The Story You Write upon the World
Rating: G
Word Count: 730
Characters: original
Disclaimer: Not mine; no money.
AN: Set long before the series aired - a ‘Tales of the Slayer’ type of story.
Written for still_grrr and also posted there.
Award winner - details here.
And lo, it came to pass, in the winter of Clara’s fourteenth year, that her village was blessed with a teller of stories. The Elders all praised such luck and laid flowers of offering on the orchard shrine of Gaia, for how else could a small and insignificant place such as Stoneholme warrant a man of fine learning?
Winter nights were long with full dark falling while most had a will to still be doing, so each evening found every hale inhabitant of the seventeen crofts gathered in the small meeting hall. And night upon night, the teller of stories filled their minds with other worlds - some exotic, some unbelievable, and some as normal as their sister village not three leagues away, but all, no matter if lush with wealth, were layered in great darkness.
Except for the one girl.
“In far Cathay, a princess swathed in gold cloth took up the goodly scepter of sunshine carved by magi great and fearsome, and she did battle with the very daemons who preyed upon her people once the sun fell from the sky. This is one such story of her …”
“London Town two hundred years ago was not as it is now. Buildings were shorter and unpainted, men’s swords were sharper yet shined less brightly with polish, and torches lit only the rare section of the wealthiest part of the city. The dark - the dark was everywhere. Then came Matilda …”
“In Afrique, where great beasts roar their hunger to the sky, in a small village not much bigger than this one, there lived a girl whose mother was a famous hunter and whose father a master spear-maker. It is little wonder she grew to be a fierce warrior, protector of her people in the night …”
For an entire winter, he filled the air with tales alternately brave and sad or sometimes both, tales of girls battling evil in all its earthly manifestations.
And these stories filled Clara’s head and spilled over into her dreams, which were haunted by burning yellow eyes and fierce fangs. She laughed to herself over these fancies in the bright light of day, but the night visions grew ever more vivid as she turned a year older and was visited by her moon cycle.
Until one night, as she walked home from the meeting hall, they were made manifest.
The monster lunged out of the deepest dark, tackling Clara so that she rolled to fetch up against a tree, the daemon still upon her. It pushed forward with hideous strength, yet she found herself holding its feral teeth from her throat, even though her arms quivered with the strain of it.
Story after story swirled through her mind, coalescing into phrases heard repeatedly: “she severed the head from the body,” “she bathed the creature in pure sunlight,” “she impaled it through the heart with wood.”
A noise from the right had the fiend turning its head briefly, its grip easing.
Taking what small advantage she may, Clara released one hand to scrabble at the ground beside her, grasping a branch and quickly plunging it into the daemon’s chest just as it turned its full attention back to her.
Through the cloud of dust, the teller of stories emerged, extending a hand to her in aid. “Come, Clara. You did well.”
Her head still spun with dreams and stories, even as she stood, feet firm, legs steady. “It was truth! The stories you told - it was all truth.”
“There were fantastical elements made more amazing, but in whole, yes. This night, however, I have no more stories to tell and you no time to listen. We must away to London Town.”
He began a brisk pace down the path to her croft, and she hastened to join him.
“But, sir, my parents.”
“We will tell them you are to be my apprentice. It is near enough to not be a full untruth.”
“So you will teach me your craft, teller of stories?”
He halted then and looked to her, hand laid upon her shoulder. “We both know you are called to something far greater. There is only one story of true importance in my life, and it is one I will record yet never bring myself to speak from these lips: the story you write upon the world from this day forward, Clara who slays Vampyres.”
Word Count: 730
Characters: original
Disclaimer: Not mine; no money.
AN: Set long before the series aired - a ‘Tales of the Slayer’ type of story.
Written for still_grrr and also posted there.
Award winner - details here.
And lo, it came to pass, in the winter of Clara’s fourteenth year, that her village was blessed with a teller of stories. The Elders all praised such luck and laid flowers of offering on the orchard shrine of Gaia, for how else could a small and insignificant place such as Stoneholme warrant a man of fine learning?
Winter nights were long with full dark falling while most had a will to still be doing, so each evening found every hale inhabitant of the seventeen crofts gathered in the small meeting hall. And night upon night, the teller of stories filled their minds with other worlds - some exotic, some unbelievable, and some as normal as their sister village not three leagues away, but all, no matter if lush with wealth, were layered in great darkness.
Except for the one girl.
“In far Cathay, a princess swathed in gold cloth took up the goodly scepter of sunshine carved by magi great and fearsome, and she did battle with the very daemons who preyed upon her people once the sun fell from the sky. This is one such story of her …”
“London Town two hundred years ago was not as it is now. Buildings were shorter and unpainted, men’s swords were sharper yet shined less brightly with polish, and torches lit only the rare section of the wealthiest part of the city. The dark - the dark was everywhere. Then came Matilda …”
“In Afrique, where great beasts roar their hunger to the sky, in a small village not much bigger than this one, there lived a girl whose mother was a famous hunter and whose father a master spear-maker. It is little wonder she grew to be a fierce warrior, protector of her people in the night …”
For an entire winter, he filled the air with tales alternately brave and sad or sometimes both, tales of girls battling evil in all its earthly manifestations.
And these stories filled Clara’s head and spilled over into her dreams, which were haunted by burning yellow eyes and fierce fangs. She laughed to herself over these fancies in the bright light of day, but the night visions grew ever more vivid as she turned a year older and was visited by her moon cycle.
Until one night, as she walked home from the meeting hall, they were made manifest.
The monster lunged out of the deepest dark, tackling Clara so that she rolled to fetch up against a tree, the daemon still upon her. It pushed forward with hideous strength, yet she found herself holding its feral teeth from her throat, even though her arms quivered with the strain of it.
Story after story swirled through her mind, coalescing into phrases heard repeatedly: “she severed the head from the body,” “she bathed the creature in pure sunlight,” “she impaled it through the heart with wood.”
A noise from the right had the fiend turning its head briefly, its grip easing.
Taking what small advantage she may, Clara released one hand to scrabble at the ground beside her, grasping a branch and quickly plunging it into the daemon’s chest just as it turned its full attention back to her.
Through the cloud of dust, the teller of stories emerged, extending a hand to her in aid. “Come, Clara. You did well.”
Her head still spun with dreams and stories, even as she stood, feet firm, legs steady. “It was truth! The stories you told - it was all truth.”
“There were fantastical elements made more amazing, but in whole, yes. This night, however, I have no more stories to tell and you no time to listen. We must away to London Town.”
He began a brisk pace down the path to her croft, and she hastened to join him.
“But, sir, my parents.”
“We will tell them you are to be my apprentice. It is near enough to not be a full untruth.”
“So you will teach me your craft, teller of stories?”
He halted then and looked to her, hand laid upon her shoulder. “We both know you are called to something far greater. There is only one story of true importance in my life, and it is one I will record yet never bring myself to speak from these lips: the story you write upon the world from this day forward, Clara who slays Vampyres.”