epilogue to prequel (1a)
Mar. 17th, 2008 06:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
luna_rainbowFrom the moment I departed Averron again, time manifested as a mist. The past, the present, the future, all inconsequential and intangible events, a fluid veil between me and an unseen destination. One day blurred into another, one year into the next; the moons crossed each other in the night sky and the constellations waltzed full circles. And I, like a blindfolded traveller, stumbled aimlessly through it, lost.
I accepted the role of a Chronicler for the Great Library at Averron, for whom the requirements were congruous with Seyarna's - non-interference with the course of history. It was a requirement enforced loosely, if at all, by either of my employers. The Averroni librarians have long accepted that bias exists even in the accounts of the most detached observer, and that any appropriate recount requires immersion in the culture that surrounded the event.
So the Averroni Chroniclers would mingle as they observed. Sometimes they became entangled in the web of history...at this, it seemed, I had a peculiar knack.
To Heshyan I went first, and lost myself in the maze of tunnels lined with glossy black stones that glittered like the stars aboveground. In its neighbourhood was Korya, a land of red soil and red rocks and, when it rained, a roaring red river. Remnants, it was said, of the blood price paid by its people in its costly victory against the Ukenth wizards.
Farther south I went, until the ground became too warm to walk on and the time between nightfall and sunrise lasted only a few hours. There, the searing white sky was infested with dragons, savage and untameable beasts that bore similarity to Ylhora only in their winged reptilian form.
When finally bored of the heat of the south, I drifted across the great ocean on a small dinghy. Though immortal, I was unfortunately not spared the discomforts of the human body, but I allowed starvation to overtake me, and thus I slept in undisturbed peace as the whimsical waves carried me away. I awoke underwater and discovered with wryness that I could not drown, that when I breathed I breathed neither air nor water, but remained alive nevertheless.
In a great storm, I was flung from my boat and drifting downwards, I was discovered by those who inhabited the deep sea, the half-human, half-fish merpeople. I might have left swiftly if not for their hostility that reminded me so achingly of the Talgrithan centaurs, and perhaps some part of me stayed, wanting to find that boy amongst the distrustful gazes, who would approach humans with open palms no matter how many times he was hurt.
I did gain their trust, and through the long years of their lives and my endless wait, we kept each other company, trading gimcracks and trinkets across the world of water. But I left them eventually, because though their smiles grew warmer, I did not see Kamaeh.
The currents bore me north, past the latitude of Isshaten, threading through the broken glaciers where, beyond the icy mountains, lay the enchanting realm of Prillon. Secluded by unscalable mountains that formed a natural fortress, these peaceful winged people were intoxicated by their flourishing arts and showed little interest in the barren world beyond a beautiful land of their own tender crafting. Everywhere one turned there were sculptures, or paintings, or buildings, or music, each more beautiful than the last, striving, it seemed, towards that elusive fulfilment of perfection.
Only one Prilloni was interested by my presence, a radiant youth whose eyes fixed upon me with foreknowledge at our first chance encounter. In years he could not have been much younger - or older - than what I must have been then. Cradling a harp in his lap, slender fingers twanging transparent strings in distraction as his eyes traced my every move until, exasperated, I confronted his gaze squarely and waited.
He was not shy as I had first guessed. He lifted his head smiled, and that characteristic silver blonde hair of his people blazed alight in the sun like a burning halo. He asked me something in his tongue, and not understanding him, I braced myself, but he lowered his head and played an ordinary little tune I did not recognise.
I stayed Prillon for a long time. Few Averroni Chroniclers have visited it because of its isolation, so I stayed, absorbing first its language, then its culture, then its legends and history and myths and faiths. The Prilloni youth befriended me, and though my initial indifference to him thawed to affection, I did not allow my mistrust to fade.
To him, I delegated the task of compiling scripts of well-known Prilloni music for Averron's library. Myself, in between exhaustively detailing Prillon's history, set about sketching its many wondrous constructions. Ice bell-towers built near the highest peaks, where even in full sun the snow would never melt; though only evergreens grew in such coldness, Prillon was filled with flowers that never wilted - metal twirled into gleaming vines, crystal chiselled into glistening petals, dyed glass blown into glimmering leaves, spilling fractured colour onto the snowy ground below.
When I left Prillon, it was many years later. I returned there frequently, probably the first outsider to do so, but never again for long.
It was like steeping in balmy water, the gentle warmth loosened those overstrained muscles, but before one could doze away, wounds unclotted and bled, tendrils of stinging ache flowing stubbornly below the surface.
It was then I wondered if I sought healing and could only find rest.
And in rest, those memories did not fade but grew more vivid with each replay, deepening wounds that never scabbed enough to be forgotten.
And I could rest no more.
I accepted the role of a Chronicler for the Great Library at Averron, for whom the requirements were congruous with Seyarna's - non-interference with the course of history. It was a requirement enforced loosely, if at all, by either of my employers. The Averroni librarians have long accepted that bias exists even in the accounts of the most detached observer, and that any appropriate recount requires immersion in the culture that surrounded the event.
So the Averroni Chroniclers would mingle as they observed. Sometimes they became entangled in the web of history...at this, it seemed, I had a peculiar knack.
To Heshyan I went first, and lost myself in the maze of tunnels lined with glossy black stones that glittered like the stars aboveground. In its neighbourhood was Korya, a land of red soil and red rocks and, when it rained, a roaring red river. Remnants, it was said, of the blood price paid by its people in its costly victory against the Ukenth wizards.
Farther south I went, until the ground became too warm to walk on and the time between nightfall and sunrise lasted only a few hours. There, the searing white sky was infested with dragons, savage and untameable beasts that bore similarity to Ylhora only in their winged reptilian form.
When finally bored of the heat of the south, I drifted across the great ocean on a small dinghy. Though immortal, I was unfortunately not spared the discomforts of the human body, but I allowed starvation to overtake me, and thus I slept in undisturbed peace as the whimsical waves carried me away. I awoke underwater and discovered with wryness that I could not drown, that when I breathed I breathed neither air nor water, but remained alive nevertheless.
In a great storm, I was flung from my boat and drifting downwards, I was discovered by those who inhabited the deep sea, the half-human, half-fish merpeople. I might have left swiftly if not for their hostility that reminded me so achingly of the Talgrithan centaurs, and perhaps some part of me stayed, wanting to find that boy amongst the distrustful gazes, who would approach humans with open palms no matter how many times he was hurt.
I did gain their trust, and through the long years of their lives and my endless wait, we kept each other company, trading gimcracks and trinkets across the world of water. But I left them eventually, because though their smiles grew warmer, I did not see Kamaeh.
The currents bore me north, past the latitude of Isshaten, threading through the broken glaciers where, beyond the icy mountains, lay the enchanting realm of Prillon. Secluded by unscalable mountains that formed a natural fortress, these peaceful winged people were intoxicated by their flourishing arts and showed little interest in the barren world beyond a beautiful land of their own tender crafting. Everywhere one turned there were sculptures, or paintings, or buildings, or music, each more beautiful than the last, striving, it seemed, towards that elusive fulfilment of perfection.
Only one Prilloni was interested by my presence, a radiant youth whose eyes fixed upon me with foreknowledge at our first chance encounter. In years he could not have been much younger - or older - than what I must have been then. Cradling a harp in his lap, slender fingers twanging transparent strings in distraction as his eyes traced my every move until, exasperated, I confronted his gaze squarely and waited.
He was not shy as I had first guessed. He lifted his head smiled, and that characteristic silver blonde hair of his people blazed alight in the sun like a burning halo. He asked me something in his tongue, and not understanding him, I braced myself, but he lowered his head and played an ordinary little tune I did not recognise.
I stayed Prillon for a long time. Few Averroni Chroniclers have visited it because of its isolation, so I stayed, absorbing first its language, then its culture, then its legends and history and myths and faiths. The Prilloni youth befriended me, and though my initial indifference to him thawed to affection, I did not allow my mistrust to fade.
To him, I delegated the task of compiling scripts of well-known Prilloni music for Averron's library. Myself, in between exhaustively detailing Prillon's history, set about sketching its many wondrous constructions. Ice bell-towers built near the highest peaks, where even in full sun the snow would never melt; though only evergreens grew in such coldness, Prillon was filled with flowers that never wilted - metal twirled into gleaming vines, crystal chiselled into glistening petals, dyed glass blown into glimmering leaves, spilling fractured colour onto the snowy ground below.
When I left Prillon, it was many years later. I returned there frequently, probably the first outsider to do so, but never again for long.
It was like steeping in balmy water, the gentle warmth loosened those overstrained muscles, but before one could doze away, wounds unclotted and bled, tendrils of stinging ache flowing stubbornly below the surface.
It was then I wondered if I sought healing and could only find rest.
And in rest, those memories did not fade but grew more vivid with each replay, deepening wounds that never scabbed enough to be forgotten.
And I could rest no more.