Since Everybody's Reading HBP Today...
Jul. 16th, 2005 10:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
danalwyn...I thought it might be a good day to post something I worked on last night. I'm trying to get a feel for writing a particular character, and I don't think it's going particularly well. I want the reader to to get a fairly specific picture of him, but I'm not sure if I can handle it without telling them outright what they should be seeing.
Warning: This is not a nice story. It's definitely NWS, although mentions of sex are minimal. It's also possibly not for the squeamish.
Questions follow the story:
P.S. LJ's HTML ate my indentations, and I'm not quite sure how to get them back.
P.P.S. This story is almost completely unedited. It's choppy as hell. I'm aware of that, but I'd like to get a better handle on some things before I try making something more out of it. It doesn't help that the whole thing was never meant to be seen by the public. In other words, yes, I know it needs work.
“Can’t you see it?” the man asked in a raspy voice. His body writhed in a fashion that was almost snakelike, his gnarled hands gripping a staff of dark wood, the last pillar keeping him upright and attached to this world. In the darkness inside his hood there was a flash of something, some strange spark of arcane power that dwindled to nothingness. Only his hands were visible outside the confines of his robes and they were twitching in a way that seemed inhuman, as if he had worms crawling beneath his wrinkled skin, squirming their way around the wooden pole. “Can you see it?”
“Yes,” the woman he was speaking to replied, not looking. She stared down, at the mud-splattered hem of her dress, refusing to look at the world around her. “I can see it.”
“But you’re not looking,” the man protested, and a shaking hand brushed against her chin. If she experienced any discomfort because of this she did not show it, but she still refused to raise her eyes until the man lifted them. “You must see. See the birth of glory.”
“But I don’t want to see it,” the woman protested, her eyes firmly shut.
“Open and look,” the man snapped. He sounded like a child bereaved of his favorite toy. “Open and look Helen, or I shan’t be your friend anymore.”
The woman opened her blue eyes and watched.
A flurry of movement attracted her attention. Around one of the walls a young boy scrambled through a turn, almost falling down as he tried to swing himself around without falling down. He was wearing a tattered tunic and torn pants, his bare feet covered in the dust of the ground beneath his feet. From his size he could not have been more than ten. Helen could not remember being ten anymore.
As he picked himself up, his eyes wide, he caught and matched Helen’s gaze. Their eyes met and for a moment they were connected-two creatures from different worlds for a second sharing the same cage. Then the boy’s hand fell to his stomach, his eyes dropped, and that moment of shared existence fell away. Instead he picked limply, uncomprehendingly, at the iron spear that had torn its way through his belly from behind, as if it were a thorn that he could remove by pulling on it. But the metal did not move, and his fingers found no purchase on the blood that ran down the front of his chest.
Behind him the man who had speared him let out an ugly laugh and lifted the boy high into the air, watching the tiny limbs squirm like a possessed puppet. Then he thrust the boy, spear and all, into the burning wreckage of a fallen house. The boy let out one scream as his skin met the searing flames and began to blacken. Helen closed her eyes and looked away.
“You must watch,” her companion insisted again, the hand again stroking her.
Helen shook her head.
“Yes!” And this time the voice was accompanied by a blast of power that caused her to let out a gasp of pain. This voice could not be disobeyed. She opened her eyes again.
A woman frantically squirmed her way out of the doorway of a barn, flopping madly like a snake, like she had something weighing her down. Then a half-naked man leaned out from behind the shelter of the doors and grabbed the woman, hauling her back inside. Helen stared elsewhere as the screaming began. She knew what fate that woman would suffer.
Everywhere there was only fire and death, only burning. One wall of what had been the granary was now covered with blood where the raiders had swung infants against it by their heels, until the brains of children unable to walk coated the ground in a sickening sludge. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the faint, hoarse, screaming of the last of the men. She knew from watching others that it was possible to survive for many hours on the head of a spear, but the raiders had not been precise when they had impaled the men-they would not be able to survive for long.
And everywhere those great tongues of flame licked at the bodies that had once been men, slowly melting away the features of horror, of terror and of surprise at the coming of their destruction. Helen stared at the flames and watched them dance, feeling her horror melt away in the healing light of the fire.
“This…this is how it begins,” the man beside her was saying, his fist gesturing at the world around him, at the running flames. “In fire. In blood. It is out of this that we shall build a new empire, forge a new world. From the fires of the peoples resolve will be born the Phoenix. Born from the ashes of death.”
“There is too much death here,” Helen whispered.
“Bah,” the man thumped his staff on the ground heavily, dismissing her. “There is not enough. The more death there is, the more the fires burn, the stronger the steel shall be.”
Helen said nothing.
“Come,” the man gestured, thumping his way into the village. “Let us look.”
Unwillingly, Helen let herself be led into the village. Sometimes the man would point out an especially pleasing scene of death and destruction, prodding the fallen bodies of men and women alike with a child-like glee. Sometimes he could sit there, cackling aimlessly while leaning against a wall, while someone on the other side screamed.
“Come, come,” he would gesture, his voice rising a pitch in eagerness, and he would show Helen another scene where some family had been butchered together, or some poor man had been burnt alive, or where the smith’s wife had died from having burning irons thrust down her throat. At each of these stops he would practically dance around in glee, cavorting with the spirits of the dead. Helen learned not to look up, not to look at anybody or anything. There was enough death in her past. She did not want to see more.
Then he stopped, the energy seeming to drain out of him all at once. He was staring at the body of a child, abdomen ripped to shreds, her blood pooling cold in the gutter. Her eyes were open, innocent and adoring, staring above her at a sky she would never see again. Beneath the shadows of his hood, Helen could see his mouth working soundlessly, trying to force syllables out.
“No,” he finally whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Was it? Was it supposed to be children? Do we feed them to the fires? Who do we feed?” His face contorted in a rictus of anger. “Who do we feed? Who do we burn? Who? Why won’t you tell me?” Then he began to sob, tears running down his aged skin. Slowly he reached down and closed the girl’s eyes, murmuring something over her gently.
“Why won’t you tell me!” he erupted in rage once more, swinging a fist against a wall over and over again, as if hitting the wall enough would provide him with answers. “Why won’t anybody tell me what to do? Why won’t they tell me?” He started weeping again.
“So there you are,” a smooth voice interrupted from behind. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Levain,” Helen greeted the young-looking man in the elaborate green jacket and pants.
“Helen,” Levain’s mouth twisted wryly. “Having some problems?”
Helen refused to take the bait.
“Your problem is that you take these things far too personally,” Levain remarked, kicking the unattached head of an old woman across the street. Helen hid a wince. “You must learn to keep it from touching you.”
Helen remained silent. The old man continued to sob, except that now his sobbing was interjected with mad cackling.
“Master,” Levain bowed. “Come with me. I’ve made preparations for our next appearance. We have much work to do.”
That seemed to get the old man’s attention. “Yes. Yes, much work to do. Yes, there is always much work to be done.” Quickly he began to hobble off, pulling himself with his staff, looking more tired than ever.
Helen watched the body of the still girl, her face almost perfect now that the imperfections of life no longer haunted it. She was almost idyllic now, gone to a better place. The screams of the less fortunate still surrounded her, but could not touch her. She was finally free of the curse of flesh.
After a moment Helen turned and followed the man out of town, her life still enchained.
So, questions: I'm trying to make the old man come out as crazy, and possibly not the nice-sort of crazy. I want readers to see him as a stark raving lunatic-who may or may not understand what the hell he's doing. I've never written this sort of character before (and it shows).Please R&R Anybody have any advice?
Warning: This is not a nice story. It's definitely NWS, although mentions of sex are minimal. It's also possibly not for the squeamish.
Questions follow the story:
P.S. LJ's HTML ate my indentations, and I'm not quite sure how to get them back.
P.P.S. This story is almost completely unedited. It's choppy as hell. I'm aware of that, but I'd like to get a better handle on some things before I try making something more out of it. It doesn't help that the whole thing was never meant to be seen by the public. In other words, yes, I know it needs work.
“Can’t you see it?” the man asked in a raspy voice. His body writhed in a fashion that was almost snakelike, his gnarled hands gripping a staff of dark wood, the last pillar keeping him upright and attached to this world. In the darkness inside his hood there was a flash of something, some strange spark of arcane power that dwindled to nothingness. Only his hands were visible outside the confines of his robes and they were twitching in a way that seemed inhuman, as if he had worms crawling beneath his wrinkled skin, squirming their way around the wooden pole. “Can you see it?”
“Yes,” the woman he was speaking to replied, not looking. She stared down, at the mud-splattered hem of her dress, refusing to look at the world around her. “I can see it.”
“But you’re not looking,” the man protested, and a shaking hand brushed against her chin. If she experienced any discomfort because of this she did not show it, but she still refused to raise her eyes until the man lifted them. “You must see. See the birth of glory.”
“But I don’t want to see it,” the woman protested, her eyes firmly shut.
“Open and look,” the man snapped. He sounded like a child bereaved of his favorite toy. “Open and look Helen, or I shan’t be your friend anymore.”
The woman opened her blue eyes and watched.
A flurry of movement attracted her attention. Around one of the walls a young boy scrambled through a turn, almost falling down as he tried to swing himself around without falling down. He was wearing a tattered tunic and torn pants, his bare feet covered in the dust of the ground beneath his feet. From his size he could not have been more than ten. Helen could not remember being ten anymore.
As he picked himself up, his eyes wide, he caught and matched Helen’s gaze. Their eyes met and for a moment they were connected-two creatures from different worlds for a second sharing the same cage. Then the boy’s hand fell to his stomach, his eyes dropped, and that moment of shared existence fell away. Instead he picked limply, uncomprehendingly, at the iron spear that had torn its way through his belly from behind, as if it were a thorn that he could remove by pulling on it. But the metal did not move, and his fingers found no purchase on the blood that ran down the front of his chest.
Behind him the man who had speared him let out an ugly laugh and lifted the boy high into the air, watching the tiny limbs squirm like a possessed puppet. Then he thrust the boy, spear and all, into the burning wreckage of a fallen house. The boy let out one scream as his skin met the searing flames and began to blacken. Helen closed her eyes and looked away.
“You must watch,” her companion insisted again, the hand again stroking her.
Helen shook her head.
“Yes!” And this time the voice was accompanied by a blast of power that caused her to let out a gasp of pain. This voice could not be disobeyed. She opened her eyes again.
A woman frantically squirmed her way out of the doorway of a barn, flopping madly like a snake, like she had something weighing her down. Then a half-naked man leaned out from behind the shelter of the doors and grabbed the woman, hauling her back inside. Helen stared elsewhere as the screaming began. She knew what fate that woman would suffer.
Everywhere there was only fire and death, only burning. One wall of what had been the granary was now covered with blood where the raiders had swung infants against it by their heels, until the brains of children unable to walk coated the ground in a sickening sludge. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the faint, hoarse, screaming of the last of the men. She knew from watching others that it was possible to survive for many hours on the head of a spear, but the raiders had not been precise when they had impaled the men-they would not be able to survive for long.
And everywhere those great tongues of flame licked at the bodies that had once been men, slowly melting away the features of horror, of terror and of surprise at the coming of their destruction. Helen stared at the flames and watched them dance, feeling her horror melt away in the healing light of the fire.
“This…this is how it begins,” the man beside her was saying, his fist gesturing at the world around him, at the running flames. “In fire. In blood. It is out of this that we shall build a new empire, forge a new world. From the fires of the peoples resolve will be born the Phoenix. Born from the ashes of death.”
“There is too much death here,” Helen whispered.
“Bah,” the man thumped his staff on the ground heavily, dismissing her. “There is not enough. The more death there is, the more the fires burn, the stronger the steel shall be.”
Helen said nothing.
“Come,” the man gestured, thumping his way into the village. “Let us look.”
Unwillingly, Helen let herself be led into the village. Sometimes the man would point out an especially pleasing scene of death and destruction, prodding the fallen bodies of men and women alike with a child-like glee. Sometimes he could sit there, cackling aimlessly while leaning against a wall, while someone on the other side screamed.
“Come, come,” he would gesture, his voice rising a pitch in eagerness, and he would show Helen another scene where some family had been butchered together, or some poor man had been burnt alive, or where the smith’s wife had died from having burning irons thrust down her throat. At each of these stops he would practically dance around in glee, cavorting with the spirits of the dead. Helen learned not to look up, not to look at anybody or anything. There was enough death in her past. She did not want to see more.
Then he stopped, the energy seeming to drain out of him all at once. He was staring at the body of a child, abdomen ripped to shreds, her blood pooling cold in the gutter. Her eyes were open, innocent and adoring, staring above her at a sky she would never see again. Beneath the shadows of his hood, Helen could see his mouth working soundlessly, trying to force syllables out.
“No,” he finally whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Was it? Was it supposed to be children? Do we feed them to the fires? Who do we feed?” His face contorted in a rictus of anger. “Who do we feed? Who do we burn? Who? Why won’t you tell me?” Then he began to sob, tears running down his aged skin. Slowly he reached down and closed the girl’s eyes, murmuring something over her gently.
“Why won’t you tell me!” he erupted in rage once more, swinging a fist against a wall over and over again, as if hitting the wall enough would provide him with answers. “Why won’t anybody tell me what to do? Why won’t they tell me?” He started weeping again.
“So there you are,” a smooth voice interrupted from behind. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Levain,” Helen greeted the young-looking man in the elaborate green jacket and pants.
“Helen,” Levain’s mouth twisted wryly. “Having some problems?”
Helen refused to take the bait.
“Your problem is that you take these things far too personally,” Levain remarked, kicking the unattached head of an old woman across the street. Helen hid a wince. “You must learn to keep it from touching you.”
Helen remained silent. The old man continued to sob, except that now his sobbing was interjected with mad cackling.
“Master,” Levain bowed. “Come with me. I’ve made preparations for our next appearance. We have much work to do.”
That seemed to get the old man’s attention. “Yes. Yes, much work to do. Yes, there is always much work to be done.” Quickly he began to hobble off, pulling himself with his staff, looking more tired than ever.
Helen watched the body of the still girl, her face almost perfect now that the imperfections of life no longer haunted it. She was almost idyllic now, gone to a better place. The screams of the less fortunate still surrounded her, but could not touch her. She was finally free of the curse of flesh.
After a moment Helen turned and followed the man out of town, her life still enchained.
So, questions: I'm trying to make the old man come out as crazy, and possibly not the nice-sort of crazy. I want readers to see him as a stark raving lunatic-who may or may not understand what the hell he's doing. I've never written this sort of character before (and it shows).
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-16 09:00 pm (UTC)He does read as crazy, for sure. But I find his sudden turn from disregard for children's brains beaten out to concern for this one dead child to be a little mystifying.
That being said, I enjoyed it, in a creepy way. It's well written.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-17 02:44 am (UTC)To tell the truth, I'm not really sure why he changes from disregard, and glee even, to concern. I did that to try and illustrate the point that he's having real mood swings-bad ones, and that they're not under his control. He really is insane, although he will get progressively more sane as the story progresses.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-07-17 05:17 pm (UTC)Don't change a thing. Really, this left me feeling nauseous and weirded out, while I usually regard written things with a morbid fascination.
The guy was indeed rather crazy and it showed. I felt sorry for Helen, though. She seemed very out-of-place and forced into the carnage.
To reiterate Phineas: it's very well written. Struck the right balance between madness and reality.