http://nfe-gremlin.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
nfe-gremlin.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
narniaexchange2010-09-24 12:03 am
nfe-gremlin.livejournal.com) wrote in narniaexchange2010-09-24 12:03 am
Entry tags:
Your Journey's End - for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ilysia_039
Title: Your Journey's End
Author:miss_morland
Recipient:ilysia_039
Rating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Mentions of human sacrifice.
Summary: It takes the blood of many to build a mighty city.
Notes: If the names sound familiar, it's because they're lifted from The Horse and His Boy, where they belong to powerful Tarkaans. My grateful thanks to my beta reader.
Hear them, stranger, the sounds: the beating of drums, the shouts of merchants, the groans of slaves. See them, wanderer, the palaces gleaming in the brilliant sun, the rise of spires and towers, the endless rows of roofs. Have you ever laid eyes upon a city this magnificent?
A great city where people have dwelt for thousands of years takes on a life of its own, shaped by the lives and deaths of everyone who has ever drawn breath inside its walls. It has its own history, its own character, its own voice, made up of a million different voices that mingle and become one.
And yet it is but glimpses of individual fates that people will remember, that will make it into history through poetry and song. You, stranger, have doubtless listened to many a story of famous men and women, without giving a single thoughts to the surroundings that brought them forth. But in this you are wrong, for no man exists alone; if he thinks he does, he will meet his downfall in the shape of his complacent arrogance.
You have followed the roads that lead here and are now at your journey's end; you must therefore accept what I have to tell you. Listen, stranger, and you will understand.
~
When Kidrash, the First, set foot on the river bank a long time ago, the land lay barren and the water emptied itself fruitlessly into the desert. It is said that Tash himself, the inexorable, the irresistible, created him from the light of the Eastern Star, and that Zardeenah, Goddess of the Night, gave him the power to walk between worlds. For he was not born on the river bank, but came fully grown from a place beyond the stars; and he brought a wife with him, though her name has long been forgotten, lost in the shadows of men deemed more important by those who write the chronicles.
These two, the stories say, built a home for themselves by the river, living off what the land could give them. Their firstborn son, Anradin, whose heart was courageous and whose eyes saw wide, grew up with the desire of adventure in his heart: he travelled West and South and even across the Great Desert, and returned with captives and followers from the wild tribes in the lands beyond. And he became the very first Tisroc (which was simply the word for 'king' in his father's tongue), and founded Tashbaan on the river bank where he had first seen the light of day.
But still the people were few to begin with, and vulnerable to attacks from barbarians. One night, invaders came from the sea and besieged the settlement, killing many of Anradin's people and capturing even more. And Anradin went to the hill where an altar for Tash had been erected, and he fell to his knees and called, "O Tash, my father's maker, what must I do to earn your protection and your aid?"
And the answer came to him later that night in a dream, that the newly-founded city could only be protected by blood; and the very next morning he sacrificed his dearest slave, who had been his companion for years, upon the altar, with many tears. But his sorrow and anger inflamed him, and he led his men into battle and drove the attackers away; and Anradin lived on to become a mighty warlord who conquered much land for his people with the aid of Tash, for whom the people erected a great temple around the altar on which the sacrifice had taken place.
Ever since, the Tisroc has sacrificed a well-loved slave once a year to keep Tash's favour and protect his thriving city. And those who have tried to cheat the god of his gift, due to bonds of affection or simple stinginess, have met their fate in the shape of coups, or assassinations, or loss in war; they are weak and susceptible to corruption. But as long as the sacrifice is made and the blood scattered, the god rewards his followers and lets Tashbaan prosper -- and it is to this end that the king must sacrifice his feelings, and the commoner his life, be it on the altar or in battle.
~
Many a lifetime has passed since the beginning, and the world has changed; yet Tashbaan remains the centre of it all. Climb the stairs of the highest watchtower one morning as the sun rises. See the different colours of the endless plains: the green of the Empire's farmland, the blue of the Ocean, the yellow of the Desert, where many a barbarian and wild beast has met their fate, fleeing the Sorceress of the Cold North. See the world stretched out all around you and relish the power, accumulated during the thousands of years I have grown.
Stranger, you have long since heard the call of my voice, the relentless gravitation that drives everything and everyone of importance here, to the middle of the world. If I have a voice of my own, it is because every voice that makes up my life, my vibrancy, my power, belongs to me.
I am the slave digging sewers in the streets. I am the pleasure girl who warms her Tarkaan's sheets while longing for her native Galma. I am the young Prince Rabadash, pacing restlessly in his bed chamber, spoiled, unhappy, and petulant; I am the Great Vizier lying at the feet of the Tisroc (who shall not live forever; I have seen his fathers and forefathers perish, one by one) and secretly hoping for his master's demise. It takes the blood of many to build a mighty city -- not only the sacred one which wets my soil once a year, but that which pulsates through my streets in the shape of bodies. The barbarians fear me, for I am everything their homely dwellings are not; but the highborn love me, for my power is theirs and theirs is mine, and we recognise this in each other.
Stranger, I am the powerful head of the greatest country in the world, and I see you look at me in wonder -- but hesitate no longer; the gates are open, you are at your journey's end. Come inside me and let me swallow you.
Original Prompt:
What I want: Pre-LWW Calormen
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: Tashbaan, the rise of the Empire, a coup within the royal family, "Is it not passing brave to be a king,/And ride in triumph through Persepolis?" -Christopher Marlowe (any or all of these, whatever works)
What I definitely don't want in my fic: No fluff, though I don't really know how that would work into this. Other than that, no specifications.
Author:
miss_morlandRecipient:
ilysia_039Rating: PG
Possible Spoilers/Warnings: Mentions of human sacrifice.
Summary: It takes the blood of many to build a mighty city.
Notes: If the names sound familiar, it's because they're lifted from The Horse and His Boy, where they belong to powerful Tarkaans. My grateful thanks to my beta reader.
Hear them, stranger, the sounds: the beating of drums, the shouts of merchants, the groans of slaves. See them, wanderer, the palaces gleaming in the brilliant sun, the rise of spires and towers, the endless rows of roofs. Have you ever laid eyes upon a city this magnificent?
A great city where people have dwelt for thousands of years takes on a life of its own, shaped by the lives and deaths of everyone who has ever drawn breath inside its walls. It has its own history, its own character, its own voice, made up of a million different voices that mingle and become one.
And yet it is but glimpses of individual fates that people will remember, that will make it into history through poetry and song. You, stranger, have doubtless listened to many a story of famous men and women, without giving a single thoughts to the surroundings that brought them forth. But in this you are wrong, for no man exists alone; if he thinks he does, he will meet his downfall in the shape of his complacent arrogance.
You have followed the roads that lead here and are now at your journey's end; you must therefore accept what I have to tell you. Listen, stranger, and you will understand.
~
When Kidrash, the First, set foot on the river bank a long time ago, the land lay barren and the water emptied itself fruitlessly into the desert. It is said that Tash himself, the inexorable, the irresistible, created him from the light of the Eastern Star, and that Zardeenah, Goddess of the Night, gave him the power to walk between worlds. For he was not born on the river bank, but came fully grown from a place beyond the stars; and he brought a wife with him, though her name has long been forgotten, lost in the shadows of men deemed more important by those who write the chronicles.
These two, the stories say, built a home for themselves by the river, living off what the land could give them. Their firstborn son, Anradin, whose heart was courageous and whose eyes saw wide, grew up with the desire of adventure in his heart: he travelled West and South and even across the Great Desert, and returned with captives and followers from the wild tribes in the lands beyond. And he became the very first Tisroc (which was simply the word for 'king' in his father's tongue), and founded Tashbaan on the river bank where he had first seen the light of day.
But still the people were few to begin with, and vulnerable to attacks from barbarians. One night, invaders came from the sea and besieged the settlement, killing many of Anradin's people and capturing even more. And Anradin went to the hill where an altar for Tash had been erected, and he fell to his knees and called, "O Tash, my father's maker, what must I do to earn your protection and your aid?"
And the answer came to him later that night in a dream, that the newly-founded city could only be protected by blood; and the very next morning he sacrificed his dearest slave, who had been his companion for years, upon the altar, with many tears. But his sorrow and anger inflamed him, and he led his men into battle and drove the attackers away; and Anradin lived on to become a mighty warlord who conquered much land for his people with the aid of Tash, for whom the people erected a great temple around the altar on which the sacrifice had taken place.
Ever since, the Tisroc has sacrificed a well-loved slave once a year to keep Tash's favour and protect his thriving city. And those who have tried to cheat the god of his gift, due to bonds of affection or simple stinginess, have met their fate in the shape of coups, or assassinations, or loss in war; they are weak and susceptible to corruption. But as long as the sacrifice is made and the blood scattered, the god rewards his followers and lets Tashbaan prosper -- and it is to this end that the king must sacrifice his feelings, and the commoner his life, be it on the altar or in battle.
~
Many a lifetime has passed since the beginning, and the world has changed; yet Tashbaan remains the centre of it all. Climb the stairs of the highest watchtower one morning as the sun rises. See the different colours of the endless plains: the green of the Empire's farmland, the blue of the Ocean, the yellow of the Desert, where many a barbarian and wild beast has met their fate, fleeing the Sorceress of the Cold North. See the world stretched out all around you and relish the power, accumulated during the thousands of years I have grown.
Stranger, you have long since heard the call of my voice, the relentless gravitation that drives everything and everyone of importance here, to the middle of the world. If I have a voice of my own, it is because every voice that makes up my life, my vibrancy, my power, belongs to me.
I am the slave digging sewers in the streets. I am the pleasure girl who warms her Tarkaan's sheets while longing for her native Galma. I am the young Prince Rabadash, pacing restlessly in his bed chamber, spoiled, unhappy, and petulant; I am the Great Vizier lying at the feet of the Tisroc (who shall not live forever; I have seen his fathers and forefathers perish, one by one) and secretly hoping for his master's demise. It takes the blood of many to build a mighty city -- not only the sacred one which wets my soil once a year, but that which pulsates through my streets in the shape of bodies. The barbarians fear me, for I am everything their homely dwellings are not; but the highborn love me, for my power is theirs and theirs is mine, and we recognise this in each other.
Stranger, I am the powerful head of the greatest country in the world, and I see you look at me in wonder -- but hesitate no longer; the gates are open, you are at your journey's end. Come inside me and let me swallow you.
Original Prompt:
What I want: Pre-LWW Calormen
Prompt words/objects/quotes/whatever: Tashbaan, the rise of the Empire, a coup within the royal family, "Is it not passing brave to be a king,/And ride in triumph through Persepolis?" -Christopher Marlowe (any or all of these, whatever works)
What I definitely don't want in my fic: No fluff, though I don't really know how that would work into this. Other than that, no specifications.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
I have a weird obsession with Calormen and anything that expands their culture and mythology in a great way blows my mind. I LOVE this idea. The human sacrifice thing is something I've been toying with for my own fic for a while and the story behind it here is so wonderful. You are my new best friend, mystery writer, for making Calormen even MORE interesting. Looooooooooove it!
no subject
no subject
It reminds me a little of Neil Gaiman's Sandman, particularly "A Tale of Two Cities" and "Ramadan." Very cool.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Also, this would probably be one of the instances where it is a bad idea to want your master to like you.
no subject
no subject
As some others have said, there's almost a Biblical feel to this, yet more than that I get the overtone of other ancient texts; Gilgamesh comes to mind, what with the opening invocation to the reader to feel the city, to see it and revel in it. There's so much of the glorious tone of the epic wrapped up in this that I nearly can't stand it, it's so lovely.
And the legend of Kidrash! Be still, my heart! And the fact that it's the city, o God, it's the city that's speaking. And then this happened:
I am the slave digging sewers in the streets. I am the pleasure girl who warms her Tarkaan's sheets while longing for her native Galma. I am the young Prince Rabadash, pacing restlessly in his bed chamber, spoiled, unhappy, and petulant; I am the Great Vizier lying at the feet of the Tisroc (who shall not live forever; I have seen his fathers and forefathers perish, one by one) and secretly hoping for his master's demise.
And it was lovely. Beautiful, beautiful. Thank you so much!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Errr, omg. This fic is so beautifully poetic and gorgeous and evocative and all the adjectives in the world that mean: WHAT A WONDERFUL PIECE OF POETIC FICTION. Well done, author! Well done.
I loved the use of color and then the tease of Narnia in this: "See the different colours of the endless plains: the green of the Empire's farmland, the blue of the Ocean, the yellow of the Desert, where many a barbarian and wild beast has met their fate, fleeing the Sorceress of the Cold North."
And from "I am the slave digging sewers in the streets" to the end, I was completely and utterly spellbound. Loved this!!!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
I love the last lines especially: I am the slave digging sewers in the streets. I am the pleasure girl who warms her Tarkaan's sheets while longing for her native Galma. I am the young Prince Rabadash, pacing restlessly in his bed chamber, spoiled, unhappy, and petulant; I am the Great Vizier lying at the feet of the Tisroc (who shall not live forever; I have seen his fathers and forefathers perish, one by one) and secretly hoping for his master's demise. It takes the blood of many to build a mighty city -- not only the sacred one which wets my soil once a year, but that which pulsates through my streets in the shape of bodies. The barbarians fear me, for I am everything their homely dwellings are not; but the highborn love me, for my power is theirs and theirs is mine, and we recognise this in each other.
Stranger, I am the powerful head of the greatest country in the world, and I see you look at me in wonder -- but hesitate no longer; the gates are open, you are at your journey's end. Come inside me and let me swallow you.
YES OMFG. LET ME SWALLOW YOU INDEED.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject