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Tweak says, "Bulgarian bon-bon"

Skandra Tyullis (roll_the_bones) wrote in adusta,
@ 2010-09-22 16:35:00

Entry tags:

aeotha easaahae, singularity, skandra tyullis

touching the sky (aeotha)
The first thing he noticed about those ominous spires was not the color of them, or the status of the elven houses - quaint little things of wood and stone - that were seemingly hung on the side of the things. It was the texture that he took note of. Running his hand over the surface of it, even through his gloves, felt like nothing he'd ever witnessed. The surface was soft, soft enough that it had give. But it still felt like stone so long as you did not put pressure on it. Rock had never behaved that way that Skandra was aware of. As wide at the base as ten houses grouped together, gradually growing thinner near the top, silver-glowing in color, with those houses hanging from the sides of them as hairs might.

It still made his skin crawl.

Of course, even beyond the obvious, there was something to see and consider. In the middle of these great spires - rising almost as canyon walls might, Skandra thought - there was a sight to behold. A fire. A bonfire, perhaps the least alien thing he'd seen since he'd arrived, circled by rough stones and roaring hot against the increasing chill of the evening. Skandra peered out at this miracle of flame from behind one of the spires; trying not to press too hard against the side of the thing, lest he sink into it. There were voices coming from the fire - and once he was still, once his controlled breath stole the sound from his skull, he could hear what those voices were saying.

"You're awake?" in a voice he didn't recognize.

"More or less," and that was Shantar, groggy as all hell.

For a moment Skandra's heart was caught in his throat. What in the hell was Shantar doing here? And sounding so at ease? It was difficult to make out the shapes of the ones standing and sitting near the flames. It back-lit them, a sun in eclipse, so that all he saw were black voids filled with thoughts and feelings instead of distinguishing marks and faces he might want to see. More specifically, the first voice. It was Gershul's voice. It had to be. And yet Skandra didn't think it was Gershul, it just sounded like him. A cross expression was consuming his face. Skandra made himself ignore the impotent feeling of skulking around, and strained his ears for more.

"I hadn't imagined I would see you here," but it was Gershul, despite his doubts; the distance was playing tricks on him. "The last I knew, you were south, weren't you? In Ordaezel if I recall."

"Well, they aren't as fond of religion, down south," Shantar sounded amused. "Makes it a mite easier to work. As you know."

Silence reigned for a long moment. Skandra didn't dare move. No matter how foolish the fear, he suspected he would have been caught immediately had he tried to escape. And this he would not do. It had to be Gershul, didn't it? Doubting himself because he wanted it to be Gershul, or because he didn't want it to be Gershul? Did it matter? There was only one way he was going to find out. Slowly, very slowly, the Immortal began his forward journey. One foot in front of the other, arms wide for balance, body low to the ground. Slowly. They weren't yet inside that circle of orange light. They would be soon. And he needed to make it to the next spire before light vanished completely, and he would be either totally concealed or totally exposed.

"It's good to see you, boy," Shantar finally spoke quiet.

"You look fit," Gershul's voice answered. "Of course, at the rate you move, I suppose-"

"I brought Skandra with me," Shantar interrupted ruthlessly.

Now there was quiet again, but there were no faces to see. Only one figure standing tall above another. The hat. The coat. They were all the same as Skandra's own, or as Shantar's own, as if they continued to copy one another generation after generation. It was Skandra's choice to favor black over the sand-colored clothing Gershul and Shantar preferred. Let them prefer sand, if they want. Gershul wasn't saying a word. There were other shadows moving, near the fire, gathering food or simply stretching out for a spot of sleep. Skandra wondered how long it had really been since he'd slept. Not that long. He should start carrying one of those pocket watches that someone was always bragging about.

"Should I go and find him, then?" Gershul was glib. "Do you suppose he wants a hug?"

"He'd forgive you, if you asked."

This time it was Aeotha who had to clamp a hand over the advancing Immortal's mouth, lest he charge in and give himself away by protesting that outrage of a statement.

"I don't want his forgiveness," Gershul replied coldly. "You always ask about the same things, Shantar, and they're the wrong things to be asking about. You ought to ask yourself why we don't rule this world all ready."

"So should you," Shantar retorted.

"Magic as a system is alive and well," the evil bastard flung his hands into the air, in frustration; now Skandra knew which shadow to aim for first. "Magic as a philosophy? Is dead, Shantar. This world is not what it was when I was a boy. Kings and queens hold power because their citizens no longer care. As in your Ordaezel, I think. Would not the temple simply love to ruin your queen of Ordaezel? Yet they cannot. They're death priests, Shantar, ten or twelve little children who need huddled masses to carry out their plans. Comparatively speaking, I require few from those masses. This makes me superior in most tests you could apply."

"Except a moral test."

"Which is a test I've no interest in passing," Gershul snapped. "I'll spare your life for being as bright as you are. You can bore me with your sermons when it's done."

"When what is done?" Shantar sounded genuinely curious.

"The end of the world," the son replied, almost gleeful.

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the_holy_path
2010-09-23 12:39 am UTC (link)

Aeotha didn't need to strain to hear both men clearly, but what Aeotha was having a hard time with was staying still there. Neither of them wanted to be exposed here and when she turned her head to look up, or behind she found the breath caught in her throat. How many Elves were alive up in those homes, and how many more were dead? How could Shantar, because one of them was Shantar, sit there through this. Sit and watch? And what of the Priestess? Aeotha felt that weight shifting to her shoulders again, heart in her throat. Was she dead? Did.. that had to be Gershul, with how tense Skandra was standing, it was his father. The same tightness found it's way into his limbs when he simply spoke of the man. Did Gershul kill her? Did she die somewhere between?

Aeotha's hand clamped over Skandra's mouth and she held on firmly. Listening and waiting for something to happen. To be discovered or to press on and come around the men. She wondered how it was that anyone could stand and listen to their own father speak the way Gershul was. Aeotha was angry, not jut because she sought to make the world a better place, or because she felt like she needed to protect the people of this world, but because she loved Skandra. Because she knew this had to hurt him, somewhere deep down. To hear his father and his grandfather speak as they were.

She didn't know how she'd feel, were it her father speaking there. About... about absolute madness. Speaking so coldly about his own son, about his own father. How could anyone just do that? Aeotha was sure there was a good reason, there had to be or a mad reason? Why was she trying to think of reasons for the man who appeared to be nothing more than a monster. Skandra had all but said that himself, that his father was nothing more than a monster. Shantar had said similar things about his own son. But they didn't say.. quite that. Aeotha didn't know how anyone could hate the world so much. Hate magic so much. It was.. There was a balance to it. For everything she could do there was an opposite. Fire and Ice, Wind and Earth.. Light and darkness. Even their holy magic was opposites of another. Lorien against Lloth.

She could not understand it, but she wanted to. She just wanted Shantar to turn, and look at them and show that he was as upset as they were.

Aeotha's free hand grasped Skandra's elbow when Gershul said he meant to end the world. Given their present situation, in a world of his own creation, or a path to somewhere that wasn't where they were born. It seemed plausible to her that such a thing was possible. For all the world, Aeotha wished her magic would work, and work against Immortals here. She knew, such a thing was impossible, but Aeotha didn't want to be still. She wanted to stop what he was saying but she was frozen there half against Skandra's back.

Listening. Watching them.

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roll_the_bones
2010-09-23 03:16 am UTC (link)

There was silence over the filth of the alien soil, this silver clinging dust that he could not escape. Gershul finally sat down atop a rock, with Shantar not far away, and together the two men stared into the fire. Their silence was comfortable instead of tense; Gershul had said it himself. Shantar had respect for his son and Gershul had respect for his father. They were more like two men who did not agree on the proper way to tan and dye leather than two men who did not agree on whether or not an entire civilization should collapse and kill all who believed in it. Yet that was the difference, and it was the one that made Skandra want to leap out and cut his father's throat on the spot. Yet there was something that stilled his hand.

Two somethings.

Aeotha over his shoulder, peering into the darkness, catching a glimpse of the life he'd lived and tried so hard to keep from her. Stories about Gershul were one thing. To hear him talk you'd never know that he was insane. Skandra feared that; feared that even though Gershul had brought her nothing but trouble, that stupid elf they'd left behind had still loved him and admired him. If only she knew that Gershul could not love without also hating, that the more he hated you, the more he loved you. Forever an outcast and by his own design, yet his charm was such that he could make you want to be included in his madness.

Skandra had long since outgrown that disease.

"What did you see?" Gershul asked quietly.

"It's been eating away at you, hasn't it?" Shantar, to his credit, did not smile. "I knew it would. Ever since you were a boy, you've been afraid of ghosts."

"Ghosts are not real," Gershul responded stiffly. "They are metaphysical manifestations of our desires and our passions reflected back at us, mirrors of the mind made possible by stray energy. You know better than that, old man."

"I don't mean the spooks in the forests that you read about in stories," Shantar laughed; Skandra knew the laugh all too well. "I'm talking about what you carry with you. It isn't just the past that we see when we pass through, Gershul. It is a mirror to our soul. I've tried it, four times, and each time I saw... what I hated most, what I loved most, what I feared most. What I regretted the most. Small differences, boy, but always the same. I never saw myself eating breakfast alone and generally enjoying my time on the road. Did you?"

"I asked first," Gershul did smile, now, but his words were soft.

"I saw you," Shantar answered. "On that day. And I was weeping when they found me because it still-"

"I saw her," Gershul's voice was very soft, now, almost too soft to hear. "I saw her calling out to me. Begging me to do something. I had trained both body and mind to be perfection, to achieve a state of being that no mortal had ever reached. I was not yet at the pinnacle of my knowledge, but-"

"It's a sick heart," Shantar cut him off. "Some people cannot face a loss, Gershul. Then they find love again. You tried revenge but it didn't cure that hole in your heart, any more than I could. What you're seeking can't be found. You think you're climbing higher, but you're digging your own grave, boy. And no one ever touched the sky from six feet underground."