting at the air as she'd smiled, raised the spoon to his mouth.
He pulls the ■■■■ out of his pocket; steps forward as his thumb nudges the pin and it falls to the ground with a tiny ping as the guard, gold shining in the light, sees the danger and opens fire.
It's too late.
Flowers blossom on Lu Han's chest as his arm arcs from where he stands on the platform, his secret ripping through the air as the world goes up in flames.
There's another soft ping in his pocket as he falls.
There's an old woman, sitting in the corner, peeling tubers with a silver knife, slick, slick, slick. On the top shelf, tucked away in the dust, are a porcelain teacup and a silver spoon.
orenda n.
an extraordinary invisible power
believed by the Iroquois to pervade in varying degrees
all animate and inanimate natural objects
as a transmissible spiritual energy
capable of being exerted
according to the will of its possessor
a successful hunter's orenda
overcomes that of his quarry
source
End notes: This story is inspired in part by Joseph Boyden's The Orenda and Alejandro G. Iñárritu's The Revenant (trigger warnings apply).