RacingRodent
Consul
So many rooms needing so many candles we readers are just fortunate to have you to shine a light before us Malins
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Every Shadow Burns My Face
- Thread starter malins
- Start date
So many rooms needing so many candles we readers are just fortunate to have you to shine a light before us Malins
Nah it is just PP is preparing for when Every Shadow Burns My Face becomes an HBO hit series and the other guy at the conventions will say "Well I read the book" he'll be be ready to point out he was there when you first wrote the first draught online
Maybe he'll claim to be the inspiration for one of the characters.
Anyway, HBO would have to turn up the sex, violence and gratuitous nudity to make this work, wouldn't they?
Or do a mash up with The Lost Cross to get dragons in there too!
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Lately we've been hearing more of the softer sides of the Mad Queen, and if it's possible for a maid to live through eight years of serving her, she doesn't seem to be into the whole 'Blood Countess' thing.
I would have thought in terms of violence, Tsilsne might just make it though,
but I guess they're looking for more inventive procedures. I mentioned crucifixion and they said when I got to that they'd give my manuscript a second look.
Also they told me the manuscript needs incest and lots of rape. I showed them what I had in store and they said it's just not nearly passing grade.
Anyway about the tnings mentioned above. Deceptions and rumors are spread within the story and of course all sides in a war will tell horror-stories of the evil deeds of the other side.
But those procedures often needed a lot of people to make them work, which means... witnesses. Now Tsilsne is gone, at least some of them will speak out (and no, she couldn't afford to have them all killed or their tongues cut out); they might be spread out over the lands by now and if they independently tell matching stories you can be somewhat sure of the truth. Since there's a Chronicler at the Order who's interested in that, we'll find out.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Mirasintsa tightened the cilice the second time and welcomed the familiar bite of the instrument around her thigh. She looked at where the other instrument was hidden. That secret, the slender dagger that the Lady Tsilsne had given her.
After she'd sent the guards and warleaders out, they had been alone in that redoubt on the flanks of Peak Gaunabant. Outside, both armies waiting. Waiting for the Lady, the Queen, to emerge.
Hastinbar's host had massed outside the fortress, but themselves they were surrounded by the Lady's soldiers who had reappeared like shadows out of the woods.
The dissolution of the army had been a feint, and not even Mirasintsa had seen that coming. Hastinbar could storm the castle and seize the Lady, but then none of his men would live.
So they'd negotiated a free passage for her, then both armies should pull back, there was to be no blood.
The General was there then too, for the parley, he stood beside King Hastinbar.
They had never battled against each other and decided to leave it so.
The Lady had agreed to that too, there was to be no blood.
She hadn't come out for the parley, sending Mirasintsa instead with her written replies.
There was to be no blood.
She would keep to her word.
Mirasintsa had never not to this day understood the why but she'd understood the what was to come pretty soon.
The flames were already rising then.
The Lady looked for quite a long while into the flames, then lifted her arms and motioned for Mirasintsa to disrobe her.
As if for a bath.
With the ingrained habit of a servant, Mirasintsa had looked for where to place the Lady's garments after she had folded them up. The Lady gestured to the floor impatiently, but then shook her head and pointed to the balustrade, to the rising wall of fire.
Soon the warriors outside saw them too, those huge tongues of flame, and they tried to get in. It was meant as an emergency retreat, so during the refurbishment, Tsilsne had the portals of the fortress made so that they could be firmly sealed by one man.
Or, with great effort working on the heavy bolts and cranks and levers… by one maid.
She had done so on command of the Lady. No one outside had any battering rams ready, they hadn't expected to besiege a fortress. They would be quicker scaling the walls – no-one was defending – but that would take them too long still.
Several insistent looks from the Lady until Mirasintsa complied and went forward to the balustrade with the clothes in hand. The heat came like a shock now, beating on her brow, sweat pouring down.
She raised her arm and let go of the garments. They took wing in the rising hot air, flying forth, riding up, billowing and expanding, and before even reaching the flames, they caught fire. The Lady's white underdress seemed to ignite from the inside out and for one moment was a twirling dancer with limbs of twisting tendrils of flame. Then it vanished.
The Lady always carried the dagger close to herself and this was what was left now.
She said that Mirasintsa should take it, as a gift, for their shared memories, and if she ever needed it for herself.
After she'd sent the guards and warleaders out, they had been alone in that redoubt on the flanks of Peak Gaunabant. Outside, both armies waiting. Waiting for the Lady, the Queen, to emerge.
Hastinbar's host had massed outside the fortress, but themselves they were surrounded by the Lady's soldiers who had reappeared like shadows out of the woods.
The dissolution of the army had been a feint, and not even Mirasintsa had seen that coming. Hastinbar could storm the castle and seize the Lady, but then none of his men would live.
So they'd negotiated a free passage for her, then both armies should pull back, there was to be no blood.
The General was there then too, for the parley, he stood beside King Hastinbar.
They had never battled against each other and decided to leave it so.
The Lady had agreed to that too, there was to be no blood.
She hadn't come out for the parley, sending Mirasintsa instead with her written replies.
There was to be no blood.
She would keep to her word.
Mirasintsa had never not to this day understood the why but she'd understood the what was to come pretty soon.
The flames were already rising then.
The Lady looked for quite a long while into the flames, then lifted her arms and motioned for Mirasintsa to disrobe her.
As if for a bath.
With the ingrained habit of a servant, Mirasintsa had looked for where to place the Lady's garments after she had folded them up. The Lady gestured to the floor impatiently, but then shook her head and pointed to the balustrade, to the rising wall of fire.
Soon the warriors outside saw them too, those huge tongues of flame, and they tried to get in. It was meant as an emergency retreat, so during the refurbishment, Tsilsne had the portals of the fortress made so that they could be firmly sealed by one man.
Or, with great effort working on the heavy bolts and cranks and levers… by one maid.
She had done so on command of the Lady. No one outside had any battering rams ready, they hadn't expected to besiege a fortress. They would be quicker scaling the walls – no-one was defending – but that would take them too long still.
Several insistent looks from the Lady until Mirasintsa complied and went forward to the balustrade with the clothes in hand. The heat came like a shock now, beating on her brow, sweat pouring down.
She raised her arm and let go of the garments. They took wing in the rising hot air, flying forth, riding up, billowing and expanding, and before even reaching the flames, they caught fire. The Lady's white underdress seemed to ignite from the inside out and for one moment was a twirling dancer with limbs of twisting tendrils of flame. Then it vanished.
The Lady always carried the dagger close to herself and this was what was left now.
She said that Mirasintsa should take it, as a gift, for their shared memories, and if she ever needed it for herself.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
Then it was all, the Lady had nothing upon her, and she told Mirasintsa she should go now. 'No-one who lingers any longer will leave unscathed'.
Leave unscathed. Mirasintsa did not think she had left unscathed. But then she had lingered too long. You know when you're sent away with words like that, you shouldn't turn back. But you always did, and so had she. Twice, and a half.
Tsilsne though too, once. The first time Mirasintsa stopped she saw the Lady had one foot on the balustrade, but hesitated, put it down again, and turned. She had a face like a terrified child. A glowing ember went into her hair and it started smoldering. She beat it away. Then she stopped and looked at her own hand in disbelief. What point is there in doing that when you're going into the flames anyway?
As she watched she knew the Lady wasn't watching back, she was gazing into color-blurs and emptiness and couldn't discern Mirasintsa's own expression, the contortions of her anguish.
The second time Mirasintsa turned she saw the Lady prone on the balustrade, clinging to it but ready to shift her weight and roll over. Her hair seemed to be melting. Mirasintsa ran then.
As she staggered down the stairs, stricken with grief and terror, rumbles and shudders ran through the stonework of the fortress. Things were starting to collapse somewhere. The roar of the fire seemed to relent a bit, Mirasintsa hesitated, half turned, and considered for a moment whether she might run back up.
But then the mountain itself began to howl.
Air was rushing in through some caverns, some passageways opened by the collapses, fresh air, that drove the fire all the way up to the clouds.
The King and the General burst in as she opened the side portal, and there were soldiers, armor quickly discarded, climbing, coming over the parapets. They bombarded her with questions, she pointed wordlessly and shook her head. They never even came close. Soon they were all just running for their lives. They had the wind against them all the way down, air rushing up the flanks of the mountain to feed the flames.
It burned for days and people were saying the mountain still smoked.
Leave unscathed.
When they'd been living on the move with the army, in the tent instead of a palace, life hadn't really been bad at all. It's not like it was all battles. There had been times that were just good, good in a different way than at court. Royalty and maids and warleaders all there in a circle together in the long summer evenings around a fire. A plain fire, not a horrible sacrifice. Piglets roasting over the fire. Simple but delicious meals roasting over the fire. Delicious crusts, melting fat.
Mirasintsa had not been able to touch, even to think, of such meals, after the first time the army had burned the enemy dead. One of those times when they didn't run away, and so had to die. Tsilsne's own dead had been enough to properly bury. But the burning piles of bodies. There was something from the stench of those pyres that had never left her, that turned her stomach and sent the bile up any time thereafter when she smelled such a meal roasting over fire.
And that was how the Lady had gone. It was unthinkable.
What Mirasintsa told herself is that the Lady had dropped into the fire, from that high balustrade. She would have broken her neck. She would have been dead instantly. She would not have burned alive. She couldn't have.
For our shared memories and
...if you ever need it for yourself.
She hadn't wanted to do it but now she had to look at the blade.
Unwrap it.
Touch it, feel it.
For their shared memories…
Leave unscathed. Mirasintsa did not think she had left unscathed. But then she had lingered too long. You know when you're sent away with words like that, you shouldn't turn back. But you always did, and so had she. Twice, and a half.
Tsilsne though too, once. The first time Mirasintsa stopped she saw the Lady had one foot on the balustrade, but hesitated, put it down again, and turned. She had a face like a terrified child. A glowing ember went into her hair and it started smoldering. She beat it away. Then she stopped and looked at her own hand in disbelief. What point is there in doing that when you're going into the flames anyway?
As she watched she knew the Lady wasn't watching back, she was gazing into color-blurs and emptiness and couldn't discern Mirasintsa's own expression, the contortions of her anguish.
The second time Mirasintsa turned she saw the Lady prone on the balustrade, clinging to it but ready to shift her weight and roll over. Her hair seemed to be melting. Mirasintsa ran then.
As she staggered down the stairs, stricken with grief and terror, rumbles and shudders ran through the stonework of the fortress. Things were starting to collapse somewhere. The roar of the fire seemed to relent a bit, Mirasintsa hesitated, half turned, and considered for a moment whether she might run back up.
But then the mountain itself began to howl.
Air was rushing in through some caverns, some passageways opened by the collapses, fresh air, that drove the fire all the way up to the clouds.
The King and the General burst in as she opened the side portal, and there were soldiers, armor quickly discarded, climbing, coming over the parapets. They bombarded her with questions, she pointed wordlessly and shook her head. They never even came close. Soon they were all just running for their lives. They had the wind against them all the way down, air rushing up the flanks of the mountain to feed the flames.
It burned for days and people were saying the mountain still smoked.
Leave unscathed.
When they'd been living on the move with the army, in the tent instead of a palace, life hadn't really been bad at all. It's not like it was all battles. There had been times that were just good, good in a different way than at court. Royalty and maids and warleaders all there in a circle together in the long summer evenings around a fire. A plain fire, not a horrible sacrifice. Piglets roasting over the fire. Simple but delicious meals roasting over the fire. Delicious crusts, melting fat.
Mirasintsa had not been able to touch, even to think, of such meals, after the first time the army had burned the enemy dead. One of those times when they didn't run away, and so had to die. Tsilsne's own dead had been enough to properly bury. But the burning piles of bodies. There was something from the stench of those pyres that had never left her, that turned her stomach and sent the bile up any time thereafter when she smelled such a meal roasting over fire.
And that was how the Lady had gone. It was unthinkable.
What Mirasintsa told herself is that the Lady had dropped into the fire, from that high balustrade. She would have broken her neck. She would have been dead instantly. She would not have burned alive. She couldn't have.
For our shared memories and
...if you ever need it for yourself.
She hadn't wanted to do it but now she had to look at the blade.
Unwrap it.
Touch it, feel it.
For their shared memories…
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
To hold it to her own flesh? To feel its sharp edge? To imagine it piercing, letting blood flow?
malins
Stumbling Seeker
I would guess, to remember it piercing, letting blood flow, - shared memories she said, didn't she?
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Yes....shared memories. A piercing point and, a dagger, a blade sharpened with two cutting edges and no broader back?
malins
Stumbling Seeker
It was intended as an implement of death. So yes, two cutting edges and no broader back. I guess Tsilsne's mind just worked that way? Giver her an implement of death and she uses it to create fond memories
Give her a captive golden-haired princess and ...
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
If Pp dound the right reference then "she'd braid the girls' golden hair into single thick braids so, after the chop, the henchmen could swing the heads like maces, crushing".
Does Tsilsne create fond memories from severed heads as maces? As instruments of death?
What a way to force Pp to read back, to work more into the notes He writes in preparation for that HBO review.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
How would we know? She's dead! But ...
Interpretation time!
No spoilers! - resting only on what's written so far ... what we know of Tsilsne ...
So, from the reminescences of the General, it seems she had been known as a competent and compassionate queen in a southern land called Belquemer where she was married to from the North.
Her magnanimous deeds attracted rebellious provinces of neighbouring kingdoms, to declare allegiance to Belquemer instead.
This started power struggles in which her family got slaughtered. She herself wasn't present at the slaughter and so survived, because she was heavily pregnant at the time.
The conspirators probably expected her to fade away, flee to a convent, or that they could just seize and slay her as well.
She declined to go along with that, and early on, before having the means to fulfill them, made some 'ridiculous threats' as if from 'possessed dreams' againt the noble houses that had conspired against them. These threats became 'Dreams made flesh when ...they just wouldn't surrender the guilty.'
Because they 'had to be made true, until they did not fail to intimidate'. After that 'she hadn't even needed to make threats'.
So, it was about credibility.
If they had taken her seriously, and surrendered the guilty at least after she had raised her army and defeated them in the field, all that wouldn't have happened.
But the 'possessed dreams' never let go of her.
No, those were not fond memories for her at all. Instead they made her 'request of the gods only the gift of death'. She 'made a rite of that' , it was their song, it was the song of her army as they marched. When the army dispersed,
But, it seemed death was not so easy to be found that way, because her soldiers, even though they sang it, sought it much less urgently than she herself,
Her relationship with Death was a bit troubled,
The 'possessed dreams' never let go of her.
So instead of having fond memories of that, it may have tormented her and contributed to her finally becoming 'Mad' Queen, as the General admits.
...Suddenly the pyre doesn't seem like such a bad idea anymore, does it?
One might ask why she didn't just use the dagger on herself.
We know she didn't want anyone to seize her, dead or alive. She would use the dagger in case capture seemed imminent.
Also suicide is not popular in this culture at all. That's not been mentioned but as Mirasintsa ponders the knife it might.
So it was the last resort. The huge pyre makes it more of a legendary ceremony than just a sorry suicide with a cold body left behind for her enemies to display. And it's clear that Tsilsne was very much interested in shocking and impressing her enemies, that she believed in 'reputation management'
So she looked for her own release, as well as a huge exclamation mark to end her story. That's what one can read out so far. There might be more.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Thank you Malin. Throughout high school English Literature Pp relied on interpretation notes to study Shakespeare and Thomas Hardy though the notes were never written by the authors themselves. These notes from the author will help future students of classic literature.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
ummm, in part I think I need notes, and a bit of dream interpretation, myself so I don't mix up the threads. Because at some point people will start doing things that get them crucified and that should somehow follow from their background
Also some of the characters come out differently than intended. I never knew I would spend this much time on Mirasintsa 
Yes. They do this. Almost like they want to live and die on their terms, or the terms of the story. And the story is itself, not history - it has its own track. You are a deft shepherd of this one.
malins
Stumbling Seeker
For our shared memories and ... if you ever need it for yourself.
She hadn't wanted to do it but now she had to look at the blade.
Unwrap it.
Touch it, feel it.
For their shared memories…
The dagger.
In the days of the court in Belquemer, breezes through arcades, chimes, sweet berries and flowing gowns, those southern days too short in summer and too long in winter, nights with the Moon seeming to slip and fall on her back - in those days, the Lady had carried no such thing upon her.
Nor did she when they were all hiding in the mountains and Tsilsne rode out at nights, on ambushes with the warriors or to confer with the ringleaders of the peasant uprisings. Then Iannistraie joined their forces with her loyals, and soon after the General was brought before her. Half had she suspected him a spy, as he seemed to know all too much. Like a hostage he lived a while, until he became her chief warleader, and more. It was in that time that the blade appeared. When she crossed the River Antamhurd and struck out far beyond the old borders of Belquemer with her army. When they began living in the tent.
It was foreign, much further from the South probably, beyond the Narrow Strait, the blade so smooth but with intricate decorations. Made for near-silent, night-cloaked killing. Choked gurgles and bodies dropping. The Lady had needed some more archers and settled on buying them for much gold from the Krogan-Zubal, perhaps it had come with them.
It seemed strange, that they would allow her to keep a thing of bloodshed in her cell. Because surely they knew. But what would she do with it?
They surely knew, but by not seizing the dagger, or even acknowledging its presence, they forced her to confront exactly what it should mean and what she might do with it, if anything.
Like they forced those awaiting a Punishment to accept its meaning. Of course this was a thing she had never witnessed in her short novitiate, it was a rare occurrence.
They would put them in the same kind of cell Mirasintsa had recovered in after her whipping at sunrise. Just, they'd put a chain across the entryway. You could climb over it or crawl under it. Or just take it away entirely. When any member of the Order awaited a Punishment, they'd open the main portal during the night. There would be sentries to keep bandits out but they would not hold anyone back who tried to leave. Because they wanted those awaiting Punishment to make it their own choice, to accept it. So that they knew their heart again, because the reason for Punishment was of course that the heart had betrayed.
And so perhaps for this reason they let Mirasintsa keep the dagger, to learn if there was any betrayal in her heart.
Mirasintsa had come upon the Lady contemplating it, in front of her mirror. She had watched a while standing quiet. Then the Lady had noticed her – in the mirror – and turned.
It was best to ask right away and so she did, she had asked what it was for. The Lady had told her to sit then, on one of the cushions.
“It's mine and it's for me”, she'd said, “it's my secret, all too beautiful to foul with fiends' blood; it is for when they come for me, when all fails”.
Mirasintsa had shuddered at the blasphemous suggestion.
The Lady breathed deep, then unbuttoned herself to the chest, offering herself to unseen fates, raising the blade to her own throat and pulling lightly across. “It would be much more difficult than it seems, even with such a sharp edge”. Then pointing the tip at her left breast, to push in between the ribs, “This too, easy to imagine; but when it must be done I fear I'd fail. Or take too long. It must be done within a heartbeat.” Then she set the point to the hollow at the base of her neck, angled it just so, grasping around the crossguard with her left hand and raising her right to hammer-strike hard with the heel of the hand down onto the pommel. “Like this I believe. For the first moment it is nothing, then drowned in one's own blood.”
Mirasintsa had frozen at these words. How could one know such things? Or were these just feverish imaginations? – She knew of the Lady's fears of being captured, fears that sometimes seemed to merge into strange desires, impossible dreams; and she knew how the Lady sometimes recoiled from the lightest accidental touch when other times she desired the hardest and heaviest, but this…
Back in the palace, she had sometimes leafed through the Book of the Names of the Living and the Dead.
Every family of nobility had a copy, and it was amended regularly through sealed letters announcing the births, deaths and marriages of the high-born. Or, the rare ultimate disgrace. Tyrants, fools, drunkards, they all still graced the pages of the Book. There was only one way to have your name struck through, and that was to die by your own hand. Flipping through the pages, rarely you saw such names, struck through or scratched out – the ultimate, unerasable disgrace.
She hadn't wanted to do it but now she had to look at the blade.
Unwrap it.
Touch it, feel it.
For their shared memories…
The dagger.
In the days of the court in Belquemer, breezes through arcades, chimes, sweet berries and flowing gowns, those southern days too short in summer and too long in winter, nights with the Moon seeming to slip and fall on her back - in those days, the Lady had carried no such thing upon her.
Nor did she when they were all hiding in the mountains and Tsilsne rode out at nights, on ambushes with the warriors or to confer with the ringleaders of the peasant uprisings. Then Iannistraie joined their forces with her loyals, and soon after the General was brought before her. Half had she suspected him a spy, as he seemed to know all too much. Like a hostage he lived a while, until he became her chief warleader, and more. It was in that time that the blade appeared. When she crossed the River Antamhurd and struck out far beyond the old borders of Belquemer with her army. When they began living in the tent.
It was foreign, much further from the South probably, beyond the Narrow Strait, the blade so smooth but with intricate decorations. Made for near-silent, night-cloaked killing. Choked gurgles and bodies dropping. The Lady had needed some more archers and settled on buying them for much gold from the Krogan-Zubal, perhaps it had come with them.
It seemed strange, that they would allow her to keep a thing of bloodshed in her cell. Because surely they knew. But what would she do with it?
They surely knew, but by not seizing the dagger, or even acknowledging its presence, they forced her to confront exactly what it should mean and what she might do with it, if anything.
Like they forced those awaiting a Punishment to accept its meaning. Of course this was a thing she had never witnessed in her short novitiate, it was a rare occurrence.
They would put them in the same kind of cell Mirasintsa had recovered in after her whipping at sunrise. Just, they'd put a chain across the entryway. You could climb over it or crawl under it. Or just take it away entirely. When any member of the Order awaited a Punishment, they'd open the main portal during the night. There would be sentries to keep bandits out but they would not hold anyone back who tried to leave. Because they wanted those awaiting Punishment to make it their own choice, to accept it. So that they knew their heart again, because the reason for Punishment was of course that the heart had betrayed.
And so perhaps for this reason they let Mirasintsa keep the dagger, to learn if there was any betrayal in her heart.
Mirasintsa had come upon the Lady contemplating it, in front of her mirror. She had watched a while standing quiet. Then the Lady had noticed her – in the mirror – and turned.
It was best to ask right away and so she did, she had asked what it was for. The Lady had told her to sit then, on one of the cushions.
“It's mine and it's for me”, she'd said, “it's my secret, all too beautiful to foul with fiends' blood; it is for when they come for me, when all fails”.
Mirasintsa had shuddered at the blasphemous suggestion.
The Lady breathed deep, then unbuttoned herself to the chest, offering herself to unseen fates, raising the blade to her own throat and pulling lightly across. “It would be much more difficult than it seems, even with such a sharp edge”. Then pointing the tip at her left breast, to push in between the ribs, “This too, easy to imagine; but when it must be done I fear I'd fail. Or take too long. It must be done within a heartbeat.” Then she set the point to the hollow at the base of her neck, angled it just so, grasping around the crossguard with her left hand and raising her right to hammer-strike hard with the heel of the hand down onto the pommel. “Like this I believe. For the first moment it is nothing, then drowned in one's own blood.”
Mirasintsa had frozen at these words. How could one know such things? Or were these just feverish imaginations? – She knew of the Lady's fears of being captured, fears that sometimes seemed to merge into strange desires, impossible dreams; and she knew how the Lady sometimes recoiled from the lightest accidental touch when other times she desired the hardest and heaviest, but this…
Back in the palace, she had sometimes leafed through the Book of the Names of the Living and the Dead.
Every family of nobility had a copy, and it was amended regularly through sealed letters announcing the births, deaths and marriages of the high-born. Or, the rare ultimate disgrace. Tyrants, fools, drunkards, they all still graced the pages of the Book. There was only one way to have your name struck through, and that was to die by your own hand. Flipping through the pages, rarely you saw such names, struck through or scratched out – the ultimate, unerasable disgrace.
RacingRodent
Consul
Yay the tale lives and the rodent tarrying amidst the midnight bookshelves does gaze upon the shadows as they burn in the wan lamp light.
Primus pilus
Magister Australis
Submission, acknowledgement of transgression, acceptance of punishment. Your own choice.
And marks, once made, remain. Erased, smudged, no matter how well, some trace, some memory, always remains. Until the price has been paid.
Even the struck-through names leave their mark, like spectres, like the memory of a long-past lover or enemy, the stripes of the pen on the pale skin of the story, gradually fading, but never quite disappearing. And the story that was told waits for a chance to live again, to guide the unfolding of the next tale.