The ficverse that still needs a name...
So, yeah. I don't know what this ficverse is called. But whatever. Thus far it's not linear at all even though I'm trying to organize it. In the previous three entries we've seen bits of Kali (Mars) and Isis (Venus)' stories. Herein starts the story of Metis (Mercury), with Scoithín Ard-Rigan as our Zoisite. In keeping with tradition (European King) and, uh, my laziness, he's sort of a Celtic Druid type of figure. I know, shocking, right? Like with the other two shitennou, the italicised part of his name is a title-- his full name translates to something like Chieftain of the Blooming. (Zoisite corresponds to Zojo-Ten, the Patron of Growth.)
Who knows, eventually I may sort everything out so it's coherent and linear. But first this ficverse needs a name. It's sort of an AU SilMil in a way. Suggestions and comments and questions??!!
This section is rated M for gore and violence. M ratings for sexytimes will come later :P Dedicated to all the A/Z shippers, particularly mrcrybrilliance who is totally going to get hit on left, right, center and sideways tonight :P
The statue stands, monstrous and fearsome with its twists of wood and thorns, in the center of the circle of standing stones. Its sinewy form is that of a man, though much larger than it should be, and as Metis watches, horrified, the robe-clad officiants lead two men, their hands bound together, in a dignified but inexorable walk towards the wooden figure. The master of the ceremony, an impassive, grizzled cleric clad in spotless white with a crown of oak leaves adorning his head, ties the arms and legs of the two captives together. As the lesser acolytes start up a humming chant in the background, the head priest anoints the prisoners with oil, and throws both hands up towards the sky.
"Here our prayer, oh bounteous Scoithín Ard-Rigan, Most Noble Patron of Growth! With blood and fire do we beg for the Healing Rains and a good harvest! Let our supplication reach your ears and heart, and let our sacrifice be found pleasing!" The priest pulls a wickedly curved dagger from his robes, and without hesitation or mercy, slits the throats of both men before pushing them, dead and bleeding, into their wooden prison. With red blood splattered all over his white frock, he steps back and gestures to his disciples, and in the crowd standing just outside the stone circle, underneath her hood, Metis' face is drained of all colour as she watches them take a torch to the wooden effigy. The fire blazes scarlet and gold against the twilight sky, and a murder of crows circle overhead, drawn to the scent of blood and death.
"They fly in three directions," the head priest declares in his sonorous voice. "It is a good sign, a sign of growth! Perhaps the rain will come, and we will be saved!"
The roar of cheers coming from the crowd drowns out Metis' gasp of horror and revulsion. If anyone had noticed the slight, elfin girl with moon-pale skin and eyes like sunlit oceans wearing a dark cloak standing amongst them, no one had paid any mind. But after the crowd disperses, as the wooden statue burns to ash and the blood of the condemned seeps into the soil, Metis remains behind, mulling over the cleric's prayer and her mission.
An idea formulates in her mind.
***
The magic spells that she's grown up wielding do not work so well on Earth, but this she had expected. However, Metis, of all four, is the most knowledgeable about science and technology. And so it is with the aid of machines and computers that she sets to work, slowly but surely diverting the path of the river that flows to the north so that the waters run through the settlement, bringing relief from the drought.
The villagers react with some confusion, but the grass grows green and the crops flourish with the unexpected boon of water. Certainly no one would attribute the appearance of a new creek to a small slip of a girl who only makes her appearance under moonlight during clear nights. Metis is careful and prudent with her work, and while she understands and even agrees with the High Queen's injunction to temper the unpredictable and often-destructive climate of the blue planet, she knows better than to announce her presence or intentions with flying banners and pounding drums. It would not do to alienate the inhabitants of Earth against the Silver Alliance when so much was at stake, and moreover, while they lacked the magic and immortality of the denizens of the moon, they were dangerous in their own way-- untamed, warlike and aggressively autonomous. Metis counts it a blessing that the people of Earth sleep when the moon is out, which allows her to work without disturbance and detection.
Or at least, so she thinks.
The moon is a waning crescent a fortnight after she'd initiated her plan, a slender curve of silver in the sky, and Metis, focused on coaxing the paths of flowing water much the same as a master sculptor might carve delicate lines in marble with a chisel, does not detect the presence of another until a fallen branch breaks behind her with an audible crack. Startled, she lifts her head and turns around, and for the first time, sees the one that they call Scoithín Ard-Rigan facing her.
He looks younger than she would have imagined, a wiry figure clad in the greens and browns of the Earth with a crown of coppery hair and an almost otherworldly beauty. The cape that billows behind him is the same vibrant green as new leaves, as the wrathful eyes that stare down into her own apprehensive blue ones. There is a sprig of holly pinned over his chest, its berries red as new blood, and a longbow strapped to his back with a full quiver of arrows. Instinctively, Metis reaches for the blades she wears at her waist, but he holds up a hand.
"Do it, and they'll shoot," his voice is silky-smooth, a caress of wind through leaves. A quick glance around shows a legion of archers, on the grass, in the trees, all with their arrows trained on her. Scoithín Ard-Rigan steps forward with an almost-arrogant sort of fearlessness, until she can all but feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. When he tugs back her hood and speaks, she knows it is only for her to hear.
"They act on my orders," he whispers in her ear. "They don't know, or care, who you are. Executing an intruder means nothing to them, particularly such a destructive one." Metis realizes quickly that despite the gentle, musical voice, the fury in his eyes is all too real. Is the Holy Patron of Growth, one of the four protectors of the Crown Prince, truly so cruel? Would he truly only be appeased by blood and destruction, even of his own people? She raises her chin and takes a deep breath.
"I did nothing wrong. They needed the water, and I have the means to give it to them. Perhaps now, they will not resort to murder to ensure their survival."
His face darkens, and then he sneers. "You know nothing about my world, Lady."
"What is there to know?" Metis retorts, stung at the implication of ignorance. "I have studied, extensively, your weather patterns, your traditions. The blistering heat and freezing cold that your people must suffer, year after year, is barbaric! Why shouldn't I do what I can to improve their lives?"
"How much time do you have?" Scoithín asks.
Metis raises her chin stubbornly and straightens to her full height. Still, he's nearly a head taller than she is. "However much time is needed."
Who knows, eventually I may sort everything out so it's coherent and linear. But first this ficverse needs a name. It's sort of an AU SilMil in a way. Suggestions and comments and questions??!!
This section is rated M for gore and violence. M ratings for sexytimes will come later :P Dedicated to all the A/Z shippers, particularly mrcrybrilliance who is totally going to get hit on left, right, center and sideways tonight :P
The statue stands, monstrous and fearsome with its twists of wood and thorns, in the center of the circle of standing stones. Its sinewy form is that of a man, though much larger than it should be, and as Metis watches, horrified, the robe-clad officiants lead two men, their hands bound together, in a dignified but inexorable walk towards the wooden figure. The master of the ceremony, an impassive, grizzled cleric clad in spotless white with a crown of oak leaves adorning his head, ties the arms and legs of the two captives together. As the lesser acolytes start up a humming chant in the background, the head priest anoints the prisoners with oil, and throws both hands up towards the sky.
"Here our prayer, oh bounteous Scoithín Ard-Rigan, Most Noble Patron of Growth! With blood and fire do we beg for the Healing Rains and a good harvest! Let our supplication reach your ears and heart, and let our sacrifice be found pleasing!" The priest pulls a wickedly curved dagger from his robes, and without hesitation or mercy, slits the throats of both men before pushing them, dead and bleeding, into their wooden prison. With red blood splattered all over his white frock, he steps back and gestures to his disciples, and in the crowd standing just outside the stone circle, underneath her hood, Metis' face is drained of all colour as she watches them take a torch to the wooden effigy. The fire blazes scarlet and gold against the twilight sky, and a murder of crows circle overhead, drawn to the scent of blood and death.
"They fly in three directions," the head priest declares in his sonorous voice. "It is a good sign, a sign of growth! Perhaps the rain will come, and we will be saved!"
The roar of cheers coming from the crowd drowns out Metis' gasp of horror and revulsion. If anyone had noticed the slight, elfin girl with moon-pale skin and eyes like sunlit oceans wearing a dark cloak standing amongst them, no one had paid any mind. But after the crowd disperses, as the wooden statue burns to ash and the blood of the condemned seeps into the soil, Metis remains behind, mulling over the cleric's prayer and her mission.
An idea formulates in her mind.
***
The magic spells that she's grown up wielding do not work so well on Earth, but this she had expected. However, Metis, of all four, is the most knowledgeable about science and technology. And so it is with the aid of machines and computers that she sets to work, slowly but surely diverting the path of the river that flows to the north so that the waters run through the settlement, bringing relief from the drought.
The villagers react with some confusion, but the grass grows green and the crops flourish with the unexpected boon of water. Certainly no one would attribute the appearance of a new creek to a small slip of a girl who only makes her appearance under moonlight during clear nights. Metis is careful and prudent with her work, and while she understands and even agrees with the High Queen's injunction to temper the unpredictable and often-destructive climate of the blue planet, she knows better than to announce her presence or intentions with flying banners and pounding drums. It would not do to alienate the inhabitants of Earth against the Silver Alliance when so much was at stake, and moreover, while they lacked the magic and immortality of the denizens of the moon, they were dangerous in their own way-- untamed, warlike and aggressively autonomous. Metis counts it a blessing that the people of Earth sleep when the moon is out, which allows her to work without disturbance and detection.
Or at least, so she thinks.
The moon is a waning crescent a fortnight after she'd initiated her plan, a slender curve of silver in the sky, and Metis, focused on coaxing the paths of flowing water much the same as a master sculptor might carve delicate lines in marble with a chisel, does not detect the presence of another until a fallen branch breaks behind her with an audible crack. Startled, she lifts her head and turns around, and for the first time, sees the one that they call Scoithín Ard-Rigan facing her.
He looks younger than she would have imagined, a wiry figure clad in the greens and browns of the Earth with a crown of coppery hair and an almost otherworldly beauty. The cape that billows behind him is the same vibrant green as new leaves, as the wrathful eyes that stare down into her own apprehensive blue ones. There is a sprig of holly pinned over his chest, its berries red as new blood, and a longbow strapped to his back with a full quiver of arrows. Instinctively, Metis reaches for the blades she wears at her waist, but he holds up a hand.
"Do it, and they'll shoot," his voice is silky-smooth, a caress of wind through leaves. A quick glance around shows a legion of archers, on the grass, in the trees, all with their arrows trained on her. Scoithín Ard-Rigan steps forward with an almost-arrogant sort of fearlessness, until she can all but feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. When he tugs back her hood and speaks, she knows it is only for her to hear.
"They act on my orders," he whispers in her ear. "They don't know, or care, who you are. Executing an intruder means nothing to them, particularly such a destructive one." Metis realizes quickly that despite the gentle, musical voice, the fury in his eyes is all too real. Is the Holy Patron of Growth, one of the four protectors of the Crown Prince, truly so cruel? Would he truly only be appeased by blood and destruction, even of his own people? She raises her chin and takes a deep breath.
"I did nothing wrong. They needed the water, and I have the means to give it to them. Perhaps now, they will not resort to murder to ensure their survival."
His face darkens, and then he sneers. "You know nothing about my world, Lady."
"What is there to know?" Metis retorts, stung at the implication of ignorance. "I have studied, extensively, your weather patterns, your traditions. The blistering heat and freezing cold that your people must suffer, year after year, is barbaric! Why shouldn't I do what I can to improve their lives?"
"How much time do you have?" Scoithín asks.
Metis raises her chin stubbornly and straightens to her full height. Still, he's nearly a head taller than she is. "However much time is needed."