Tag Archive | giraffecall: result

Ghost Story

Finnegan is a character in Addergoole. Efrosin, who was meant to have more lines in this, is a character in Addergoole: Year Nine, coming in September.

Summer between years six and Seven of the Addergoole School (2001)

Summer Camp was, Finnegan decided, one of the best ideas he’d ever had.

When Doug had offered him the job last year, he’d needed something to do that wasn’t think about Allyse or their tiny baby daughter Bailey. Two months hip-deep in other people’s kids had done a good job of that.

This year, he came for the fun, and because he was good at it; he brought Efrosin, because the kid needed to clear his own head.

Camp Red Oak Hill might have a higher percentage of future Addergoole students attending it than any normal camp, but that was a fact known only to the staff and the parents; normal kids came here, too, and the children of fae who weren’t part of Regine’s master plan. It made for a wild, rambunctious mass of children, much like camps he remembered from his own earlier years.

And tonight, looking around the fire at fifty-seven kids, Finnegan felt a dreadful sense of responsibility. He was supposed to look after them. He was supposed to teach them.

He was supposed to send them home, knowing maybe fifteen of them would eventually end up in the halls of Addergoole.

He cleared his throat. “Tonight’s story isn’t quite a ghost story…”

He waited out the obligatory “awwws” and other complaints.

“It’s a monster story instead. You see, when I was coming here, I spoke to the old Indian…”

“The old Native American,” eight-year-old Talitha interrupted.

Two could play at that game. “The old Tuscarora who lives down at the bottom of the hill. And he told me of a monster who used to roam these parts.”

He dropped his voice. “She was a nightmare, they say, the kind of creature that could chill your blood. She ate little children’s hearts for breakfast, and for dinner, she had lady fingers, real lady fingers. Those she didn’t eat, she’d enslave.”

He was really getting into it. “And she was a terror, a real slave-driver. She made her captive work all day without anything at all to eat, and then at night, when she let them rest, she fed them cold bean mush over broccoli.“

Even Efrosin joined in on the collective “Ewwwwwwww.”

“She walked these very hills, living in a cabin up just past the fence-line, where the old stones still sit. And she would come down here, when this camp was first started, and she would steal. Little boys. And little girls, one by one.” He dropped his voice down to a faint whisper.

“What happened to her?” Yuriko was a little old to be getting into the stories this much, but she was leaning forward nearly off of her log. “Did the camp people stop her?”

“Now, that’s the thing. Some people say that she died a natural death. Some people say that her slaves rose up and killed her dead, and buried her body at the crossroads.

“But some people say she never died, and sometimes she walks the paths around the camp, looking for a way in, looking for children to steal.”

And if that didn’t give them nightmares…

“Some people say, she looks just like we do.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/371851.html. You can comment here or there.

Long Summer

Jul15

For Lilfluff‘s prompt

Kendra and Ofir are characters in Addergoole

One week into Summer vacation after Year 5

Kendra had been home for nearly three weeks before anyone came to visit.

She had been settling in, having long conversations with her father and shorter, more uncomfortable conversations with her stepmother and her younger brother ‘Deus.

Her son Falke was still tiny, hungry all the time and cranky when he wasn’t hungry. “Just like your daddy,” she teased him, when nobody else was listening. The truth was, she didn’t mind. He didn’t take that much effort, and her stepmom and dad were more than willing to take most of the burden.

When the doorbell rang, Falke was finally settling down for a nap, so she slipped out the door before the noise could wake him up. “‘Deus is out… oh. Hi.” She swallowed a squeak. These weren’t her brother’s friends, or, at least, they hadn’t been when she left a year ago. “Kale, Nancy, Ashley, Hi. Brittany – are you pregnant? Oh, wow. Justin, you look… good.” Really good. “Hey, Jasmine. New hairdo. Um. How did you all get here?”

“Courtney’s mom let her borrow the van. We heard you were back, but you didn’t stop by.” Brittany’s hands were over her full stomach protectively. “So we thought, you know, maybe we’d stop by…”

“Oh! Hi.” She remembered how to smile after a moment. “Sorry, it’s just been…” Inside, Falke started wailing again. “Well, let’s just say, Brit, if you’re having a boy, I can pass you down a whole bunch of clothes in a month or two.”

She shared a grateful smile with the girl who she’d barely known before she left. At least with Brit pregnant, there would be less questions. Maybe she wouldn’t have to try to explain Ofir, or Jamian, or anything else over the last year.

“So, who’s the dad?” Trust Justin to ruin her plans. And the way he was looking at her, he was remembering that kiss before she left. Kendra flushed.

“Just some jerk.” She hunched her shoulders, thinking about it, thinking about the day he’d lost her. “We’re not together anymore.”

“Just like that?”

“Things were… complicated.” Things were always complicated at Addergoole. “But, ah, I’m home now.”

“Come on, let’s see the baby.” Jasmine pushed the door open. “and then you can tell us all about your year at school, and this jerk. And oh, my god, you would not believe what Terry did to Anna.”

Lock her in a closet? Sell her to his friends? Turn her into a toad? “This way, follow the screaming baby noises. What did he do?”

“Totally cheated on her with Amber. And then pretended it was all her fault.”

“Oh, that sounds… horrible. What did Anna do?” I’d get someone to do a tlacatl on him so he couldn’t get it up for weeks…

“Cried, mostly.”

“Oh, thats… awful.” She paused in the doorway to her room; Falke had settled down to little burbling noises. “Maybe I’ll talk to her.” Give her some pointers.

“And then Amber…” they were on again, and it all sounded so dire, until she thought about a collar locked around her neck. It was going to be a long summer, wasn’t it?

She caught Kale smiling at her, those blue eyes so sincere. But possibly a fun summer, too.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/371500.html. You can comment here or there.

At The Zoo

Jul14

For ankewehner‘s prompt

Yngvi (Vi), Aelgifu (Ayla) and Ioanna (Io) are characters in Addergoole

Summer between Years Six and Seven.

The zoo had seemed like a good idea for the three of them. Io’s oldest, Cecily, was just old enough to enjoy it, and Cecily was young enough to enjoy the stroller ride. It seemed safe, normal – a human thing to do.

They needed more human things to do; after another year underground, they needed to remember how to act normal. Io had been on a campaign of normalcy since they left for the summer, but after that incident at the beach, she thought maybe a smaller group of humanity might be safer. (For the humans, at least. Who knew Yngvi could punch that hard?)

And here they were, standing in front of the antelopes, Vi staring down the biggest bull. Even though they were all Masked, even though Vi’s face was human under the Mask, Io swore she could see his nostrils widening.

And then Ayla punched him in the arm. “Vi, it’s an animal. It’s an antelope.“

Ynvgi blushed, and dropped his head. Picturing his horns – long, curling horns, much like smaller versions of the Kudu antelope in front of them – Io thought they must almost be scraping the fence. “Sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

“You don’t see me snorting at them.”

Yngvi frowned, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Maybe if we met any jackalopes…”

Io snorted at the two of them. “Face if, Vi, every once in a while you act like a male. Even if you’re acting like a male bovid.”

“Wonderful. Now I’m a cow.” Vi rolled his eyes in molodramatic disdain. “Fine, let’s go on to the big cats. That shouldn’t cause a problem for any of us.”

Io squirmed, remembering the last time she encountered a mountain lion. “Ah, about that…”

Next time they were going to something safe. Like a cave.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/371126.html. You can comment here or there.

Shoot the Moon, Pow, Bow

Jul12

For flofx‘s Commissioned Continuation of Eggshells and Lineman’s Hopes.

Long before Guarding the Church and referencing Strange Neighbors.

He came around the Stanton Arms and the park like he owned the area, walking in with a swagger like he was the strongest guy in the place.

Tia Lian hated him immediately. This was her street, her neighborhood. She didn’t need some big sleek guy with slicked back hair and a shiny smile coming in. She didn’t need no fairy who screamed fey from every line of his body to take over when she was just sort-of-fey-around-the-edges. She didn’t need him.

So she ignored him, while the others flooded around him. “Who are you? What are you doing here? Where are you from?”

And he just smiled.

“What kind of fairy are you? Are your family from around here, did you come from the Other Place? You’re fey, right? You’ve got to be fey, tell us you’re fey.”

And he just smiled.

“Do you play? You like games, right? We’re playing Cowboys and Indians and the Wild Fey, come on, you can be an Indian.”

And he just smiled, and made a hand gesture like he was pulling guns out of his pockets, pointed at the two in front, and said, “Bow, bow. Dead.”

“That’s not how you play!” Tia Lian jumped up as the two staggered, playing dead very convincingly. “The Indians don’t get guns. The Indians get bows and arrows and the wild fae get spears and the cowboys, they get guns!”

He just smiled, and holstered his invisible guns.

Tia was enraged. “That’s not how you play!”

He wouldn’t answer, which just made her angrier. Nothing but “bow, bow.”

“Let him play a cowboy, then,” one of her friends urged. “He can have my hat. I bet he’d make an awesome cowboy, with those guns.”

“Those are just his fingers!”

“Your spear’s just your hand, what’s your point? Come on, he’s new, let him be the cowboy.”

“That’s not how it works! I’ve been here longest, I get to be the cowboy!”

“You get to be the fairy, you’re the best fairy we have.”

That almost placated her. “I do pretty good at the fairying thing,” she admitted.

At that, the new stranger nodded. He pulled out his invisible gun and shot up into the air. “Bow, bow. The moon.”

“He thinks you hang the moon! See, come on, let him be the cowboy this time!”

Tia had already determined that they would never let her be the cowboy, but that didn’t mean she had to take it in good grace. Besides, she knew that “shoot the moon” wasn’t the same as “hang the moon,” but she wasn’t sure it was a compliment either way.

“Fine.” She couldn’t sulk without looking like the bad guy, which just made her want to sulk even more. “He can be the cowboy. But you know what they say, cowboy. Watch out for trech’rous fairies.”

“I thought the Indians were supposed to be trech’rous!” Her minions were beginning to grate on her. She gave them all her best evil-girl smile.

“That’s what we want you to think.” She made a stabbing gesture, aiming for the new guy’s armpit. He caught her imaginary spear in his heart, and staggered backwards, falling to the ground.

“Bao, bao,” he whispered. Under the shadow of a borrowed hat, he winked at her. “Right in the heart.”

Tia Lian felt an echoing stab in her own heart. “Tia Bao,” she corrected him.

Everything after that was just formalities.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/369935.html. You can comment here or there.

Strangers, Part 2

Jul10

To rix_scaedu‘s prompt. This is part of the main story, set very early on, their second day on the road, after Ch2: Strangers (LJ)

Rin stood in front of Girey’s goat, trying to look imposing despite her bare feet and loose hair. The goat nibbled on her hair, un-worried by the sudden shift in events. Girey tried not to laugh, and tried harder than that not to bolt. His hands itched for his sword.

“Right this way.” The Callenian voices had the thick border accent he was more used to, their vowels sounding properly rounded, unlike the way his captor talked, with the short hasty sounds of their northern capital. But they sounded angry, and angry wasn’t something he wanted to deal with, chained to a goat and without a weapon.

“Give me my sword,” he hissed. “Or at least a knife.”

“Stay there and stay quiet.” Her voice was just as low, and she’d shifted back to Callenian.

“Right through here.” The voices were just on the other side of the brush now, pushing through. “They keep taking the side road here, like they think we won’t find them here. Avoiding the main routes.”

“It does help avoid the army.” Impossibly, Rin’s accent had gotten even shorter, and she seemed to have gotten taller. She faced the intruders head-on, despite her apparent lack of weapons.

They stopped short as they entered the clearing, two men and a woman in huntsmen’s garb and with the muddled-bloodlines look of the borderlands. “I heard two Bitrani strays over here.” The man in charge, as tall as Girey and twice as broad, sounded offended.

“You heard myself and my captive.” She gestured at Girey, and he tried to look more… captive, or something. He didn’t deal well with this whole idea. He was a prince!

“Why were you talking in Bitrani, then? And what are you doing all bare?”

The woman, closer to Rin’s size and closer to Girey’s coloration, punched the big man in the arm. “Don’t be a moron, don’t you see what’s going on?”

What was going on? Girey hunched lower on his goat. No, don’t let them recognize him. He wasn’t sure his pride could take that, being jeered at by peasants.

“Oh-ho-ho.” The big man guffawed. “Begging your pardon, miss. Yes, I see. Listen, we’ll let you two finish up, but if you aren’t too… ah-ha-ha… too busy, why don’t you stop down into town for the wedding today? We know what it’s like, bringing home a war-spouse. We do, don’t we, Ririna?”

“That we do.” The woman giggled throatily. Her eyes were raking over Girey in a way that left him feeling a bit dirty and completely naked. “Bring him by, miss. We’d like to see how he cleans up.”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/368912.html. You can comment here or there.

Mid-Heat Festival, a story for the Giraffe Call (@Anke)

Jul4

For anke‘s prompt.
The priests were dancing in the square, the drumbeats so loud they seemed to rock the streets, and Toka wanted to see them, needed to see them.

The mid-heat festival was in full-swing, the press of people in the streets almost unbearable, vendors shouting about their wares, people singing off-tune, water-bearers pumping small portable fountains, dousing the finely-decked crowd with water to cool it off.

Around the legs of the crowd, under the tables of the vendors, behind the backs of the water-bearers, Toka darted, her darting its own dance, her steps in rhythm with the heavy drums in the center square.

“Rub a coin,” she heard a boy tell his sister, and while they were distracted, she stole the rest of his purse. Too light. She dropped it at his feet and kept going. Throw the little fish back… and she was in a hurry, anyway. She had to see the priests.

The drum beat sped up. Bum-bum, bum-bum-bum-bum. Toka sped up. Over the water-sprayer, under the table. Around the rich man, behind the constable. Bum-bum-bum-bum, bada-bada-bada-bada. She landed in a slick patch of water and skidded, turned the skid into a controlled slide, and slipped under a goat-carriage, landing at the edge of the square, between a very rich-looking woman and her very handsome bed-warmer.

“Your honors.” She bowed, and wiggled to the ground in front of them. The nice things about the mid-heat festival was that even the finest and richest sometimes stripped down to their undertunic. One more girl in her linens was not all that remarkable – and Toka’s linens had been stolen off a very posh clotheline.

Bada-bada-bada-bada, ba-Dum-ba, ba-Dum-ba, ba-Dum-ba, ba-Dum-ba! The Priestess of Reiassanon stomped out the beat with heavy-soled shoes on the cobblestones, ending with a flourish, head bowed, arms out, green robes flapping. The priests of Tienebrah turned their buckets and fountains on the crowd, dousing the first few rows. The Priest of Veignevar stepped forward, fire in both hands, his eyes raking the crowd. He was reading the síra. He was reading the crowd. He was reading her, Toka, Gotokoya of the South Dock.

His red-tinged eyes met hers, and he nodded. A heartbeat, nothing more, and the drums thudded to their conclusion, the Red priest tossing fire in the air like juggling balls. But it had been enough. It had been what she’d come here for.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/366164.html. You can comment here or there.

An excerpt of Rin & Girey for the Giraffe Call (@Rix_scaedu)

Jul1

To rix_scaedu‘s prompt. This is part of the main story, set very early on, their second day on the road.

Chapter 2: Strangers
After a war-season, we look for friends in the faces of strangers, and for enemies in the faces of our friends.

Her companion was a bit of a grumbler.

Rin was not all that surprised. A career in the army and a lifetime of being royalty both tended to lead one to complain; the former out of a ritualized counter to obligation and responsibility, the second for much the same reason, at least in Callenia. A royal soldier, then, and a captive to boot, was probably entitled a bit of complaining. She couldn’t say she wouldn’t do the same, were the roles reversed.

Of course, if the roles were reserved, she might be facing far less kind treatment, something the damn morning, the difficulty of their mounts, and her companion’s near-incessant whining were bringing to the forefront of her mind. How would he like it, draped over the saddle instead of riding properly?

“Mount.” She snapped the word out in his own language before she could follow through with the thought. “Come on, the sun moves more quickly than you do.”

“And it set on the wrong side of you last night.” He smirked as he got onto the gelding, the smirk fading as the beast gave a settling buck that must have jarred him in all the wrong places.

“I’m not the only one.” She was still answering in Bitrani; it was a better language for being irritable in. And they had seen no-one on the road for the last few hours of the night before. It was not the wisest decision she had made.

“Over here!” The voice came through the bushes, a southern Callenian accent with the clipped syllables of an Army scout. “I heard some strays this way.”

“Behind me.” She pushed the goat behind her and stood as professionally as she could while still bootless and with her hair unbraided.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/363938.html. You can comment here or there.

Paradox and… a story of Superheroes

Jul1

For imaginaryfiend‘s commissioned continuation of Returned Paradox

I was born to death.

I was born to the memory of a dead woman, forty weeks to the day after Paradox Maverick died, and I was told so, in whispers and glances and blasted macaroni and cheese on my birthday every year. I was born, it seemed when I was younger, to echo her back to my mother’s companions, to look like her in every way I could.

Sometimes I think that she did it on purpose, Paradox, tinkered with my genetics in the womb to put them off the scent, as it were, to make them keep looking in the wrong place and never think to look where they should have. I wonder, if she did that, if she had any idea how well she would succeed?

Here I am, now, exactly what they created, exactly what I created, and not what they would have had me be. Nothing, nothing, I might add, like Paradox Maverick, may she rot in a cold cell in the darkest corner of Hell.

I am Order. And today is my eighteenth birthday.

There will be macaroni and cheese. There will always be macaroni and cheese. And my mother will buy me a pretty dress, and I will wear it. It will be the last thing I wear that I did not choose myself. And it will be the last time I eat macaroni and cheese. Today, I am going to start my plans. Today, I am going to begin my empire.

“Bit serious, are you?”

The window was open. The window was not supposed to be open. Marciana looked up, frowned, and then felt her frown deepen from mere irritation to true anger.

“You don’t belong here.”

“Oh, but let’s be honest, neither do you.” The girl in the window was green, her hair blue, her wings – she had wings, humans did not have nor need wings – purple. She looked like she’d been dropped in a tye-dye pot. “You know it. All those tidy little notes in your journal. Didn’t anyone tell you that the primary flaw of villains is monologuing? Get in the habit and they’ll never stop. I’m Arsenic, by the way.”

“Lovely villain name. And I’m not a villain. I’m a hero. See,” she gestured at the tower they were in. “The Tower of Truth? Heroes live here.”

“Heroes and their kids. And Arsenic isn’t my villain name, it’s my given name.”

“Who names their kid Arsenic?” Because she was a kid, as much as Marciana was, maybe-eighteen, probably-less.

“Who names the daughter of two heroes Marsha?”

“It’s Marciana.”

“It’s Marsha with a flourish. Seriously. They knew they were going to let you grow up in the public eye. They knew they were already thinking of little Parry when you were born. Why in the world would they name you Marsha? Did they want you to turn evil?”

It was too much like her own thoughts. She squinted at the tye-dyed fairy. “Are you another one like Szec Mzip Wrisverhmersl?”

“Szeccie? Little pink goblin? No, Marsha, I’m not reading your mind. I’m not a mirror of your conscience – not like that, at least.”

“Then what are you? I mean, other than a green intruder.” She should be hitting the panic button. She should be calling in the Truth Troops. But she wasn’t panicked, and she didn’t want to see the Troops. Not now. Not with what she was planning.

“I’m you.” She waved both hands, making a blur and whirring noise like a flying bug. “Not like that. Not like Szeccie or any of the mirror-universe imposters.”

“Imposters, what?”

“Nevermind that. You people in the Truth Tower are awfully bad at telling truth, that’s all I have to say on the matter. No, I’m what you were supposed to be.”

It only took a second. Marciana was bright, after all, and her entire life had been haunted by the specter of what she was supposed to be. “You’re Paradox Maverick.” Her hand was on her blaster before she finished the sentence.

“I was. I’m Arsenic right now.” The green girl shrugged, looking entirely undisturbed. “Did you get any powers?”

“I did.” She didn’t want to admit that. “You know I haven’t told anyone else?”

“Neither have I. Of course, I haven’t told anyone I’m their enemies’ favorite troublemaker, either. You think I ought to?”

“Will they believe you? Nobody believes that I’m not.”

“Which is funny, all things considered. They think I’m…well, half of them think I’m Szeccie’s kid. Including my mother.”

“Wait, your mother thinks you’re a world-shifter’s kid? Your mother…?”

“I might be. It would suit my other me. Look, are you going to shoot me or what?”

“Your other you, what?” She set the blaster down but kept her hand on it.

“I’m not all Peri. I’m Arsenic, but there’s this little voice in the back of my head that is, or used to be, Paradox. I mean, sometimes it’s the other way around and she takes over. But for the most part, I’m me. Sennie.”

“Sennie?”

“Well, ‘Arse’ is a stupid nickname, isn’t it? Marsha?”

“Marciana. Yeah.” She was smiling. When was the last time that had happened? “So… why are you here?” Quick, think about business.

“Well.” She sat down on Marciana’s clean desk, one foot on the journal, leaving a smudge of dirt over Marciana’s declaration of self-hood. “Half of me was homesick. The rest of me was sick of being there, not being what they wanted. Watching their confused faces…”

“While they try to figure out who this cuckoo in their nest is, what she’s planning, why she doesn’t fit in.” The words tumbled out. She was half-standing. She sat down again, mortified. “Oh, Fillzbot.”

“No, no, you’re right. Exactly. They know about you. They think you’re me, too. Or sometimes they think you’re her, one of theirs, that died.” She paused. “Are you?”

“As far as anyone can tell – and everyone has looked – there’s nobody in here but me. It might have been easier if I really was the enemy.”

“Well… my folks are the agents of world domination, and yours want to protect truth and light. How do we go about being enemies of both?”

“We?”

“Well, who else have we got?” The green girl’ smile was pink, very, very pink. “And maybe if you have someone to talk to, you’ll stop monologuing.”

“So we become…” She thought about it for a moment. “Chaos and order. Paradox and reason. We’re monkeywrenchers. We’re the ones who tell them when they’re all being stupid. We crash wild schemes and stupid plans and bad press conferences.”

“Awesome.” She held out one long-fingered hand. “You have a deal, partner.”

I was born to defy expectations.

We were. We were born to be nothing our parents wanted. We were born to be trouble in their sides. We were born to legends we didn’t ask for, habits we didn’t have. We were born to ask questions. All the questions.

We are Order and Chaos. We are Madness and Reason. We are the Wrench in the Machine, and today is our eighteenth birthday.

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/363365.html. You can comment here or there.

Faries in the Church

Jun9

For flofx‘s commissioned prompt, a continuation of

⛪
“There are fairies in your church.”

Bishop Macnamilla was of an older school of thought, practically antediluvian. Most of the time, Father Nehemiah avoided conflict by avoiding the Ninth Street house where the Bishop kept his residence. The Father’s church was new, and not entirely conventional, and not near Ninth Street, and the Bishop’s body as well as his mind were old, and did not move easily.

But someone had said something, the Father was certain. The jowls on the Bishop were shaking in the way the once-fat man only did when he had been being yelled at by a parishioner who Didn’t Like Something. Probably not one of Nehemiah’s regulars. But sometimes the gossips from the other churches liked to stop in and visit.

“There are fairies.” Sometimes he could get away with just agreeing with the Bishop until he went away. “Margaret and LaKeisha are in there now. They’ve been helping Mrs. Bao with the cleaning, as it’s almost Easter time.”

“You have fairies in your church services, Father Nehemiah.”

He wasn’t going to be able to dance around this. “Better than having them standing outside the gates, glaring.”

“Do you know what happens when you allow – INVITE the fair folk into consecrated ground?” He was bellowing, or trying to. He must have been an impressive man before the long waste of age started eating him away.

“I’ve heard the stories. Mrs. Bao told me some of them. The kirkevaren told me others – and the fairies told me another set.”

“Ruin and ruination is what you get. Sin and sinners. Filth and the filthy.” The Bishop shook his head. “It leads to nothing but badness.”

“And blood?” Nehemiah drew himself up. He was tall, taller than the Bishop’s shrunken form by nearly a foot. “I know why there were no fairies in the church before, sir.”

“There are no FAIRIES in the church,” the Bishop shouted the word as if it were an obscenity, “because to allow them into out sanctified ground taints not only the ground but the entire city.”

Father Nehemiah was boggled enough by this to lose the edge of his anger, although he did remain standing straight, staring down at the top of the Bishop’s head. “You are aware, sir, that you live in the densest population of fae in the country, correct? The city is teeming with fairies.”

“The city is rotten with them. The elders did not listen to me. They were squeamish.” The older man’s voice finally dropped. “No. It was me. I was squeamish. I knew what needed to be done, and I could not do it. I failed my superiors. I killed them, Nehemiah, I killed those fairies you have heard of. I spilled their blood in the name of the city and its sanctity. I scrubbed the floors with the blood. I blessed the altars with it. But, in the end, I could not do what needed to be done.”

He didn’t have to ask, although he wished that he did. He’d already heard enough to put the rest together.

“You killed them before you buried them, you mean.” It hadn’t been meant to be another lamb under the church at all. “You blessed their deaths, instead of leaving them to roam.”

“I could have saved us all. I could have protected us all from what’s in the wind. But they look human, Nehemiah. They look human. And that was my undoing.”

Taproots, a story of Rin & Girey for the May Giraffe Call

May31

For clare_dragonfly‘s commissioned continuation of Roots.

Reiasson has a landing page here And a wiki here.

Girey wasn’t sure she’d heard him at first. She didn’t answer, at least, instead continuing to flip through the ancient book in front of her.

“The papers go back further,” she said, instead of answering, after a while. “Not much more, and most of it is incomprehensible. But it’s clear we came here, my people, yours, the Arrans, all of us.”

He was not yet used to her speaking heresy as if it were truth, and, more so, as if nobody would stop her. “That’s what…” He trailed off, frowning. Rin picked up the thread of the conversation.

“You said the heretical texts mentioned Tabersi. You’ve heard of those texts then, or read them?”

“It’s a crime against the throne to read the texts. The priests keep them locked up.”

“But you…” She paused, and looked around, and raised one black eyebrow in question.

Son of Tugia, she taunted in his memory. But she was asking the Prince of Bithrain this question.

“I did. And the Tabersi are mentioned, them, and the callentate of barbarians, the Ideztozhyuh.” The word was uncomfortable on his tongue, the consonants sounding harsh and alien.

“The Idez… the people of the old earth. Interesting.” She flipped through a few more pages of the book. “So my texts speak of the origins of your people, while yours -“

“Talk of visiting barbarians who decided to stay.” He frowned at her head. “Not about how they set up shop here, on this continent, though.” And not how they’d beaten his people at war.

“Interesting.” She flipped through the book. “This one’s too old, it doesn’t say where the wars started.”

“Didn’t it say your people rebelled?”

“The looks of that, however, was a bloodless rebellion. The cold season was hard, the passes were closed, and it was long into the hot season before anyone noticed anything had changed.”

Girey frowned, and didn’t say what he was thinking. That seemed wrong, somehow, but it had been many years ago that he’d read the proscribed texts. “The Bitrani don’t speak much of that era.”

“I think it has something to do with your priests.” She held up both hands, forestalling a complaint he hadn’t been intending on making. “I am not speaking ill of your people or your priests.”

“The Bitrani and the Callenians have the same faith.” It came out like the complaint he had been trying not to make, and he frowned in frustration. “We worship the same three gods, in the same temples, with the same words. You took me to a service,” he reminded her, “to show me that.”

“We do. I’ve been to Bitrani services, as well. In disguise, and with the headscarf some women wore covering her hair, but she had been. “We worship the same gods. I believe that. But your priests hide things by calling them heresy…”

He couldn’t help interrupting. “We don’t have priests anymore, remember? ‘We’ don’t have anything anymore.”

Her hand in his hair was surprisingly tender. “You still have a culture. We couldn’t wipe that out if we tried. And that’s the thing.”

“What’s the thing?” He was both lost and angry now, his confusion making both worse.

“We couldn’t erase your culture if we tried – but I’m beginning to wonder if somebody else tried. And from the inside, maybe it was easier.” She set a finger on the book. “Where did the Tabersi go? And the Ideztozhyuh? And why?”

This entry was originally posted at http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/349330.html. You can comment here or there.

Alder's Grove Fiction

The Worlds of Lyn Thorne-Alder