The Lilacs of Col Astarra
May. 30th, 2006 09:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosiphelee*waves* Hello. Still alive, just mad busy.
And I finally managed to write something for the lilac challenge. ^_^ I'll be doing a round-up and issuing a new challenge tomorrow, unless anyone else has a prompt they want to throw to the masses.
Here you are. Short (very short) and sweet. Or, well, short and creepy.
The clouds were bundled across the sky, lilac-soft. There had been rain that morning, and there would be rain again before dawn. Yet now, in the waiting time, there was light, and the sky was bright, as if the rain had washed dye from a thousand stormclouds.
The storm was quiescent. It would come again – her bones told her that much. Always, the storm whispered to her, warning, warming, tempting. Give in, it murmured. Become what you were born to be. Burn free.
As the years passed it became harder to resist that call. She dreamt of lightning, rippling through her like ecstasy, and woke to find her sheets crackling, blue and fey.
Her name was Zephyr.
She found it ironic. Had they thought that, by labelling her so tamely, they could control her? Had they thought to mould her; to create a tame goddess for their games?
There had been a Stormlord once, so long ago she could only recall the shadow of him, oh, so long ago, before the harrowing of the hills.
The stones on fire, drawing the lightning to their rings, on every hilltop.
The men who had been her keepers had called him a god, too. She did not believe it. She knew her own flesh was mortal, her powers limited. If she had willed, she too could call the storms onto the broken cities, wake the stone circles to life. It would not make her immortal. It would not slow the creep of silver through her hair, or the wrinkles forming, like clouds or mountain ranges, across the backs of her hands.
She was wiser than her sire.
Yet now, on the border between night and day, with the lightning but a sigh in her blood, she wondered. There had been a time, long ago, when she had danced in silk and chiffon. She remembered the music the cloth had made below her small hands, the sparkle and sigh of it.
Now, in the tower at the end of the world, she wondered what would happen if she turned back. She had come as far from the surviving cities as the winds could carry her. Would it hurt to turn back again?
She would like to see the towers of Col Astarra once more before she died.
The palace gardens had been sweet with lilac. She remembered the butterflies dancing, electric blue and tortoiseshell, white and gold. She remembered the smell of the spring.
The heaths of the north had their own scent, hardy and wild and sly. Gorse and heather and grass, all crisp beneath her touch when she ventured beyond her tower.
Did they speak of her still, in the gardens of Col Astarra? Did they recall the storm child, with her too blue eyes?
Col Astarra had burnt in the spring, the towers turned to beacons against the bruise-dark sky.
For that, she would not turn back. Instead, she sat in her tower, and gazed at the clouds, fading into dusky greys.
Here she would remain, until her days were done, so the lilacs might still flower in Col Astarra.
And I finally managed to write something for the lilac challenge. ^_^ I'll be doing a round-up and issuing a new challenge tomorrow, unless anyone else has a prompt they want to throw to the masses.
Here you are. Short (very short) and sweet. Or, well, short and creepy.
The clouds were bundled across the sky, lilac-soft. There had been rain that morning, and there would be rain again before dawn. Yet now, in the waiting time, there was light, and the sky was bright, as if the rain had washed dye from a thousand stormclouds.
The storm was quiescent. It would come again – her bones told her that much. Always, the storm whispered to her, warning, warming, tempting. Give in, it murmured. Become what you were born to be. Burn free.
As the years passed it became harder to resist that call. She dreamt of lightning, rippling through her like ecstasy, and woke to find her sheets crackling, blue and fey.
Her name was Zephyr.
She found it ironic. Had they thought that, by labelling her so tamely, they could control her? Had they thought to mould her; to create a tame goddess for their games?
There had been a Stormlord once, so long ago she could only recall the shadow of him, oh, so long ago, before the harrowing of the hills.
The stones on fire, drawing the lightning to their rings, on every hilltop.
The men who had been her keepers had called him a god, too. She did not believe it. She knew her own flesh was mortal, her powers limited. If she had willed, she too could call the storms onto the broken cities, wake the stone circles to life. It would not make her immortal. It would not slow the creep of silver through her hair, or the wrinkles forming, like clouds or mountain ranges, across the backs of her hands.
She was wiser than her sire.
Yet now, on the border between night and day, with the lightning but a sigh in her blood, she wondered. There had been a time, long ago, when she had danced in silk and chiffon. She remembered the music the cloth had made below her small hands, the sparkle and sigh of it.
Now, in the tower at the end of the world, she wondered what would happen if she turned back. She had come as far from the surviving cities as the winds could carry her. Would it hurt to turn back again?
She would like to see the towers of Col Astarra once more before she died.
The palace gardens had been sweet with lilac. She remembered the butterflies dancing, electric blue and tortoiseshell, white and gold. She remembered the smell of the spring.
The heaths of the north had their own scent, hardy and wild and sly. Gorse and heather and grass, all crisp beneath her touch when she ventured beyond her tower.
Did they speak of her still, in the gardens of Col Astarra? Did they recall the storm child, with her too blue eyes?
Col Astarra had burnt in the spring, the towers turned to beacons against the bruise-dark sky.
For that, she would not turn back. Instead, she sat in her tower, and gazed at the clouds, fading into dusky greys.
Here she would remain, until her days were done, so the lilacs might still flower in Col Astarra.
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no subject
Date: 2006-05-31 05:51 am (UTC)Very beautiful too. That opening paragraph is absolutely gorgeous. ^-^
Stunning little piece, me dear. Glad you found the time for it!
(And I can throw a prompt up for tomorrow if you'd prefer or end up swamped. 'twould be fun. ^-^)
no subject
Date: 2006-05-31 07:17 am (UTC)I've got a prompt now - I was discussing it with Henry last night and he thought of a smashing one, but if you want to do next week that would be great. More the merrier. ^_^
no subject
Date: 2006-05-31 11:25 am (UTC)*smiles* Next week is absolutely fine with me. I'll be free of exams too. ^-^ Well, all right. I'll have finished my last exam on Thursday. ^-~
Would it help at all if I went through all the posts so far and tagged them all (provided that I can) with nice, clear labels? *is just a tad the organising freak about writing-related matters*
no subject
Date: 2006-06-05 07:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-31 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-06 07:54 am (UTC)I'd forgotten how much I like writing pretty things.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-01 01:11 pm (UTC)((Are you putting out these one-word-challenges weekly? *seems to have noticed that it may have been something like a week between lilac and west* ...hmmm... reading all these is making me want to write something..))
no subject
Date: 2006-06-06 05:15 pm (UTC)The idea is to have them roughly once a week, yeah. Doesn't always have to be me issuing the challenge, though.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-02 10:53 am (UTC)Intriguing and beautiful.
Become what you were born to be. -- That line is ruined for me forever by Hugo Weaving waving a sword in Viggo Mortensen's face.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-06 06:10 pm (UTC)Heh. I don't even remember that bit. I've only seen the first two once.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-27 03:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-27 08:30 am (UTC)I like writing melancholia. It's a good excuse to just pile on the atmosphere.
Thanks for reading :)