Doom - Story of a Story, prologue.
Nov. 2nd, 2005 03:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
order_of_chaosNano - behind schedule but still writing. And this is the main
bit from yesterday. Strangely enough, I appear to have started at
the beginning of the story. The title, until I think of a better one, is
Story of a Story.
Prologue
The world is white, but not dazzlingly so. It has no ends, yet doesn’t give – or try to give – the impression of limitless space. If anything, it fades out into unseen clutter. It’s remarkably peaceful for an imagination, but that won’t last long. Just until the story has started.
Somewhere, in what would be called a corner if the world had corners or even distinct edges, there are people. Many people, but for now you only notice three of them. They look, for the moment, like children – a brother and his two sisters, and if they have parents, you can’t see them. They have names, of course, but you don’t plan on revealing them just yet.
As you approach, the youngest – a girl of about ten in black and red – glares at you accusingly from the shelter of her brother’s arms. Black eyes and red hair, to match her dress. You wonder if she can read the future or if she only sees shadows of what you have in mind. Enough easily, for her to hate you, although even you don’t know how your story will end.
The boy – he’s sixteen and looks older – doesn’t move. For all he is concerned, you might as well not exist. His family is his world, and you are not part of it. As you watch, he works a tangle idly – but carefully – out of the girl’s hair, waiting for something.
Their sister steps forward, moving between you and her siblings in such a way as to seem almost accidental, and greets you. She looks like a princess – golden-brown curls and gentle brown eyes – appropriate, since she is one. Or will be. She’s more willing to trust you than her siblings – ever the optimist – and though that’s not saying much, it is something. Maybe you can live up to the hopes, and not the fears.
“It will be all right,” you tell them quietly. “I promise.” You smile as brightly as you can, and send them spinning into the story with a flick of your mind.
“Although,” you add quietly to the space they have just vacated, “I do not always keep my promises.” You hope – of course you do – for a happy ending. If that is even possible. But what if…?
“Don’t worry.” There’s the sensation of a hand on your shoulder – light and warm, reassuring. “I’ll protect them for you. I can do that, you know.”
You turn. Bright blue eyes meet yours, twinkling mischievously even with their owner’s current attempt to appear serious. Despite yourself, you grin. “Miscreant.” You hadn’t known. All you’d known was that he was a thief and a mischief-maker and too much of a treasure to be left out. “Thank you.”
He bows with a flourish, and disappears.
“And you.” A tickle at the back of your mind warns you in time to dodge the dagger – it hisses smoothly past you and disappears into nothing. Of course. He would wait till last, wouldn’t he? Information, among other things, could easily become power.
“And I?” Hint of a smirk – and this is the last of the characters that is awake enough to talk to you. Slender, ambitious and amoral – even you can’t trust him – yet brilliant enough, if he chooses to be on your side, to make that worth it.
“You will not. You forget – I made you too, my dear traitor. Why ask you to be something you are not?”
“Mind games can be such fun, treasure,” he purrs at you. “But don’t let me stop you.” Smirk becomes smile becomes smirk.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you assure him. Doing and dreaming are completely different things, after all. If he really thinks he’ll get through this without coming to care more about someone else than he’s ever wanted to, he’s mistaken. Probably, he doesn’t think that, and has already prepared for it. He knows you, and better than most.
He’s good company, of sorts, but he’s distracting you. You banish him half-regretfully, and turn to cluttering up your imagination. If you’re going to write, you’ll want colour and music, and many, many different flavours of chocolate. And you want paper – a whole avalanche of it – and pencils and paint, and many-coloured pens. Distractions, more distractions. Maybe a cat, while you’re at it.
You sprawl out on what is now a thick, midnight-blue rug, tuck a pad of paper under your chin, and stare at it. It doesn’t move. You nibble absentmindedly on the end of your pencil and contemplate the infinity, as a mostly black and orange tortoiseshell kitten curls up in the small of your back and purrs. Your pencil rests slantwise on the paper – lines twisting into a half-drawing of a face as you think. There will need to be a prophecy. And before that…
You begin.
Prologue
The world is white, but not dazzlingly so. It has no ends, yet doesn’t give – or try to give – the impression of limitless space. If anything, it fades out into unseen clutter. It’s remarkably peaceful for an imagination, but that won’t last long. Just until the story has started.
Somewhere, in what would be called a corner if the world had corners or even distinct edges, there are people. Many people, but for now you only notice three of them. They look, for the moment, like children – a brother and his two sisters, and if they have parents, you can’t see them. They have names, of course, but you don’t plan on revealing them just yet.
As you approach, the youngest – a girl of about ten in black and red – glares at you accusingly from the shelter of her brother’s arms. Black eyes and red hair, to match her dress. You wonder if she can read the future or if she only sees shadows of what you have in mind. Enough easily, for her to hate you, although even you don’t know how your story will end.
The boy – he’s sixteen and looks older – doesn’t move. For all he is concerned, you might as well not exist. His family is his world, and you are not part of it. As you watch, he works a tangle idly – but carefully – out of the girl’s hair, waiting for something.
Their sister steps forward, moving between you and her siblings in such a way as to seem almost accidental, and greets you. She looks like a princess – golden-brown curls and gentle brown eyes – appropriate, since she is one. Or will be. She’s more willing to trust you than her siblings – ever the optimist – and though that’s not saying much, it is something. Maybe you can live up to the hopes, and not the fears.
“It will be all right,” you tell them quietly. “I promise.” You smile as brightly as you can, and send them spinning into the story with a flick of your mind.
“Although,” you add quietly to the space they have just vacated, “I do not always keep my promises.” You hope – of course you do – for a happy ending. If that is even possible. But what if…?
“Don’t worry.” There’s the sensation of a hand on your shoulder – light and warm, reassuring. “I’ll protect them for you. I can do that, you know.”
You turn. Bright blue eyes meet yours, twinkling mischievously even with their owner’s current attempt to appear serious. Despite yourself, you grin. “Miscreant.” You hadn’t known. All you’d known was that he was a thief and a mischief-maker and too much of a treasure to be left out. “Thank you.”
He bows with a flourish, and disappears.
“And you.” A tickle at the back of your mind warns you in time to dodge the dagger – it hisses smoothly past you and disappears into nothing. Of course. He would wait till last, wouldn’t he? Information, among other things, could easily become power.
“And I?” Hint of a smirk – and this is the last of the characters that is awake enough to talk to you. Slender, ambitious and amoral – even you can’t trust him – yet brilliant enough, if he chooses to be on your side, to make that worth it.
“You will not. You forget – I made you too, my dear traitor. Why ask you to be something you are not?”
“Mind games can be such fun, treasure,” he purrs at you. “But don’t let me stop you.” Smirk becomes smile becomes smirk.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you assure him. Doing and dreaming are completely different things, after all. If he really thinks he’ll get through this without coming to care more about someone else than he’s ever wanted to, he’s mistaken. Probably, he doesn’t think that, and has already prepared for it. He knows you, and better than most.
He’s good company, of sorts, but he’s distracting you. You banish him half-regretfully, and turn to cluttering up your imagination. If you’re going to write, you’ll want colour and music, and many, many different flavours of chocolate. And you want paper – a whole avalanche of it – and pencils and paint, and many-coloured pens. Distractions, more distractions. Maybe a cat, while you’re at it.
You sprawl out on what is now a thick, midnight-blue rug, tuck a pad of paper under your chin, and stare at it. It doesn’t move. You nibble absentmindedly on the end of your pencil and contemplate the infinity, as a mostly black and orange tortoiseshell kitten curls up in the small of your back and purrs. Your pencil rests slantwise on the paper – lines twisting into a half-drawing of a face as you think. There will need to be a prophecy. And before that…
You begin.
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-01 06:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-01 08:05 pm (UTC)Oh man, all this origific...*rubs hands together gleefully* It's so much fun to see what people come up with when they're not writing fanfic.
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 07:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 12:37 pm (UTC)*begs for more*
no subject
Date: 2005-11-03 06:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-11-05 09:14 am (UTC)