azureye's writing journal

Strange little ficlet I wrote while on an airplane, as a response to the writing prompt "Light, Lost Already." 882 words.

He's got everything all the fantasy epics require of a hero: a wise, quirky old uncle, an ancient sword, and a charming-sweet good-friend girl-next-door to serve as his lady. Hell, he's even got a perky animal companion to boot.

Only — the perky animal companion isn't a loyal pooch or a chirpy sparrow, but an overgrown rat named Spike. And the sword isn't stuck in stone somewhere or blessed by elves; it's been collecting dust in a closet for the past three years because who the hell needs a sword in 1990's Detroit? (The 1990's are a bit of a snag, obviously, but Detroit's the real problem here — because years upon years of fantasy tradition tell us that heroes come from small seaside villages, little country hamlets, and other places with tight-knit nuclear families and lots of trees. Obviously.)

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Shadrak has recently returned home after serving four years in his nation's civil war.  He is attending dagurmarben, a night in which the members of a town gather to remember those who died in the past year.

As the night drug on, Shadrak felt himself starting to shiver despite all the rabbit-furs he had draped over him.  It occurred to him then just how early dagurmarben was this year — so early, and winter had lasted so late this year.  This was the first time he'd had to wear these boots into this grove, wasn't it?  And shouldn't the sun have started rising by now?  Above him, the sky was still pitch-dark, and around him, no morning-creatures could be heard stirring in the wood — just the occasional soft wing-flap of an owl, or a distant toad-croak.

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An unprovoked ambush on a sector of Daein's military has rendered several thousand men dead or gravely wounded.  Shadrak notices that one of the court's healers, Tordyn, is driving herself to exhaustion in healing the soldiers, and approaches her to try and convince her to rest.
 
"Tordyn," Shadrak called softly, standing awkwardly a few paces from her.  She seemed to be in almost a trance, muttering a few healing words under her breath as she brushed a hand over the unconscious soldier's back-wound — a wound that was large, muddy red and brown, and seemed to be oozing a sickly pale yellow ooze.  She didn't so much as twitch in acknowledgement of Shadrak's presence, her eyes fixed on that pestilent lesion, tracing the edges of the gash with her tiny fingers.  He took the moment to watch her: her motions seemed so precise, like one of those flower-court dancers.  No.  No, those motions were too light, airy, insubstantial — Tordyn's stance was grounded, low, like one of those Crimean martialists, and her hands on the soldier were deliberate rather than airy; precise rather than light. 

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 It had been a week, and Lerato hadn't spoken more than three sentences to Malkia that whole time.

Malkia's first reaction was blisteringly typical — anger.  This stupid Femeref boy; he was trying to make her life miserable on purpose!  He was just as bored as she was, he had to be, and he was only acting all aloof and distant to try and gall her.  Or maybe he'd been offended by her words.  But in that case, oughtn't he grow a thicker skin?  All the village kids said worse things about him regularly; they just didn't have the dignity to say it to his face.  How stupid of him to think he could gall her into an apology!

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At this edge of the desert, things became more rugged — the smooth, rolling dunes of sand were starting to be punctuated by tracts of brown dirt and clumps of ragged weeds. At least the sun wasn't quite so cruel in these parts, but she found herself tripping more, over rooty reeds or stray rocks as Sakhir hauled her along. She'd given up nagging her captor, though that fiery, defiant glint hadn't yet left her eye.

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